Good morning sunshine! Today is the first day of the rest of your life, so I hope you’re happy about that. And even if you’re not positively chuffed about being around, I’d say you have a pretty good chance at becoming something more than just your average ploy-monger feeding the twisting winds of chance until you come away with ants in your pants.
I swear, the sheer bulk of clients with ants in their pants never ceases to astound me. None of us can avoid the occasional pantaloon infestation, we’re only human after all. BUT the consistency of the ant in the pant really trapped my attention, stuck in my craw. According to my own (underfunded) research, 82% of my questionnaire volunteers report ant pant activity (ranging from itchy to vigorous). The bug in second place need not even apply.
Category: Stream of Consciousness
A Good Find is Hard to Man
A good man is hard to find, but we mustn’t forget
that oftentimes a good find is hard to man.
——
Petey: Hey Joey, take a look at this while I go to the ice cream store.
Joey: A look at what? That thing?
Petey: The find, yes. Good Joey.
Be right back.
Joey: Why do they always gotta have a man on this find? I guess if it’s a good find like they said, but even so. Who’s gonna swoop in here and try to take this find? Just yoink it and dash off? Yeah right, no way.
*8 attempted robberies later*
Joey: Wow, I guess a good find IS hard to man!
——
And there you have it folks. Simple manpower and relative awareness were once again all it took to prevent the theft of a peachy find, a real keen one. Nyeah, see.
MY JAM
When you’ve been
and done
and seen,
what else is there to glean?
Everyday frustrations?
I’m not saying
a person should give up
once they’ve figured out
everyone more or less
looks like everyone else, but
it would surely help if some of us did.
That way you give the newbies a chance
to waste their time and monies
on fanciful ways to manipulate air
that stimulate economies
and float boats–
don’t act all surprised
like you didn’t know
late stage capitalism is MY JAM.
Feels Derivative
Ah, that dreaded dog-eared page
on this, the day of my footballs game.
Beefheart would have put it best,
but I certainly can’t hold it against him,
poor chap.
Maybe now I can come back from
under his shadow. I think he’d like that
very much.
I never got the chance to thank him
or say bye (good or otherwise), but
as I reconnect to the planet at large
he somehow knows.
Maybe he’s commanding his love infantry,
and all I need is to follow the leader.
It feels derivative, but screw it.
So Busy
Crap dang it, now I can’t think of anything all of a sudden. Oh well, guess it can’t be helped in my current predicament. It’s not so much of a predicament as a predicate-a-mint type of situation, where the essence of mint is completely ubiquitous around the entire cosmos for everyone to enjoy, whether they like it or not. Crap dang it.
So what am I supposed to do now? Who the hell knows? I sure don’t. That’s why I’m asking myself. Maybe if I ask myself and put some kind of deadline on the thing, I can stall the inevitable existential pain associated with extreme boredom.
But you know what? I’m sick and tired of being asked so many questions all the time. It seems like every day I’m getting badgered and/or peppered with at least several dozen inquiries, and my god does it take a toll. I’ve been meaning to have a serious talk with myself, really get the whole thing straightened out once and for all, but I’ve just been so busy.
Son’s Metal ‘Phant
Son’s metal ‘phant–
the oldest and wisest of all
the terrestrial mammals
that we’ve uncovered to date–
has an uncanny ability to get under one’s skin
in a matter of minutes, though
you’d think that such a gigantic specimen
would have trouble assimilating themselves
into such a tight space.
Fortunately for us (and, indeed, the world at large),
proportionality has no place here.
Bunting II
With the bunting yet to abate and no end to its replication in sight (seriously, do these things reproduce asexually or something?), the Club-Footed Gremlin begins packing his things in search of greener pastures, where arbitrary decoration doesn’t dictate your directives.
Bindle over shoulder, our hero takes one look behind him before setting off on that old dusty trail–he really didn’t put a whole lot of thought into this pilgrimage, seeing as he has no mode of transportation and, well, a club foot.
It’s at this moment that Mr. Gremlin Man (the moniker he’s hoping will stick, or even just MGM for short) decides to go the whole nine yards and make like the pilgrims of old by prostrating himself and crawling to his destination. That definitely sucks, since he has a whole steamer trunk full of crap he wanted to lug around with him in the event of any one of numerous hijinks and/or shenanigans he may encounter.
But no, minimalism is apparently the name of the game here. MGM frets for a minute about how he’s going to sate his addiction to instant gratification, but then remembers the phone in his front pocket. As long as he can get to some outlets before the day is over, he will be able to rest easier and charge hardier.
This piece is a direct sequel to Bunting.
https://wharved.com/2018/12/03/bunting/
WHARVED 