The esteemed corporations queuing freely in front of the trough, icons of fat and fatter, though not fattest, who were amalgamating iconically at a better location with more heft, seemed to be blending well. Earthy colors were bountiful. Unsightly pale skin was buttoned up tight. Underneath, where it rightfully belonged, white had returned to a prime slot as the new black. The competitive slip and slide across the floor proceeded without pause into a neutral gooey corner, where pratfalls were kept to the basic minimum. Servants in attendance proved to be performing adequately to par. Substitutes were nearby in all positions, willing and able, because how able does a replaceable substitute really have to be?
“There’s a handsome fellow traveler laid out over there that looks just like Jerry Garcia.”
“Elite millennials dig The Dead.”
A sizably large corporate entity, of legal spokespersonage, and with a well formed ovoid mouth, big boobs that were real, sort of, and a small dick rounded dollar wise to the nearest uptick, with a cutting edge artificial asshole to die for, and sufficient androgyny speaking metaphorically to con any fool, akin to a red beet sugar farmer or an oil wildcatter with hydraulic lifts in doeskin boots, who could warble in several moderate alto tones with severe coherence, no matter who gobbled what smelly bologna in the presence of whom, and in what tense, said, “Got something better?”
“Nothing, no way, who’s kidding who?”
“That’s ‘whom’ to you”
“That’s ‘screw’ to you.”
“What a card.”
“Good for me, good for you.”
“Leads to less spoilage.”
“More for me, more for you.”
“Touch me up, though not down.”
“And not too close.”
“I’m going to live forever, I’m concrete, bro.”
“Concrete ain’t shit. Feel my steel.”
“Sticks and stones.”
“Gotta be something.”
“Is ain’t all there is.”
“More for us , less for them.”
“Whoever they are.”
Then a scion of a known fossil fuel, two hundred million years old and proud, set the rubes straight by declaring, “Fuck y’all. You better believe I’m tellin’. Do you think I’m going to hide these beauties.”
“That’s what I call some fucking sustainability.”
“Assets to be proud.”
“Betcha bottom dollar.”
About fifty million years ago, near the beginning of one period on the planet that encapsulated a whole lot of fucking fun, look it up, a fertile time of global warming, before you and your kind and my kind were around to fuck it up, the Eocene Epoch, scads of oxygen started spurting out of holes from no known nowhere, and doubled. Just like that, doubled. What are the odds? Holes as it turned out had so much to offer. Birds evolved, horses, deer, primates, rodents, marsupials. Lots of warm blood pumping.
You just gotta know where that leads. Fucking and sucking, dude, off of all the sticky flow charts. Man, it was sweet, not saccharine. Yes, out of unknown holes. There were palm trees in Wyoming, mangoes and papayas, juices running wild and free. The slime grew and oozed to astounding lengths with little interference. Crocodiles lurked beneath warm waters in Alaska. Mammals took so many deep breaths from so much freaky oxygen they grew some big ass brains. Man, those chimps had some big, bare ass fun. When do you think penis envy began to display the first enviable growth spurt?
The tawny owl, who can access vital experience from the Eocene Epoch through his ability to fly high, swoop low, override traps of gravity and speed, and tap into the rich gist of gunk that his ancestors projected for him far out there, has often emphasized for me during my studies at the Thee Tawny Owl Institute of High Flying and Rising Consciousness, not details exactly, but a feeling he holds close when astral traveling to the areas between the spiral galaxies, NGC3314a and NGC3314b.
Feelings don’t have to play by a lot of rules and make a lot of sense, as even many slow humans understand, in which I am specifically counted, sort of, as long as the vaunted achievement of dictation in language, under the bountiful dictatorship of major corporations armed with big balls grown out of numbers, and patrolled by slick flacks with rigid calculators, itchy gunners with sketchy triggers, nuns with rulers, united organizers of code enforcement, and zealots with weapons steeped in ritualistic denial, does not get too entrenched in the way.
The tawny owl was perched on a high branch of the redwood tree near my back door, regurgitating a formerly simple gopher, though not making a deep statement out of it, when he said, “What a douche.”
I was not overly worried that he might be referring to me. We had an understanding about the subject in which less from him became more for me.
Not 100% disingenuously, I said, “Where?”
It seems to me that making too much sense is overrated. Where and on what edge does the slash of a straight razor get you? That’s why we’re all sweating those balls so hard. Too much friction generates too much heat. Next, for a stretch, hot gets to be the new cool and becomes hip. Soon enough, bombs are devices and shots are popped with sugar. We all learn more is less and aqua is the new turquoise.
Perhaps, I concluded, the heat was getting to me, but in a good way.
I said, “I can’t say why for sure but it sure feels good to me when it gets this hot.
I felt confident that the tawny owl was referring to the techno-yuppie dweeb riding atop his John Deere mower next door to me, seriously engaged in the destruction of widespread habitat enjoyed by sweet honeybees, tender butterflies, and beautiful birds, because who else is sitting there?
As part of his cutting edge campaign to inject strictly pale neutrality into the landscape the techno-yuppie dweeb had filed a civil lawsuit against me. I was accused of a willful failure to erect a sufficient barrier at my property line against the marauding scorpion in the Santa Cruz Mountains that had been making an apparent point of attacking him while he engaged in his important lawn care duties. According to the documents that I declined to acknowledge, my lack of action signaled an acceptance of a clear and present danger, which implied absolute guilt, now, then, and categorically.
Well, yeah, like duh.
The appropriate lawyer I employed to contest my case was wearing a scratchy suit bedecked in blocks, unless those were squares. She had been highly recommended to me by my criminal lawyer, who favored stripes in primary shades of ashy gray, and angles. I kept my divorce lawyer out of the equation because she was beneath all universal contempt.
My newly civic suited lawyer advised me to settle quickly.