Wednesday, December 8, 2010
I’m sorry for the way I am. But it so hard to be so goddamn brainless. Whoever thought this whole living thing up was one sore mother-fucker. You know as soon as you feel like your finally livin’ he truncates your being; he throws you a curveball. Like I knew this guy, boy was he a sybarite and he would go out every night, enjoy himself a lady and the next day be back out on the market. He worked the stock market and he was really a swell guy. Then he met this woman, completely sucked the soul out of him, made him grow up. All the sudden he turned into this bumbling fool, completely mindless. But that’s what broads do to you , I guess; when you find the right one, they suck out your brains and you’re never the same. I guess once you put the ring on her finger, it’s just tacit; you’re owned by something. Like the slaves, they all lost their souls, once they were bought and sold a few times, they had no more humanity; you lose that sparkle in your eye, you’re not whole anymore. Gosh, just thinkin’ about it makes me blue as hell. He was a real pal, he was, before he lost his brain to that girl. When I get thinking about guys like that, you know, real swell guys, I go to that stygian place in my head and those are the days I just wanna sit in my bed all day hating the world. God, that’s been happening more and more and that’s when I get all quixotic. I’ve been considering joining the force lately, becoming a military man. Girl’s really dig that sort of thing in a guy. Yeah, I’ll get myself a girl before I go overseas. And I’ll write her every other day from inside my bunker with the stentorian sounds of war in the background, she can almost feel it through the paper when she reads it. She will be so much in love with me and I will be as much in love with her as a man can really like a woman. I mean I’ve never more than like liked a girl. They are just good for a little shag here, a little neck there. It’s comfortable, you know. Girl’s really dig that sort of thing, when you’re not attached to anything. It makes things easier too, less names to remember and you don’t have a surfeit of lousy girl prattle floating around your brain, taking up space in there you could be using for smarter things. Anyway, back to this girl that would love me. So she’s a real pal, eschews other guys, even though she doesn’t really have to, not for dumb old me. But that’s what girls do, they put themselves through hell for big oafs. And we write and then when my service is finally over and I come back from cross seas, she’s waiting for me at the airport, in her nicest skirt and one of those cardigans that really does good things for her bosom. She even put on stockings; you know a girl really likes you when she puts stockings on. And when I come off the plane, she can’t stand it any longer she missed me so much; she comes running over with the biggest goddamn smile on her face and jumps into my arms. I swing her around and in that moment I become the happiest man alive. Then I put her down, gentle-like, kiss her on the forehead. Man, that’ll do her in, make her weak in the knees. I’ll get down on one knee and propose. She’ll faint because it’s all she’s ever wanted and collapse it my arms, come to, say yes. We’ll kiss and everything will be all over from there I guess. We will live happily ever after. I’ll come home to sandwiches and kids and a clean home and she will love me like every woman should love a man. Good ole whatever her name will be, she really comforts me when I’m down. Yup, that’s how it should work. Instead, all them girls out there, all of them are just sycophants; they tell you how handsome you are and then you buy them a drink, a teddy bear, a fur coat, you neck a bit and then they up and leave you; they strip you of your goddamn soul. And guys like me, we’re all just too yellow too care. Then all us broken guys go to the bar and quaff our yellowness away, get all the yellow out. Once our yellow is out, the blue roles in and that’s when we lose our brains. You know, I think that’s what it’s all about. You’re born, you grow up in this fantasy world as a kid, not thinking anything is ever gonna be wrong ever, and then you grow up a little, get introduced to real people and the world turns on you. Then you lose your brains. No matter who you are, you’re gonna lose your brains sometime. There’s no escaping it. That guy that thought this whole living thing up, what a pal. He’s a a real swell guy.
This weeks Posts will be dedicated to the one we really love, you know, even if he makes us blue as hell
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Years ago, the planet warmed and the animals were chased out of their homes by a reckless race, the prodigal species: humans. They had a proclivity for greed, consumption and pop culture; the government prevaricated its patrons to believe that all their wants were needs and soon the forests disappeared, the clouds turned grey and thick, and the ponds became a viscous sludge. And so, the critters that survived The Change fled northward. Because of the limited space available, most of the animals became ruthless, trying to claim as much of the land as possible. The gangs of New York had mirrored themselves in the ecosystems. There was a group celebrating what they called probity, though their moral fiber was questionable; these were the apes. Among others there were the Behemoths, the Aves, the Vermin and the Sliths. Those that were against the segregation were isolated from the community; some became hermits, some perished and others were picked up by traveling bands of animals, like Mo’s. They traveled along the edge of civilization where they could get the most business and hoped they wouldn’t get picked up by a vicious gang or put out by the Fish and Wildlife Service for being in the way. They put on shows for humans and got paid in food and other things they needed. Most people had never seen any animals their whole lives, so the animals didn’t have to work hard to please them. But Mo insisted that the show had to be bigger, better and more “unique” every time they performed.
The otter, better known as Opus, had heeded Mo’s requests; he had put on the pink spandex suit even though the sparkles ruined his rugged persona and he had swung on the trapeze a few times, but this last request was too much. Mo had asked Opus to sing a song and that was the last straw; Opus would never put himself through such an imbroglio. As Opus struggled high above the main stage, Loquacia, the Lory, was prattling on and on to Phoenix, a pheasant, about how her ex-boyfriend had just nested up with a girl and she had already laid four eggs. “What a whore,” she squawked. Loquacia was a fighter; she was raised in a family of eight and was inchoate much longer than her brothers and sisters, thus making her the fireball she was today. Phoenix and Loquacia made for an odd pair; Phoenix practiced hedonism and focused on soothing the self through meditation and herbal remedies, while Loquacia settled her soul by gossiping and pecking things until they bled. Also traveling with them was Stewart (a mild mannered snake that narrowly escaped a nasty fate when he left the Sliths), Beruca (a Beta fish and the chef of the lot), Helena (a hare with a knack for pick-pocketing), Kevin (a very sleepy Koala with a drinking problem), and Praline (a cynical praying mantis who happened to be a lovely violin player).
Mo finished rehearsal early and they gathered for a family meal. Though they had originally come from different cultures and parts of the world, they were family now; they were all they had left in the world. They carried on and made conversation into the late hours of the night and eventually headed for bed. They slept soundly, dreaming of blissful idylls and when the world was unscathed. As they rested, a yellow haze filled their rooms. The Fish and Wildlife Service had found their tent site and closed shop; there was no room for them anymore. They were developing, you see, they needed the housing complexes built by morning and couldn’t wait to wake them up, couldn’t wait to move them out, couldn’t wait for Opus’ last act.