The Whole Kit ‘n’ Caboodle

Do these people even care that their sole reason for existence is to make sandwiches for their so-called benevolent overlords? I wonder if an impartial observer has ever mentioned this to them, to make them think of alternatives for living. For example, instead of making sandwiches, they could be making wind chimes or clay vases. There are so many other things in this universe, I can’t believe sandwiches are the be-all end-all. I get it, sandwiches are nice and loaded with value in the form of meats, cheeses and vegetables (even fruit the way some of these weirdos make them), and the action of composing a complete sandwich must have some pleasure associated with it. I don’t want to be the bad guy, I’ll keep my mouth shut and even make a few sandwiches of my own to blend in. I just can’t believe that they blindly burn up their finished products in the name of religious sacrifice. I’ve seen some messed up dogma in my time, but this takes the cake.

The car door could use some WD-40. Hell, my knees could use some WD-40 while we’re at it. You’re probably not the right person to grease up my joints, you just work on cars. Do you know a guy who could fix me up with a minimally-invasive procedure of some kind? I really wish my joints were on the outside like the Tin Man’s. Well, why not? I’m sure it can be done for the right price. There’s probably a guy for that too. I have seventy-eight dollars at my disposal, I’ll bet I can have something done if my insurance picks up most of it. I can only imagine the newfound flexibility and freedom of movement; I’d have an unfair advantage over most folks. But you know what? I’d probably be disqualified from participating in any dance competitions. Never mind, I can never give up my right to get funky in front of judges. Just the WD-40 on the car door, please. Thank you.

There are 4,952 channels on TV and zero worth watching at the moment. Twenty minutes ago there were seven decent programs, and in ten minutes there will be another four worth watching. In the meantime, I’m left to my own devices and unable to comprehend anything worth doing. I’m so used to the instant gratification of television that I’ve developed the habit of staring blankly at one of two things: television and nothing in particular. Ten minutes of staring at nothing in particular might cause a rupture of some sort. I haven’t been left alone to think for myself in years, not since school if I can recollect. This is going to be excruciating, I don’t know if I can take so much idle time (that doesn’t involve absorbing TV). Wait! There’s an episode of Loch Ness Monster Hunters right now, I can’t believe I missed it! Thank God. No thinking for me any time soon.

The peanut butter’s chilly, straight from the fridge. It’s not spreading very well. The more I try to smooth an even surface across the bread, the more crumbs I’m sloughing off (onto the floor). By the time I’m done with this mess, I’ll be lucky to have half the bread I started out with. Then I’ll have to get out the vacuum and dispatch with the mess I just made in the kitchen, only to notice that as I clean the floor in there, the rest of the apartment will also need a cleaning. Only when I’m done vacuuming the rest of the floor will I notice the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling, which then must be removed to match the cleanliness of the floors. After that, the rest of the surfaces between the floor and ceiling will need dusting, just so I can have some equilibrium.

Once that’s done I’ll break out a beer and finally eat that peanut butter toast (now cold). I can worry about the giant snot monster in the corner some other day, I just got a bunch of good work done and I deserve this beer.

I’ve been left alone with a pocket knife and my own thoughts out here. The most productive thing I can do is whittle this stick to have a pointy end (or better yet, two pointy ends). I never got very good at carving, everything just ends up a pointier version of what it once was. What can I even do with a pointy stick anyway? I’ll toss it like a tiny javelin, try to snare a bird from midair. Realistically, if I even manage to hit a bird, the stick will just bounce off anyway. I’d be better off lying on my back and looking at clouds, waiting for someone to carry me away to Mount Olympus so I can sip ambrosia until the sunset.

Thieves made off
with our last
shred of decency

when I was
this close to
pawning it off
to cover
the month’s rent.

A pointy spindle
poked the sky; it was
a particularly tall spindle
with a tendency
to dislike authority figures,
God included.