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Take
three people: any three people. Lop off their arms, legs and heads. Put
the pieces in a burlap sack. Throw the sack over your shoulder and walk
down the street. Pick up a bouquet of flowers. Put the flowers in the
sack. Add water, about one cup per limb.
With a great "heave-ho," hoist the sack over head and swing,
swing, swing that sack. Let the sack go and watch 'er fly.
Feels better now, no? Glad you got that off your chest?
_____________
See, you've been watching too much t.v. again, and I feel its my job as
a writer to jostle your imagination awake. You've been coasting on the
easy ideas of consumer culture programmed into so-called entertainment,
masticated by the powerful and shoved down yer throats between 6pm and
midnight every night.
No wait...not you....me. I've been watching too much t.v. I'm not used
to this lifestyle, but I've been in hiding. Hiding from the "Comeuppance
Police."
They're after me.
What crime did I commit? What wrong did I wreck on the general populace?
Where to begin?
Basically, I have conveyed myself as a grand lover of life and sensuality,
irresponsibility to anything but the purest existence for the year existence
of my sweet, little bloggy. I've told tales bordering on womanizing, but
always with the redemptive admission that I truly seek love. I’ve
recounting appetite binges sans concern for monetary loss or gain. At
least, that's how I hoped it came across.
But the Comeuppance Police are now hot on my trail. They think not, regarding
my attempts at humor. They are out for justice.
They hold my credit history to their bloodhound trackers. They check the
local pubs for my accomplices: to make them squeal. They play "footsie"
under the table while able to disfavor my toiletry poetry written in the
stalls of Bergen Street.
I see them on the street as I flyer one last pole, as I cross the street
diagonally, as I eye the powdered wigs and trinkets on Warren Street,
gauging the commercial viability of performing prosody in wig with trinket.
I look at my arms, wonder about the freckles; wondering if they're moles
secretly working for the Comeuppance Police.
I look at my hair, pulled the length over my face, susceptible now to
the Scarecrow’s fears, I've lost my passion for fire.
The Comeuppance Police are trackers, reading these blogs like day old
dung, finding my next move. They'll catch up to me, boy howdy. They will.
Unless I'm really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, quick.
Really.
And so I type quietly. Don't make too much sound! They might hear…as
I gorge myself on Indian Food and coffee. I think about the color and
name "periwinkle." I wish upon periwinkle stars that I can make
myself make myself get a new job. It's the only way to get them off my
back: employment, responsibility. But is it worth it? Not today, not tomorrow,
but years down the road, maybe. [B]
GABRIEL CAPLAN
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