Tea Time

A dinghy
in the middle of
this patriot’s sketchbook

provides a pure rendition
of what our ancestors
had once believed to be
a savior of some kind.

According to our current science,
the dinghy no longer ranks
among the ideal species
to be considered a deity,

but belief systems
have changed significantly
since that epoch. A list
of acceptable deities
may be found outside my office,

though not before tea time
(I despise holding class
before tea time).

Telekinetics

The future of telekinetics goes as follows:

Gene Squadron Trowel-Resistant
Pantaloons

Jungle Drapes, Inc.
[A Subsidiary of Jaunty
Enterprises]

Tom Cat Harry and his Grumpy
Shenanigans
[That Silly Old Boy,
He Really Should Be
Put Down]

But Aren’t You a Bob
Marley Impersonator?

Yesterday, 12,000 bees or so
decided to, uh, there’s
no other way to put it, swarm
on my succulent ‘do.
°Nothin’ I could ‘do.®

°Intellectual Property of
The Gideon Partners
[In Perpetuity]

Resignation – 01:14GMT

I really wish I could use my arms.

But whatever it may represent to the general populace of what we prefer to call our united nation, I wish to resign as your president and continue living the solitary life on the plains that my early days helped me to appreciate so dearly.

No more shall I don the shackles of the suit and tie, beholden to the waves of indiscriminate power-seekers who knock on my door at all hours while I try to catch a little shut-eye at my desk.

Next on the docket: burning the docket as the sun sets on the old homestead, family and friends bearing witness to my transition over to the final challenge of my life. The public eye will just have to turn the other cheek; I’m not putting myself out there any more. I’m going to live off the land and taste the freedom of anonymity.

When I see a mud puddle, you’d better believe I’m going to roll in it and invite whoever happens to be around to join me in a nature-sanctioned spa treatment. Those elephants are definitely onto something; I’ve never forgotten their influence in my waking life.

My nose is extra itchy right now.

Begs Ennedict

Begs Ennedict was once (and hopefully will soon once again be) a friend of mine. I met him after the turning point in his life where he legally changed his name to resemble the popular breakfast dish. To this day, I’m still not sure if he meant it to be a statement, a joke, or a cross of the two. I may never get the chance to find out, either. He moved away one day without telling anyone. He left his things behind in the apartment. He must have gone off the grid too, because he broke his lease with seven months to go.

Of all the people he let into his life, I was likely closest to him. He didn’t even talk to his parents, and they seemed to just understand and accept the circumstance. When Begs left, I called up his mother. She didn’t know he left, nor had she spoken to him since her birthday from a few years back. She didn’t seem surprised to hear it, and, frankly, I wasn’t surprised by that lack of surprise.

The only surprise I got as a result of Mr. Ennedict taking an indefinite leave was the letter he left to me on the kitchen counter in his apartment. He’d given me a spare key for emergencies, and knew I would be visiting his pig sty once he left. Oddly, he left it much cleaner than I’d ever seen it, a la boy scout camp. He was always a strange sort of gentleman.

I could go on about my various impressions of the man, nut I’ll just read you this letter. It will resonate his voice more strongly than I ever could.

——

Dear Chippy,

I’ve given her all I’ve got, and I can’t take her no more. It is now time to uproot and look at myself in this world, weigh my flaws against the flaws of our esteemed brethren. I can’t say what brought about this sudden consciousness shift and grinding conscience. Honestly, this has been an unwieldy last several years, and all I can do at this point is thank you for your thankless work. I will leave it at that, in case anyone reads this before you.

You know I’m not one to express fondness, so I choose instead to share with you my state of being at the time of writing this. I can only tolerate city living for so long, and I’ve reached my long-overdue breaking point. It’s a marvel that I held it together for as long a period as I did without having multiple meltdowns, and I’m cashing in my chips while I’m still beating the house.

So what does that mean for my immediate future? I can only say so many things without incriminating myself of betraying my new location, so I will instead give you my impression of what I hope will transpire (and indeed what mind frame will put me there) in my coming passage of time on this planet, written as a monologue filled with non-sequitur. You know as well as I do that I am best able to express my purest intentions and subconscious developments through this medium. Frankly, that is the reason why I’ve always trusted you so much.

    The Dew Drops of May

Heaven told me one day, “It’s as clear as a rose in an egret’s beak that you may fly away from here, and returning will be dictated by the phases of the moon.”

So I packed up my bindle and planned my marching orders, step by step. I accumulated about seven pages of detailed itinerary, then ripped it all up into incomprehensible shreds and sprinkled them out the window, victorious. No road map can exist; you may only bring your conscious mind with you wherever you go, and the great floating consciousness in the sky will take care of you.

