Etched in Stone

Chastising champions comes as a natural pastime for the uninitiated rite-mogul-squishers, and it would come as no surprise to those in the clergy (no matter what people may have said about whom or what).

Now, it’s plain as day that you’re looking at me with more than a little bit of apprehension. I’m unsure of what would have prompted this skepticism, other than my various bouts of word vomit from time to time.

Ah, yes, so that would indeed be your reason. Okay, I can work with that. Quickly, now, just go ahead and patronize a chinchilla for a couple minutes while I grab the pre-moistened dentures from George Washington’s exhumed tomb.

Please, can’t you just do me this one favor? I promise that you won’t have to settle for submitting to my acerbic wit for much longer.

No, I’m not sure how much longer. But you of all people should understand that this, like all things, must pass. You’ll just have to take my word on that.

Aw jeez, fine, I’ll patronize this damn critter myself. I swear, you’re getting lazier and lazier by the minute.

Right, right. I know you’re not in the market to be compared to a stooge or a puppet for anyone, least of all myself. But that’s really beside the point right now, wouldn’t you say?

It’s not? Please do explain.

Well, of course I understand that not everything revolves around me. I mean, how narcissistic would I have to be…?

Okay, okay okay. But in my defense, I had a rat for a father and a pig for a mother. Or was it a pig for a father and a rat for a mother? I can never get those details straight. You see, my parents both died before I was born, so I’ve never been able to diagnose my unsatisfied situation.

I suppose you’re right. Let’s just say–if they both died before I was born, I must be one special SOB.

No, I am not lying to you. Everything I’ve said is 100% truthful, and you can quote me on that.

Anyway, let’s get back to brass tacks. Or, at least, aluminum pins. I don’t know what kind of fasteners you people use these days, and I’m not going to bother sweeping up the damn pencil shavings from all the times you’ve decided to update your vernacular just for the hell of it. I’m through with it, I tells ya.

What do you mean the chinchilla escaped?! It can’t have gotten far, let’s split up. You go upstairs, I’ll go around the corner for some tamales.

Tamales are actually all too relevant here, you pensive Polly! Listen, you’re just going to have to trust me again.

I’ll explain when you’re older. Now, do you want red sauce or green?

It has a huge impact, believe me. Every time a sauce choice is plucked from the bowels of obscurity, a quintessential jeopardy magnet gains a friend. That might as well be etched in stone.

Yes, I suppose you’re right. Bowels wouldn’t be the most apropos or salient image when you’re talking about food, but not everything exists to please your restrictive sensibilities, now does it? Just stick with the program here and you’ll be fine.

Exactly! I’m glad you’re starting to see it my way. A cherrywood beacon should have been activated upon completion of chinchilla patronization, but since the furry bugger absconded with our worthwhile afternoon, we have to improvise with a round of tamales. I don’t know how I can make this any clearer for you here. Now please, red or green?

You sure?

Okay, green it is. You poor bastard.

By Golly

Not a single malicious [delicious] punch thrown
at this,
the most cylindrical of all
furniture sales expos in recent memory!
That is one variable we [at the bureau]
may be sure of at this time.

Meanwhile, for the gangly ones wishing
to catch up with contemporary carpentry,
one might say–in a pinch–
that the craft has taken quite a turn
in the public eye, and no measure of friezes
or Constantinoplization
may alter the involuntary sway, by golly.

And now you know.

However, once the mariner’s bowline
slips off that buoy,
I am in no way accountable
for your alleged pesto allergies.

For Chrissakes

I’m on the lookout for something
that would equate to the latest and greatest
set of schemes for the purpose of concocting
an ever-present kind of medley (be it tuna,
musical or squash related is up to you,
o glorious reader and acknowledger of all things bulbous
(bulbous, also tapered), that’s right).

It’s time once again for the severe squid dance we’ve come to know as the contortiontella, developed by only the meanest and leanest of all pac man impersonators and founded on the principle that only hoomans may have the kind of sentience that the more eccentric among our ranks would like to imbue upon our pets. You know as well as I that only dogs have even a modicum of humanity within them, and that’s because they realized over time that the less they tore us up with their superior jaws, the more benefits they could gain from running in our peculiar packs and securing lifelong food supplies.

Got any more clichés for me today, Pinhead Ronny? I should hope not, for Chrissakes.

Ne’er-Do-Well

I

Meticulous electricians developed this lovely method for measuring their professionalism by throwing oil-soaked towels out of their respective windows at variable rates, unbeknownst to their long-suffering mothers and clergymen.

II

Once upon a time, our heroes of stage and craft built an anomaly that would mortify the ne’er-do-well karma wankers until no measure of cigar-stoppage could unravel our collective albatross leanings (as uncharted as it would seem to any non-intellectual types out there), and we sorely apologize for any bruised egos.

II

Ether assists in the quarantining of hostile entities, it sure does. If we hadn’t discovered this inexplicable gassy juice thing, we still would have been muddling along in Tommy’s sauna, insisting that no level of gallantry or goofus-ery could upend our preconceived notion of how to get down when faced with a horde of potbelly pigs. Now, potbelly stoves I could handle. They tend not to move for years on end. I could easily prepare for a stove rebellion. But pigs? No way in hell, my hypothetical friend.

Mile a Minute

Tainted ivory beats the scoundrel flagon,
peregrine cheaters flocking
to those most savory passes,
wafted there
upon the sea’s rippling intentions
that (as of May 14, 2013 and October 9, 2016)
match the price of a bodega avocado–
and for what?
One pound of lighter fluid (yes, measured dry).
No scale available? Substitute
a week’s worth of third grade valentine cards
(read at the rate of roughly one mile a minute).

Significance assured,
we must set our sights on the next horizon,
where our assertions flourish,
undeterred by argument and bolstered
by the chaos of existence (or
existence of chaos, whichever floats your boat).

A rainy day soiled the arid week,
flash flooding the earth’s
hard-earned cracks (as though
temperamental life’s perpetuation
were the goal here).

Scheme

Gory lent me the Cory Tory, understated like a chain monger of tertiary constraints (whereas secondary constraint leaves restraint to the masses, for lack of a better paradigm). Permanently purposeful is the name of the game, according to most scholars in the vicinity of your traditional eagle-necked–and somewhat tedious–outlook.

Gyp whipped up a stew and toked up a fat one as he decided whether or not to let the winged assortment of fairy trackers in on his Punxsutawney scheme.

Grinderfloo underbyte
smothering
ge froidelled–
into smithereens.