The rats will have to scatter again,
just like after the old factory collapsed.
Or was the factory just fine before
a mysterious cracking screech filled the air?
Only the rats can tell you for sure,
and they’re long gone. Where?
Boca Raton, of course.
Those poor creatures deserve better
than having to scurry out of rubble
for the rest of their lives.
That old, musty library smell permeates
every air molecule in the place, and
there’s nothing worse in the whole world
than old musty library smell. There’s no way
you can get it out of a building for good.
No matter how many windows you open,
no matter how many walls you pressure wash,
no matter how much carpeting you steam clean,
there’s no end to the tedious aroma
unless you just tear the whole building down.
Great Outdoors Tradeshow Spokesperson: “This tomato in my hand has forty percent more oxygen inside its flesh and seeds than the average tomato!”
“Yeah right,” you say in disgust, kicking the pea gravel and crying silently to yourself as you contemplate just why you found reasons for everything you ever did, just to be shown up by a city slicker garden enthusiast right before the only day of the year that you can possibly get any kind of alone time for yourself to unwind and watch TV while a whole pack of hot dogs boils on the stove and the buns are on top of the toaster to get a culinary tan.
The fridge would sit closed, entertaining thoughts of potato salad and a cheese platter dancing through its circuits directly to its frosty belly for your convenience, because after all, you’re the one who shelled out hundreds of dollars for a box that keeps stuff cold and frozen–and perhaps give you ice and water if you shop around for a good one.
We could catch and sell crabs at a seaside concession stand,
but that just doesn’t seem like a sustainable business model.
I think it was my fault for pushing you too hard.
We can’t all be entrepreneurs, and I should have recognized that.
Sales just isn’t the profession for some people,
no matter what you’re trying to get across to the customer.
Even if you had a self-wetting sponge with an everlasting,
constantly-regenerating supply of soap and scrubbing pad
made specifically to hold up for fifty years of wear (and could sell
this product at one dollar per unit and still turn a profit),
I doubt you could make someone want it.
It’s not your fault, I just pushed you too far.
Let’s go back to the drawing board, Gene.
Awful miscommunication–
tear apart sandwich halves
see how you feel after
obey primal thought
lift fingers violently
clasp chambered pumps
throw whole chickens
maul dunes, rove
past mongrel tendencies
waive discounted junk
settle accordingly–
move on.
The main complication
will likely be
the bagel table.
Nobody is going to want
a bagel with lox or roe,
I’m guaranteeing that.
This isn’t even
a smoked salmon crowd.
They’d get more of a kick
out of pizza or some other
typical American
fattening agent.
I should have put garlic up my sleeve.
You never know if a vampire’s planning
to try some funny business
with ruby port and a corkscrew.
I won’t worry too much about undead daemons
taking my blood, at least not
as much as I would worry about a chicken
lopping my head off with a cleaver
and serving me with a side salad
[after miraculously gaining the upper body
strength and opposable digits necessary
to wield a blunt instrument and prepare
a gourmet meal suitable for a dinner party].
WHARVED 