If you think bribing an official
with foodstuffs is something
you’d like to attempt,
I’ll have no part in it.
You know that greasing
the wheels of justice
can lead to a runaway
freight train, don’t you?
I brought the mayor
a basket of biscuits
one time, only to see his mouth
snarl up in a frown (he’s
allergic to buttermilk, turns out).
He has such a great voice.
I remember when I could hear him
practicing his craft in Juilliard’s
private studio space
like he owned the place
(and some day he just might).
He has a lovely raspy tone
with nasal notes reminiscent
of the greatest orators we’ve come
to adore through history.
No specific examples spring to mind,
which just goes to prove
that this is truly
a once-in-a-generation talent
we’re witnessing here.
Just because a person looks like me doesn’t mean that they make chocolate the way I do. This is serious business here, I can’t have false chocolatiers parading around my territory unless they’re willing to fight for what they love. Usually they fold right when I confront them about their lack of true chocolate admiration, but every once in a while I get a sucker who decides it’s worth their time to embarrass themselves in front of the whole neighborhood as I make the perfect fondant right under their nose. I never let those losers sample my creations.
I’ll heave a hefty bag at the situation
and tell my dentist that I really don’t want
anything to do with these Fonzie imitators anymore.
They’re all so obsessed with having
a good time and donning leather jackets
that I’m just getting sick of it all!
How tired a custom is this, where you’re reduced
to spouting cliché catchphrases at gunpoint?
Remember when you took that loan from the mafia,
and they told you that they would be expecting
a favor in return some day? Well, your bell’s been rung,
buddy. All you can do now is pray that you get
in touch with Henry Winkler, for the purpose of
delivering a faithful Fonz to your brutal overlords.
I mean, otherwise, they might end up breaking
your fingers and toes. I wouldn’t consider that
situation to be 100% ideal, would you?
I think sticking a shinbone
into the belly of a live lemur
just happens to be one of the cruelest acts
a person can commit. Sure,
there are plenty of crimes
against humanity that could be
considered as somewhat more intense,
but lemurs are primates too. I think
crimes against animals are worse anyway,
because animals don’t know
what any of our justice system means.
If someone is tried for that heinous act,
do you think the lemur knows? No,
of course not. Even if you told
the lemur that you’d bring it closure,
it would just stare up at you with those
tennis ball eyes, unaware of the social context
(or indeed the language you speak).
Put it all away,
and what you end up having
is a sign of the impending apocalypse.
But you know what? It doesn’t
have to be all that bad if you’ve
prepared for it in some shape or form.
You could think about it in terms
of the novelty that one might associate
with such a fantastic set of circumstances,
giving it a kind of a game-type theme.
Maybe The Apocalypso Festival,
where we spin the end of times
into a fun night of rum drinks
and steel drum music. Those zombies
won’t know what the hell is going on
(not that they ever know anyway), and you’ll
have the satisfaction of knowing
that you did everything you possibly could
to ensure that the rest of your existence
on this planet is at least somewhat enjoyable.
You can bet on a downpour of rain in our interminable waiting room this afternoon.
It’s been sunny for seven straight days here, and my elbow never acts up like this when good weather is on the horizon (if we could indeed see the horizon from here). Cover up the magazines, we don’t want those National Geographics to lose their sheen after so many years of being in near-mint condition.
WHARVED 