“Needless to say, Moses was wrong, Jesus was wrong, Muhammed was wrong, all the saints were wrong, all the sinners were wrong, all the spies, the stalkers, the madmen, the starving and voracious were wrong, Galileo was wrong, Einstein was wrong, Marx was wrong, all the Marxes, Lenin and Stalin and Mao and Madame Mao were wrong, except for maybe the one who refused to speak and instead played insipid music on his harp when not busy blowing bubbles, tweeting twaddle, tossing peanuts to the gallery, or tooting his horn.”
It seemed like pretty obvious stuff to me despite the uneven quality of the picture. Was it the hazardous snow blowing that caused all of the interference on the screen or genetically deficient mice scurrying like real go-getters behind the scenes? Too bad this dweeby dude with the presumably clever bow-tie never got to hear or see the tawny owl in didactic action.
The yin twin said, “This is interesting, sort of.”
The yang twin said, “Gag with me a spoon why don’t you back in the golden olden days of dorky yesteryear.”
The yin twin said, “Dude, I’m trying to listen.”
“Why is it that the most basic fact of anthropology, that humans all came from and out of Africa, is not what we are taught first and foremost along with our basic building blocks, our abc’s, 123’s, our sit up straight, and don’t drool commands? Despite all of the religious and political indoctrination, ignorance has never been shown to be all that blissful. Do we need to endure another European plague of rats to make big bucks headlines, more inbred aristocrats wrapped in swords and coats of arms? I know I don’t want another classic brand burned into my ass. It’s hard to rise above when looking steadfastly down for the last bottom dollar. How long can we continue to deny that the party on this lovely planet was going on long before we arrived to slavishly mess up a good thing? How then did it suddenly become all about us when it has been proven we are unable to chew fat and rotate sloppy hips simultaneously?”
The yang twin said, “Like…duh. Who doesn’t know that?”
The yin twin said, “If they can say ass on TV, why can’t they say tits?”
I said, “They can, they do, you’ve heard it before.”
“On Comedy Central. Not on PBS.”
“Who watches PBS?”
“What do you think you’re doing now?”
“Seriously? Not that.”
“Besides, you hear ‘pussy’ all over and I think that’s no better or worse than saying ‘tits’.
“Whoever they are.”
“I have a very smart friend who maintains, simply, that contradictions abound.”
“Dude, all you can ever come up with is so like…duh. All you dudes like you and your so-called smart friend who we always hear about but never see, unlike your friend the unpaid Internet Content Provider who we do see and is not so smart because how can a dude be smart and not get paid and yet still be all so yackety-yak?”
“I was thinking of inviting him for dinner.”
“Fossils are stuck, lawn jockeys are stuck, needles are stuck, clogs are stuck in pipes, raging bulls are stuck with swords, but why the rampant constipation that is stuck so deeply in us?”
“Constipation, that’s always a good one for a laugh. A classic gag.”
“The classics are too long, boring, blowy, and blah, blah, blah. They could use some updated material.”
“They can’t say ‘cunt’ either, not on any station. Not even as a mistake.”
“It’s not hard to see that what we have here in front of our bugged eyes is this dude with a cry for a therapeutic enema.”
I said, “I am once again stunned by your wealth of useless knowledge when combined with subdural logic.”
“Do you think you’re the only one who knows a bunch of useless stuff that doesn’t matter?”
“That wasn’t my point exactly.”
“What point? You have a point? Since when?”
“Done. Forgotten. Although all of these dead Europeans who somehow still believe they rule are not the only ancient geezer dudes who need to write some new material. This time put a little spunk into it. And make it funny.
“Maybe add a few twists and shouting points of view from the underrepresented class of dudettes.”
“Yeah, as a change of pace. Like a comic screwball or sharp curve.”
“Don’t you have homework?”
“This is it. What else do you think I’m doing? Like…duh.”
” I believe I’ll be exiting now to lie down in green pastures.”
Humans, according to the tawny owl, as a hopelessly upstart species of Johnny-Come-Latelys on the prowl, are just beginning to emerge from their collective terrible two’s. International tantrums should begin to taper off in another ten to twelve thousand years or so, allowing for the cosmic dust to settle more sedately. By then, most ambulatory humans will have fled the planet to exist weightlessly in space. Already, hordes of chimpanzees who can hardly wait without revealing evidence of shit spasms are clamoring to take over the abandoned real estate.
In response, the Earth will continue to gurgle, spit, thrive, and spin quite resolutely. No more response than that is required to dispense with a bunch of gnats. The rule of thumb for human bipeds is one factual year of illuminated matter in elliptical motion roughly equals 250,000 human years in rotation, give or take the minor adjustments in clarity and resolution. In weightlessness, human thumbs will be nearly as important as heads. The rest of the human body will shrink over time, no part more so than those dangling balls that have caused so many bite sized burps of premature heartburn and ejaculations.
The first time I heard that, I exclaimed, unabashedly, “Whoa, fucking whoa.”
I know that I have been observed on more than one untimely occasion by the tween twins while sitting under a redwood tree and conversing in an animated fashion with the tawny owl. The yin twin tends to chalk the spectacle up to temporary delusional episodes caused by stress from my criminal lawyer, my divorce lawyer, my bail bondsman, my Chinese overlord. Even when the conversation is more a monologue than a true exchange. And especially when I am demonstrating figure-eights with my hips. The yang twin focuses more on voluminous personal failings, mine alone. Like…duh. There are several overlapping syndromes in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fourth Edition, that aim with widely scattered buckshot to explain many suspicious reasons why, but I don’t buy any of my Kool-Aid at that convenience store anymore. I’m just relieved that at no time has my penis been caught showing.
Of course, had I not been bound by a strict vow of silence in my role as a traitor to my species in the war against human enablers of venal cats who murder beautiful birds, I would have preferred to expose the tweens to many of the choice bits of wisdom from the how-to playbook of the tawny owl. On a strictly need-to-know basis, of course. For their own edification, of course. Like…duh. Who wouldn’t? But, how could I sink that low? Forget about me. Or us. Or us against them. How could I expose the tawny owl and his sacred haunts in such a naked way? I couldn’t, that’s how. Not even runaway fire from humans is as destructive a force as all of those potentially ominous boots on the ground. Where would those multitudes of big feet stomp once they learn the whereabouts of the tawny owl? Mt. Loma Prieta? Mt Umunhum? All the way to Big Sur? Next, his location might become tracked and posted on the Internet and objectified like no more than the next overnight sensation. The nitwitters will have a field day. Forums for the especially dull and needy will begin to pop up like infected zits. Multitudes with nothing to say will get to say it ad infinitum. Unearned likes featuring iconic thumbs up will become traded like worthless bitcoins. Speculating interlopers will spread out and stumble-bumble into havens, nests, and lairs. Upside down thought balloons will become filled with penny-ante dialogue. Values will sink to new depressing lows. The hot air will rise into orbit before exploding into professional jargon. Stagflation will abound and ooze. You just know it’s going to stink big time. What happens when it sticks and won’t rub off?
So you might reasonably ask what a simplistic man does when it is all up to him? All I can vehemently insist upon in response to such a frightful scenario is, uh-uh, not on my watch. I may be a Benedict Arnold to my species but I’m no Kim Philby. Two betrayals is one more than I can handle in such a short and unremarkable lifespan. No war can be won by exposing too much of whatever creepy shit lurks on the inside, that’s for sure. Any two bit traitor has to know that much, or else what’s the fucking point?
That’s like so fucking…duh.