Panic!

Spindled tickets desire not much more from their makers
than the basic recognition of their proper utility
in the overblown social experiment
known as customer ordering and service rendering.

Once stabbed and stacked, impaled indefinitely,
our punctured pals wish not to be moved
until they and their carbon paper cousins
all make the grand pilgrimage together.

When each new spent batch has been manhandled
and hurtled to the hallowed trash can (the one
with the mass-produced “Law & Oarder” bumper sticker
carelessly splashed onto it as a graffiti-hider
and exercise in pointless consumerism)–the one
that a wise old papyrus once celebrated
as heaven incarnate–contagious catharsis
sweeps through the crinkled pile.

Since all their common ancestors disappeared forever
upon meeting the can of destiny, the soon-deceased
sensibly assume that it must be a pretty swell place
to stick around for a solid chunk of time (probably
just positively loaded with recreational activities).
No panicky paper here, no sir. Delusional, definitely,
but not a hint of panic!

Inebriation

Nothing like total collapse of an ancient civilization to completely ruin your day–unless that’s just your business as a mercenary of the righteous lord of all things merry-go-round (circular logic and all, you see). I would have bought a nice cup or two of java if it weren’t for the beast of the west constantly sneaking up behind me and issuing edicts in the name of all things cylindrical.

This is truly a sneak peek of the upcoming legacy stalling that probably would have burnt out my retinas if it hadn’t been for that egregious charm manipulator staining everything they touch with naiveté. But if it weren’t for that unfortunate fabrication of logic, I wouldn’t be standing before you here today. We take our small victories wherever we can get them.

True story, folks. I only have several things to say at any given point, and in order to figure out which–if any–to engage in for the sake of our fallen ancestors (be their downfalls organic or orchestrated), I’m going to need to understand the frequency of my more lucrative brain farts. Only then will I contemplate counteracting the absurd impacts of ancient inebriation in relation to our contemporary neighborhood ecology. Ya dig?

But brain farts have nothing to do with our current predicament. We need to scrape down to the root of the issue before we can even think of attempting an exclusionary rift in downtown traffic patterns, and until you take this topic seriously, I’m going to have to cut you off. six tequila shots is probably enough anyway, wouldn’t you say?