absurd – Page 5

Crumpet Festival

Drangled intermittent scratch patterns engulf the otherwise narrative-laden crumpet festival, but you know what? Nobody seems to have noticed that detail in the first place, completely unaware of even why that would ever be considered a big deal at all. When I was a more divisive person, I more than likely would have acted immediately in the form of a lecture or rant to whip them into shape. How dare they maintain their ignorance of such an excruciatingly-crucial detail?! As the years have passed–and time’s been kind to me–I’ve learned when to retreat and let folks have their own little moments in the obscurity of their uninformed worldviews (even when it gets to the point of paining me).

Jesus!!
Will youse make up your minds already?!
I’m starving
and my tea is getting cold.

Factory

Tenderer than the tiniest tangerine and more available than bargain basement fried rice, one can only surmise that the weight of this whole Edgar-spinning habañero factory would equal that of a mid-grade mouse (at least after said mouse has purged itself of the latest fad diet food). If that’s not the case, then the sabotage worked its wonders once again (God bless us all) and our strange liquidation may have been for naught. But let’s not think about such treachery at this moment–heaven will be waiting for us upon the cessation of our final scruples. I’m telling you, this must be true. Why else would I even bother placating you? Death amounts to the complete reversal of mortal avarice, I’ve been told. By a reliable source, mind you. Now, I can’t go around blabbing about the destinations of our celestial bodies and not buy you a drink. That would be a crime. Manhattan for you? Never had one?! This will be interesting.

Cycle

It’s become apparent that Gulliver lacks the drive to make things interesting, whether it’s through turtledove acquaintanceships or Ivy League aggressiveness. He’s recently put a block on all things ego-driven, and will be the first to admit that he has no goal to get anywhere at any speed.

“I do like food, ya gotta eat, but I don’t dare don the chef’s hat, likely never will unless I’ve begun to see taking actions as necessary, freeing me from my lonesome days of kibble cutting, sandwich clumping and marble roasting–all done in my head without any consequences. I reckon my days of imagined cattle prodding, plateau scraping, griffin pummeling, take-out ordering and helmet wearing are also numbered, now that I don’t care to differentiate arbitrary actions and images from one another. Sitting in meditation for the rest of my life sounds good enough for a fella like me, yessiree. That is, at least, until I tire of the whole arrangement and need to unleash my convoluted persona on the world again.”

The merciless cycle of ego-driven to ascetic and back again eats away at Gulliver at least three times a day, typically while eating processed foods.

CVII

Picture a rogue squadron of down-filled pencil pushers coordinating a squalid attempt at what they believe to be a most fertile salad dressing, but what we know to be a seasonal jaunt through the woods in search of pine cones shaped like Abe Lincoln. Gettysburg hasn’t been relevant for some time now, but that doesn’t stop our friends from trudging through the underbrush and raising alarms every time they see leaves in clumps of three.

They know not what makes a salad dressing more fertile than any other, and they don’t even claim to assume what constitutes your average dressing, fertile or barren. They simply know that their amalgamation has yet to be approved by any regulatory body and they’re just going by the seat of their pants and trusting that their instincts will lead them down the tastiest road, be it nutritious or otherwise.

A faction of our dressing doers have found it more pertinent to skate through the town square with cheese in their britches, convinced that dressing has no bearing on the legitimacy of a salad. Their position stokes outrage amongst their peers; how could a salad be considered legitimate in this world if it hasn’t been coated in oily goodness? The two camps are at odds with one another, and the argument won’t be settled until the blood of the innocent flows through the streets.

Just for the Moment

Total responsibility is not for the scrutinized person to fear, or anyone else for that matter. Now that I have your attention, I’ll take a mosquito from the top shelf and borrow a set of raisin blades for the moment, just for the moment. Now we get some work done, and we go everywhere that needs a bolted spit of broccoli or two, not always usual or indeed even warranted.

None of a Your Beeswax, Sonny

A Winston box
ain’t none of a your beeswax, sonny,
we’re full up here.
Scram, you dig?

I mean, turpentine torpedo stitching
needn’t apply for a permit
before March 1st, or when
the next available March Hare
comes in for an appointment.

Rat Tippers

“Where do you keep your rat tippers?”

“I keep my rat tippers with my cow flippers, in the back-right corner of the pantry next to the party fixins. Why do you ask?”

“I really need something to get these rats off my case, especially because of this ingrown toenail I have. I can’t risk being caught with such vermin on my case, if you know what I mean.”

At this point, the two friends
must risk being caught in public
discussing rat matters,
which is a certain cause
for social suicide around these parts.

They are either totally secure
in their position
or unaware that such talk
could land them in the looney bin.