Well, not much more to talk about, unless you want to discuss what’s going down in Tampa this weekend. Bakers from seventeen counties in the south, not just Florida, have new recipes to showcase for the conference covering innovations in baking science. The theme of this particular conference is the trinity of blood, sweat and tears. Most people operate under the assumption that sweat and tears are the same solution, but they are gravely mistaken. Not all three components must be used in a recipe, though the variety of all three can make for a scrumptious bake. Those who claim to use all three ingredients will be judged by a panel of the most experienced tasters in the biz, four of whom are able to taste the mucus content in tears that separates them from simple sweat. A culinary delight is a nice achievement, but it’s all for naught if it’s not truthfully conceived.
Category: Numbered
LXXVII
“Superiority killed the possum”
is a phrase rarely heard
’round these parts (or any parts),
on account of cats being snugglier
and more relatable to the average audience.
Possums also have no issue
staying within themselves,
and are inherently humble
as they patrol around the city
in the hopes of finding a suitable nest
for their up-and-coming young,
those little furballs
that could never be mistaken for kittens–
just the way those possums like it.
LXXVI
Catering to the lionhearted stereotypes all day really makes a sycophant sleepy. All day with the “yes sir” and the “whatever you say” drains even the sturdiest stalwart of a yes man after a few hours. It’s a decent living for as long as you can deal with the emotional trauma that comes along with working for a person who’s made their fortune by walking all over people like paver stones in a seven-acre backyard that leads nowhere (aside from the manmade pond in the center that houses a catfish who is completely immune to criticism).
LXXV
I stuffed a pepper with no intention of eating or serving it, convinced that food inside other food is a sin. Not as big a sin as others, but you can’t just pick and choose the lighter heathen actions and pretend they don’t matter; if it’s a sin, you just don’t do it and that’s that. Nobody will absolve you of your sins, you’ll have to carry them with you until the moment your soul reintegrates with the cosmos, never again to occupy a physical body. Believe me, the more sins you commit, the longer it’ll take to reach the ultimate disembodiment touted by Buddhists for centuries. Most souls are slotted to occupy physical bodies for an indeterminate number of years, give or take a few millennia. Sins are responsible for piling on years, and practically everything is a sin. If there were no sins, most souls would be done within a few dozen lifetimes. But what fun would that be?
LXXIV
Everything smells like gasoline around here. More accurately, everything smells like a combination of gasoline and tamarind. More accurately, everything smells like gasoline, tamarind and week-old kitchen sponge. More accurate yet, everything smells like gasoline, tamarind, week-old kitchen sponge and Sunday newspapers. You know what? Everything smells exactly the same to me anyway, so all I do is come up with intriguing combinations of objects that I believe may smell like the one melange of odors I’m constantly whiffing. I apologize for taking up so much of your time, good sir–it may never happen again.
LXXIII
What do we do when we want to make an impact, or at least leave a mark on society? We dig in our heels and yodel to the clouds, of course. Now, if there are no clouds to be found, we must either wait for some or travel to a place currently retaining the buoyant clumps of tiny water droplets. This may seem arbitrary, until you’re informed that the gods in charge of globe-altering reside in the clouds, and choose to only help those who call for them directly. Several peoples have discovered this intricate balance with the universe, guaranteeing that their names live on in history books as great yodelers. Oh, and great civilizations.
LXXII
What is there to gain in this boardwalk town? Mainly stuffed bears for shooting moving wooden ducks, pigeons, turtles and raccoons–the usual representations of animals that are defenseless against ball bearings fired from close range by two young people who rather fancy themselves to be expert marksmen (if given the chance). Though, in their heart of hearts, they have to admit their fear of injuring a living thing, rendering their dreams unachievable (unless they vow to only point their firearms at inanimate objects for the rest of their life, making them the laughingstock of their hunter friends, of whom there are many–you wouldn’t think an antiviolence advocate would associate themselves with folks indulging their primal bloodlust, but you’d be mistaken in this case).
WHARVED 