The Whole Kit ‘n’ Caboodle

What do you aim to provide, if a seventeen year-old kid can do it before you ever even thought of it? There’s no point to it then, wouldn’t you say? I mean, there’s no industry in being a has-been prodigy, ya dig? You either got it or ya don’t. The longer it takes to get that through your thick skull, the more miserable you’re gonna become. And I know, you’ll yell at me for six days, telling me that I’m wrong and you’ve always had the chance to become the next big thing. Well, have you ever proven me wrong? Sure, you’ll get up on that soapbox and give me some grandiose filibuster about the meaning of life and the philosophical necessity of achievement, fulfillment, egalitarianism and all that other bullshit, and I’m so sick of hearing it. Just because you say it a thousand times doesn’t mean it’s going to magically be proven right by the gods of redundancy. The gods of redundancy would rather be repeating themselves and giving all the luck to the Bush family.

And so for the rest of it, what we thought was the train but what we knew was the plane of existence opening before our very eyes, a sea of cauldron-inducing jackals swam in a school of mackerel, awaiting what could only be a hound dog of manly proportions. That’s right, you heard right, a hound dog of manly proportions. Whatever you may believe this dog to be, it’s truly up to the psyche, you see. Nobody, and I mean nobody, can judge alongside thee as a chaperone for the autoparts pavilion. It doesn’t work like that, you know? There’s not some formula for magically developing a character that everybody will love. Well, maybe there is, but I’m too cheap to find out how that would ever come to pass.

In order to explain myself, a croissant must be placed upon my upturned forehead for at least four minutes. Don’t ask why I need this action to transpire, just comply with my request and you will be briefed on my view of how things took such a sharp turn for the worse at Jovie’s funeral service.

–Four minutes later–

You may remove the croissant. If you’re hungry, you may eat it. I have no use for it anymore. Jovie was an angry man, so I found it fitting to bring a stink bomb to the proceedings. As they always say, he would have wanted it that way.

An accomplishment can turn into
a sour rattlesnake gargler
at the drop of a seventy-five gallon hat,
and I’m not too sure if I like them apples.

What we have here is a cycle doomed to repeat itself, to shrink away and outdrink itself every night until it wonders why it drank in the first place. It’s not like life is fun or anything–we have to make the best of it while it’s hanging around, you know? There’s nothing wrong with wanting to blink and be gone, but is that realistic? Where does matter go when it’s not here? It’s there, point taken, but where is there, anyway? That’s the question.

Access the place, that place you’d been a couple times before but never decided to revisit. What’s wrong with that place? Did it offend you in some fundamental way? Did it smell like cheese, knowing full well that you exclusively visit olive-scented establishments? That’s preposterous; a restaurant can’t know why a person dislikes the smell of cheese. It takes an airship to reach that decision. A restaurant is still a few steps down on the ladder. Once it gets to the next rung of testing and certifications, a restaurant can graduate to the likes of a pigeon wing sculpture, and only then will it be able to begin musing on the reason for things as they do (or do not) exist.