Idiomatic – Page 4

(Allegedly) Happy

Rocking around the clock is my commercial mantra (for lack of a better one). It’s got that smarmy hint of entendre without actually going smutty on the reader/recipient of jargon/vernacular–just snarky enough catch on with the younger faux-hipster set, while simultaneously being too naïve for the true hipster set. The thing about hipsters: they are a necessary force for good in this universe, though somewhat impossible to deal with on a regular basis. Even your typical fair-weather hipster will acknowledge this paradox of existence, as they’re (allegedly) happy just to be included in the conversation at all.

Stimplet (Heathen’s Cross)

There's something concerning a something or other (or maybe some nothing) that's legible enough to the incorrigible spunk-o-trons--something of a conundrum waged against the unwashed masses (though how many masses were ever truly washed in the first place?).

Within the marketplace usually resides a stimplet or a heathen's cross, neither typically reserved by your dollar store general, though the most unorthodox practitioners beg to differ with one another at the water coolers (especially when they're not as fond of Jeopardy as they once were (post-Trebek and all)). 

Taking out one's emotional and intellectual aggression may be the only recourse that these folks have at a time like this.
The ritual that "normal" adults traditionally take for granted (the grunting and bellowing and raving to get their animal stirrings out of their systems for the sake of the ol' poke-n-sleep maneuver) is losing its luster. 

Jeopardy-inclined individuals with less of a proclivity for such things must feel the constant torment of boundaries established almost solely due to prior intellect, though the subsequent lack of sexually-transmitted maladies is quite desirable (as the quarterly "gal-up" polls would indicate).

Lightening

The exquisite misfortune of running into such a plucky, unlucky band of stooges (we can get into their whole deal at a later date) seems to have gotten my blood boiling just enough to reach the base camp upon which many valiant knights have trodden, though few have ever reached that precipice and thought “maybe I should turn around while the going is good, no sense in letting my head get too big.” You know, someone whose head inflates to the size of a respectable novelty beach ball isn’t the sort of person who also would have considered bringing a helium tank along for the lightening of average air density within said cranial cavity, rendering him utterly unfeasible for casual rock concert use.

MonkeyMoney®

Who told you the Kerplunketts had more to say about a particular sauce pan or arbitrary bagel strategy than I do? They don’t know a damn thing about honorary ombudsmen or the never-ending sequence one would normally associate with a guerrilla Cruella Deville kinda thing.

But one must not distract from the fact that innumerable steel MonkeyMoney® generators–installed gradually over the course of the past several generations–have only now begun to bear fruit in the way their creators had intended from the start.

It would appear as though our sanctimonious steelsmiths have contrived their “fix” to the public discourse just enough to lull the unthinking masses into a period of deceptive comfort that swiftly comes to a close as the recipients of the easy life (white people) are rudely awoken (but rarely awakened).

Just Gregs

All the glorious Steinham impressions done over the years by various people named Greg (not Gregory, just Greg) have accomplished nothing more than stoking the flames of prejudice.

I’m unsure why it’s just Gregs, to be honest. Craigs have names eerily similar to Gregs, yet they’re never culpable for any of the insane crap that Gregs seemingly can’t stop themselves from doing. Wait a minute, could that mean that Craigs have been longtime instigators of Gregs? Do they commit casual inconsistencies and blame them on the Gregs by default?

What could possibly be the reason here? To find out, I’m interviewing a lifetime Craig who specifically told me one time (over macchiatos) that he hates Gregs’ guts.

Me: Okay, but which Greg do you specifically hate the most?

Craig: Oh no, it’s all of them. I guess I didn’t make myself clear the first time

Me: Ah, that explains the vagueness of your threats.

Craig: Yeah, those “Greg” dudes don’t understand how to handle a true monosyllabic name. They were given a trisyllabic name at birth, and one way or another they managed to bastardize it to the point where you’re left with a foreshortened nub of a name that has no real meaning or context. It’s what you would name your dog, dude.

Me: Damn Craig, you really have some strong feelings about this. Is there anything else you might want to get off your chest at the moment?

Craig: No, that was really just about it. Although I do have somewhat of a bone to pick with balsamic vinegar. Are you sweet? Are you savory? What the hell are you, man?!

Me: Wow, you have some interesting priorities.

Youse

The caddie to-do wasn’t ever much more
than an anglerfishworth of gender trappings;
our souls’ faint inner-shirkings
beg to interrupt the rat race formula
so conveniently laid out for us.

Failure is a foregone conclusion
when you stack the chips a certain way.
Of course, we all must stray
from our internal clocks

for the convenience of our plutocratic overlords.
Demean yourself so you can put food on the table,
then you’ll be the richest of us all, I tells ya.

Then maybe one day you can afford
to take a ride on the merry-go-round
of solid gold. Only one ride though,
are you crazy? We’re not running a charity here.

Or perhaps it would be easier to imagine that we are,
if that’ll help you sleep at night. Anything
to shut youse up for a couple hours, you’re exhausting.
Now go play with the TV in the other room for a while,
and try not to get electrocuted like last time.

The High Road

An intricate series of hoofprints
on the stale lithograph
we’ve come to call home
has bled insignificantly–
but not unnoticeably.

Yes, that’s correct. Hoofprints
have bled just enough
for this observer to comment.

Now, I’m aware that there are countless crackpots
who espouse the virtues of anti-vaxxers and birthers,
and this would be right up their alley.
However, I choose to take the high road.

A wise individual once told me
that the low road is the slipperiest,
because the maintenance people need to mop
more often than on the high one

(they have the kind of smelly chemical
floor cleaner that doesn’t dry as quickly
(and they’re always out of wet floor signs)).