Isn’t there a smugness associated with camping out in the corner of a neighborhood coffee shop, where the people truly don’t give a leech-tempered scrotum nodule about appearances–if you’ll pardon the indiscreet language–and even if they kinda do, it’s only surface level and they understand the insignificance of such a worry?
The answer does happen to be yes, but don’t you worry about wondering why such a question was even brought to the fore. All you have to do is sit in your favorite chair and estimate how many jelly beans I can stuff up my nose before the Willie Nelson impersonators have their semi-annual hair tie clearance sale.
Now,
all of our futures are riding on this predictive ability, mind you. You think I’m joking? Cute, Delores, cute. Just wipe that smirk off of your face and give me something–anything–to keep me from strangling this piece of string cheese. Why? Trust me, this shifty little dairy twine segment gave me a weird look just a second ago (while your back was turned, no less), and I’m just about this close to dancing the bifurcation mambo, givin’ it the ol’ squanta-manoo, tearing up the sheets and declaring war on the irresponsible regime impoverishing a resource-rich nation with a notoriously-underserved and widely illiterate populace.
You know, a beheading. Do I have to spell everything out for you? I don’t know why I’m surprised, It’s just like you to space out when I’m talking about capital punishment. You really remind me of your mother right now. I remember I would used to see her standing out on the balcony trying to count the pigeons down below on the sidewalk–67 stories above the ground–pointing out that they looked even more minuscule than ants, those pointy-headed fucks.
I know, I know, I’m projecting here. She never called them pointy-headed fucks, but she did seem to have a particular tone of voice when referring to those little exoskeletal drones.
At any rate, she’d be standing there on the balcony, looking down at the majesty below her–she should have been looking up–and that’s when the muse would visit her. One time in particular has been seared into my memory. I was doing my daily toe-touches by the open door when I heard her mutter “I really should have canned that giardiniera about a day or two earlier if it’s going to be ready for the September to Remember sockhop/bar mitzvah/charity ballyhoo, but that’s okay, because I have my man and my Delores.”
It damn near broke my heart, were it not made of secondhand galoshes hastily stitched together during Frankenstein’s monster’s greatest time of need.
WHARVED 