Straitjacket: V-17X – Page 12

The Remainder: All That’s Left — Excerpt 2

Hold back for your own benefit,
or collapse with anxiety.
It’s your choice.

I’ll take the skillet with monterey jack cheese
melted on the mushrooms,
taken for granted by Mr. Poached Eggs over there.
Who puts poached eggs in a skillet anyway?
Where are we, Paris? Where’s his personal chef,
and what’s his extension? I could use a snack.

There are few things in this world that would stop me from devouring a meal at midday. I don’t normally have a large breakfast, never has been my style. I sacrifice spontaneity through the morning hours for a massive course of gorging through sandwiches, potato chips and beer.

Now a poached egg,
on the other hand,
just makes me think that Napoleon had an appetite for something delicate, and mandated that all the cooks from across the land prepare such a breakfast treat for him if he were to stop by on his way through town.

POACHED IN BUTTER. CHOPPED SCALLIONS ON TOP. SPRINKLE THE SALT WITH THE PEPPER. THERE, IT’S DONE. LEAVE ME TO MY MEAL.

Dictating a meal is much easier than making it, which leaves the evolution of the human race to the carnival barkers and auctioneers out there, those heroic individuals destined to push things around with the power of their words, at times completely overpowering the lives of all around them. Do they mind? Of course they’ve given it some thought. But by damn, are you gonna earn a livin’ or aren’t ya?

The Remainder: All That’s Left — Excerpt 1

Well and so I say to myself, and to myself I say,
that the greatest impediment to the thing that we call life

happens to be the calm mother rearing casualty
socked against a mitten’s worth of snake skin
for what we’d say is the majority
of our public strict seniority
or the face of the ever-stitching grin.

To the ever sticking gin,
to the floor it wants to fall
as the bottle shatters by itself
no intervener’s call
can ever save that glass from smithereens.

We enter to a saloon, drenched in bourbon, rye and spit
to overhear a conversation held out of sheer boredom.
Is it the western kind of sentiment? Well, what have these men ever known? Can you blame them for their arrogance or siphoning of time through their wide-brimmed attitude and cavalier pistol pittance?

I’d say not, and they wouldn’t even know what you’re talking about, anyway. They’d say son, why do you have to go on and do something that foolish? My associate and I were simply discussing the nature of livestock in commerce, as our mutual acquaintance had recently put us into contact for a business deal. Now why in the name of God did you have to go on and make such a dadburn fool of yourself?

It’s at this time we see the protagonist spit into the spittoon (where else) clear across the bar, traveling something like thirty feet and smacking square on. PTING.

Television News Anchor

G: But I don’t want to express myself! Don’t you see what’s at stake if I do?! I’ll have my information exposed to anyone and everyone, and I’d prefer not to be out in the public eye in order to make a living.

B: You’re a television news anchor in Los Angeles.

G: What’s your point?

Mad Old, Yo

Scenario: An alien lands on the surface of the planet, trying to investigate the nature of Human behavior for a book he’s writing. This is a book meant for scientific endeavor, and he also hopes it reaches the point where his fellow beings appreciate his efforts enough to award him with some sort of accolade. This is a big deal to him, and his species is on board with him. You may want to compare this to the Christopher Columbus scenario, except that our hero is benevolent. This species of hominid has evolved to the point where telepathic communication has been perfected to an indefinite amount. These beings are mad old, yo. Something like fifteen million years ago is when they first figured out the whole telepathic bit, which fell fifteen million years after that time they figured out what fire was good for.

Of course, this is to be read only if you want some perspective on their development. I’m only doing this for your benefit.

What? You asked me to take on this project. Do you think I would volunteer my time to this for no reason? You must be crazy.

That’s Hardly the Place to Put Chili

Invidrion: Where did our chili go? I thought I put it in the hamper.

Celeste: You did put it in the hamper. That’s hardly the place to put chili.

Invidrion: Well I thought I was gonna come back for it, but then I forgot.

Celeste: And I was the lucky one who found it when? Six hours later?

Invidrion: What’s today? Wednesday?

Celeste: Yeah.

Invidrion: So you found it two days after I forgot it there. You’ve been slacking on the laundry.

Living Under a Rock

W: I would like to produce a play.

C: That’s admirable. Who are the characters?

W: Oh, no. There won’t be any characters.

C: I’ve never heard of a play without characters.

W: You’ve been living under a rock, my friend.

C: I don’t understand why you have to point that out every time we get together. It’s rude and hurtful, especially in public places.

W: Jesus.

HELLO, no Hospitals

Saturday is our day of fun at the zoo this week. My wife is so excited to see the orangutans and try to talk to them and see if they can make sign language back. She tried to learn American sign language, but only made it past the alphabet and some basic vocabulary. I don’t even think that any of these orangutans are going to know sign language anyway. Wasn’t it just a really special one who could actually communicate using it? It probably took years and years of training from the zoo staff, or whoever taught the animal, and in the end it probably had a tiny little vocabulary anyway, nothing to write home about.

I mean, the damn monkey can’t even write, and it sure as hell doesn’t know where its home used to be anyway, now does it? It’s not like its mommy orangutan stands by the shoreline in Sumatra or wherever they’re from, hoping that her baby will return to her some day. I mean, there’s probably an instinct like that, but there’s no way that she’d be able to pause in her life to entertain that thought. I mean, it’s basic survival in the wild, isn’t it? You can’t just go off daydreaming, or some puma will sneak up behind you and take a bite out of your kidney.

And even if you get away, that kidney hole will never get filled, because HELLO, no hospitals, so you’re limping around even though your legs are just fine. That’s how much your lack of a kidney truly hurts when you’re trying to get to the nearest place to find a proper dying spot where the vultures can’t get at you, because who likes the thought of having their rotting carcass get picked at out of sheer carelessness for not having hidden themselves before they died? I mean, it’s not like you’ll be looking down at your sorry body after you’re dead anyway, you’ll be too busy knowing about absolutely everything there is to know.

But honestly, it would be ridiculous to not at least give it a shot.