My name is James Arnettison.
In the following words,
I am going to enlighten you
on the perfect form that is
the sloppy pour.
First off, you might be asking:
“hey James, I gotta ask you something”,
and then I’ll say:
“well go on ahead”,
and then you’ll say:
“cool, thanks for taking the time to listen”
and I’ll say:
“of course, any time!”
It may take a few more exchanges
before getting to the question at hand,
which is this:
what is the sloppy pour?
A sloppy pour is an upcharge
on a shot (the kind you order at a bar).
Rather than a neat pour,
where all the contents are neatly contained
within the confines of the glass,
the sloppy pour
requires virtually no skill.
The bartender is, in fact, encouraged
to waste alcohol
as they attempt to hit the glass
with about 80% accuracy (give or take,
depending on the establishment’s preferences).
The result is the perfect sloppy pour.
Those long ropes of vodka and tequila
will now be even ropier–
up to 30% ropier, in fact–
as bartenders are given the go-ahead
to wreak havoc on the bar top.
We can get into
the sanitary aspects of this practice
another time, though
liquor does tend to disinfect
more than it infects.
Mickey The Mantelpiece
has it on good authority
that Dinkins’ Corner
smells like hot dog water
and scorched sand
after the bungled boogaloo last Tuesday.
It’s more than likely
a result of that notorious
Basketweaving Barrelmuncher Brigade–
they usually leave a lasting impression
in this naïve neighborhood.
The Brigade, forever unsure of its tenuous future,
kept right on hoarding canned meats
like it was going out of style–
ever since we thought we’d licked
those midcentury wartime tendencies.
Never an organization keen on listening to reason,
the BBB (not to be mistaken
with the power-wielding force
that calls the local business shots)
must have leaked some spiced ham remnants
while making their hasty getaway
from the street that birthed their tendencies.
We’re gonna need to hold them responsible
for the odorous hullabaloo
they always leave in their sloppy wake
(as though they think we’re meek enough
to take it lying down, the cretins).
Mickey The Mantelpiece will head up the posse.
A walloping armpit extension cord signals a breach of conduct between extended penguin locker scenes. Meanwhile, a trailer of sloppy prejudice leans between a cross-country ski and the entrance to a long-abandoned silver mine, incapable of bettering its situation among the shapes of molten stoicism openly exhibiting themselves through displays deployed by wriggling strings undetectable to most, save the above average marsupial intellect.
Those beings who matter most to the incorporated inhabitance cannot comprehend the visual acumen of a kangaroo or wallaby due to the shoddy basis for communication between mammalian classmates, but certain attributes must be understood for the sake of all terrestrial life.
First draft posted on 11/15/11,
originally entitled #72
A bunch of clumps of pomegranate seeds in despicable climates—and rubber sapiens—ultimately climax at the wrong time for the wrong reason entirely. Because we supped upon tangible fruit of several looms, we had the shits for several days—as is proper. Building a future upon artificial cultivation seems probable, but foolish when you consider our penchant for throwing pigeon feathers at brick walls and expecting them to go right through. States of matter have always eluded us and laughed at our attempts to decode their pointless complexity, and today—more than ever—we find ourselves scratching the stumps that cap our necks in jovial wonder, slopping our spinach all over the sidewalk and stooping down to pet the short dogs that pant and pant at the bus stop, unaware that they don’t need to pay a fare.