All of this pondering brought me back to that famous God question again, but I chose to drink a liter of water instead. We are as we have been and will be, built from the fungus that made life possible, designed by accident over billions of years, a happy mistake that somehow pushed itself along, defying extinction with nothing but separatist intentions.

Now that we (myself specifically) have reached our peak of evolution by default, I must do something new, something that will impart to you and the rest of our peculiar species a glimpse of that purest form, a streamlined vision of the cosmos translated into abstract symbols as a means of enlightening as many as possible. You may choose to share this, or you may choose to destroy it (after all, it’s only paper), but you would likely regret its destruction.

Sheik shrieks siphon belly aches through tubes of transient melon baller coordination, and the audience stands in confusion. Has the performance already begun, or are we still just warming up? Will there ever be a time when our instruments will be perfectly-tuned, or is that a futile concept altogether? We’ve roughed it and toughed it out through epochs of predetermined insignificance, assuming a finish line exists just over that next horizon of indeterminate luminescence. I may say with utmost confidence that stellar inoculations numb us from the pointlessness, and indeed create determination, an invention that will allow us (eventually) to sample the infinite wares the cosmos has to offer. We are living, but have reached a collective bargaining agreement with fate. We sold our souls at the railroad tracks to pretend we call the shots, and have been met with mixed results. On the one hand we have art, and on the other we have genocide. Out hubris causes confidence that exists nowhere else in Nature, and we never stop to think how that’s even possible. Thus, we continue improvising with untuned instruments, hoping to one day strike a chord that rings with harmony in perpetuity across all of existence itself. We’ll never make it with that attitude, boy.

Chippy, please join me on my solitary journey. You know what I mean. It has been a pleasure spending time and space with you, and I will think of you often (and for you, if necessary).

Love,

Begs Ennedict
(AKA Begsy, Begs-E)

——

I still have not shared this letter with anybody (well, until now), but I have vowed to accompany Begs on his journey across time and space, to be a good steward of evolution and, most importantly, to honor his wishes to the best of my ability.

I do not know who Begs Ennedict is, and I’m not sure if I believe in reincarnation. Would a more sentimental person call him a great spiritual leader? Would a more conspiratorial person call him a changeling? Begs would discourage any labeling anyway, but I enjoy pondering those intangibles nevertheless.

Celebricheese®

Hey! You there! Come on down to our brand new wax museum of cheese celebrities, Celebricheese®! For a nominal (suggested) $15 fee (non-refundable), we offer you the full experience of observing your favorite celebrities in cheese form, made with realistic wax that will preserve the likenesses for much longer than statues made of pure cheese. We know what you’re thinking: why have a museum dedicated to cheese that doesn’t actually have any cheese in it?! Well, you’re a shrewd interpreter of the creative process, my friend. At the core of each celebrity resides a canister of the (freeze-dried) cheese represented by his/her/its likeness, where the dry ice is replaced every day. Our celebricheese® include, but are not limited to:

Monterey Romano, Fontina Turner, Blue Cheese Man Group, John Cheese, Eddie Muenster, Pepper Jack Black, String Cheese Incident, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozzart, Al Roquefort, Brie Larson, John Goudaman, Parmesean Penn, Alan Brickman, The Provolone Ranger, Fondoogie Howser, Danny Velveeta, Taylor Swiss, Colby Bryant, and Edam and Eve.

Come on down, we’d love to see you here! We’re located on the same lot that once held that abandoned eyesore of a cracker factory in historic Old Shireberg! Admission is on a first-come basis, so beat the traffic and you’ll receive one of 1,000 commemorative holographic Elvis Pretzel-y refrigerator magnets! Everyone knows cheese and pretzels go together like gloves and mittens! Come on down!

LXXXIII

We don’t yet know the extent of the changes soon to be revealed by the League of Pepper Scrapers. So far, as detailed in their latest press release, poblanos are up for a serious upgrade and scotch bonnets will continue their dominance through the end of the quarter. Jalapeños have been noticeably absent in talks, something we suspect stems from an unspectacular showing for nigh on ten years now.

Yes, tomorrow may bring us a bevy of answers to our very impatient questions, energizing this oft-forgotten art and carrying it through to the 21st Century–finally.

A Little Twangy Twinge

Tell the Grand Poobah that his sticks have no reason to be mad at me for my words. All I wanted to do was illustrate why they should prefer to be called twigs in the grand scheme of things. We all need a little twangy twinge of sound every now and then, including these sentient tree limbs. Please just relay this message to him and his (the Poobah and his Stickssociates), as I’m looking forward to a lifetime of labeling the uncanny phenomena that are becoming ever more common with each passing moment in this plant-dominated tryptosphere.