Braggadocious surrogate behavior
ties real-time stomach knots
in this observer. Either
buy that croissant
or step out of line, lady.
Well, seeing as I dumped the chicken wire for some crumb pastries, you can understand why my rumbling tum-tum began composing a symphony of sorts (an “ode to shortcrust” or some such), bewildering all sentient beings within a 50-foot radius.
Once I’d managed to trudge my way to the dreaded (oft-forgotten) lion cage, I immediately began questioning why I got rid of that infernal chicken wire in the first place. Clearly these lions would have had a perfectly good use for it (as far as I could see). In attempting to save face, I apologized to the few lions I saw. They didn’t know why I was apologizing. I began to explain the whole chicken wire predicament to them, but decided against insinuating that something designed for puny domestic fowl would be suitable for the kings of the jungle. Dejected, I tossed them my crumb pastries and walked away, my stomach continuing its magnum opus unopposed.
Ever more dissatisfactory than the wrought inheritance brought forth by bankruptcy of character, our thoughts of Swiss cheese benevolence really have no bearing on what it means to be a profitable avocado salesman in this neck of the woods. Don’t get me wrong, I have long-espoused numerous methods for informing individuals of their folksy ties to the apocalypse, but I choose to evaluate sparingly, for the more a person speaks his or her mind, the more likely they are to compromise their mystique. I don’t personally take my old rapturous censorship more seriously than the average ridged potato chip, though perhaps I should. Perhaps I should. Egads! All this food talk has done me the ages-old disservice of fabricating hunger pangs when my stomach really had no business engaging in such a thought sequence. Well, my stomach has no business engaging in any thought sequences, but that’s neither here nor there.
Sticklers twist stomachs with unbending adherence to arbitrary rules. Most common among those: never eat cheese on a Wednesday morning, always bring a spare umbrella during a hailstorm, only taste cake frosting with the pinky finger of your dominant hand, and if you’re ambidextrous, pick the hand that has more positive connotations in your life. The further down the list you go, the more detailed the rules get. Sticklers especially appreciate the needlessly-complicated ones, as they get a chance to memorize line after line of text from the Tome of Troublesome Tricks that Tame the Tummy.
A tapioca polar bear approached me Easter morn
and told me I had leverage within this golden arch.
I took the time to recognize that polar bears can’t talk,
but this one shrugged and passed me by, aware that I would trail.
So he and I approached a cave, uncommon in that place.
He bade me: “sit and light a fire, your thumbs are magical”.
I laughed and got some kindling out, but lit the tinder first.
He went into a hiding place and found his finest catch.
We ate like kings; I let him have the lion’s share of fish.
“My stomach’s smaller than my hands, and not as magical.”