This is a bit of a cottage industry
we’re dealing with here yet,
so I can’t be arsed
to get off my keister
and support this unproven mission statement
without some kind of connection
to the local movers and shakers.

I’ll be blunt. Pudding supplies
have run rather short, I’m afraid.
I’ve simply no use for a companywide pudding shortage–
think of the optics.

We’re sitting at a juncture
crucial to the reckoning
of our very civility as we know it.
If I’m to be contracted for my time,
I must receive the personal assurance
that the pudding supply will be bolstered
at the beginning of each working week–
or I walk.

I’m not doing this to be the unfair guy here.
I’ve seen these pudding shortages happen in the past
[oh, about four or five times, aye].

Don’t you ever find it odd
that the companies with the most influential
leaders and donors are never asking their competitors
for their gamgams’ closely-held secret recipes?
We need to get there, people.


Precisely between pages 182 and 183
of a battered, overused
elementary school Spanish textbook
on the neighborhood Indianapolis Goodwill’s
hardcover books shelf, you’ll find
a perfectly-preserved eyelash
wedged in the crotch of the binding,

once attached to the heavy eyelid
of Jacob Stern, a third grader
with no real foreign language aptitude,
any sense of which would have been lost
while sitting in the back row of Spanish class
during Sr. Cerasoli’s Wednesday morning lecture
extolling the virtues of ser and estar,
a class period that felt
like it could last forever, though
certainly not in infamy (until old Jake
dropped his eyelash and roped us
into this entire absurd narrative).


Standing never posed a problem until it became the only option for Gilligan. Granted, this is a self-imposed problem; he could sit any time. But then he would lose his discipline and just sit all day every day until he sees no reason to stand anymore. No matter how this conundrum shakes out, he can only be certain that his all-or-nothing attitude is hereditary, and nothing he does can change that. Predisposition to heart disease, addictive behavior, snoring and the fear of dinosaurs, heights, children, open water, dandruff and old mattresses have crippled him, leaving a man with less purpose than a satiated hyena. There’s simply nothing left to be done, so Gilligan stands still under the canopy of a locust tree, a monument to the dangers of doing pretty much anything else.

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