furry Nielsen ratings
to be meted out
over the course
of several media-consuming generations,
whether we like
the toast on these croutons
The damn megafauna just had to make a point of sinking into the same bogs as each other, an act of cliquey defiance of the edicts decreed by the lord of all our enchanted brethren, stunted today and tomorrow (though the past never posed much of an issue to them). To be perfectly honest, we all never should have interrelated so quickly. As it stands, the majority of our mammal-to-mammal relationships fade rapidly into the carpetbagging alliance that supposedly would have reconnected the Jabberwock’s offspring through social media penetration, for better or worse.
Gratuitous vomiting noises seem to have permeated this otherwise lovely air today. But you know what? I could care less! It’s a gorgeous day and I’m out here walkin’ Stormin’ Normal, the long-haired dachshund. Believe you me, Normal is nothing but. He’d much rather prefer to chase rats around in the sewers than cultivate an image of military impunity and historical nickname significance. He does know how to storm about the neighborhood, but when it comes to commanding hundreds of thousands of troops, you might as well send a beagle out there in his place.
The vomiting noises have yet to cease here, I don’t quite know what to do about this. On the one hand, someone could be violently ill, necessitating first-responders on the scene. On the other hand, even if I were to be at the right place at the right time, there’s no way I could do the same good work of an EMT, and all I could do is hold their hand (if it’s not covered in vomit) and try to comfort them while the professional health-perpetuators make their way over.
Normy doesn’t seem to have a care in the world. The way I figure, if we can hear gratuitous vomiting noises from here, Norm should be able to smell the ensuing vomit and tug on the leash like there’s no tomorrow. Don’t ask me how I know, but Normy’s a bit of a vomit connisseur. He really digs it, in other words. I’ve tried countless times to break him of his obsession, but it’s like we’re speaking two different languages.
So unless Norm’s lost his incredible sense of smell, I’m certain that this person making the vomiting sound-effects really has no problem whatsoever with their digestion. More than likely, they’re trying to make a scene in front of their friends for money. Well, that’s just my assumption, since the only times I’ve acted up like that in front of my friends, some quantity of money was involved. But then again, if we were to go by the old adage that pushes the “friends are forever” line, I never did have any friends in the first place.
A number of hellbent underbelly rectangles help burden health food retailers just trying to make a decent living for once in their lives. They tell about an ungainly appearance stemming from a tinkerer who mandates that we “belt out the checkers, belt out the checkers,” while convenient end-of-weekend towel boys spell constant effortless tabernacle choirs in the moonlight. Well, we know however you dip the bell jar gasket, it invariably holds sentimental value for the bold-faced pumpkin monger who dices mosquito nets like there’s no tomorrow for their kind. Time cards replete with hummingbird moccasins file under federal standards, just like everyone else.
Even if I do regain the use of my arms, I don’t think they’ll function the way they used to. Thanks a lot, guys.
What’s that? Oh, just a trainsquatting parallel service station ruminating forethoughts of rubbish, only to behold what everybody thought they’d lost oh so long ago. It varies, but the general longing is for innocence and chocolate ice cream. Tomorrow becomes yesterday, and fantasy splits from memory. You put on your corduroy pants and striped shirt, fling the door open and view the world anew, film life from your cold eyes. You skip down the street, greeting every pigeon and squirrel you see, unaware of the bewildered gawkers insinuating what you must be: a madman, a mentally challenged individual or somebody with a zest for life like nothing they’ve seen from someone your age–however old you happen to be. If you could read their thoughts, wouldn’t you obviously prefer the last one? Obviously. As you go to look for an ice cream truck in the middle of January, you feel lighter than you can ever remember. You click your heels and start whistling. The ice cream truck is an impossibility, and you know that in the back of your head, but you prefer to ignore your nagging mind and imagine the rarity and spectacular deliciousness that would come from an off-season waffle cone. Then you wake up and the process begins all over again, in earnest.
What time is it? Am I getting older?
I really wish I could use my arms.