The epic war against the clueless human enablers of venal cats who murder beautiful birds, in which I had enlisted as a Benedict Arnold to my species early on, or as early as it was when I received a clue, which was only early to me, had been raging for nearly nine months. That can be a fuck of a long time for any dirty human traitor to wait while sitting idly by. I had endured a harsh, difficult slog through conditions best diagnosed and quantified under the general category of Borderline Disorders in the best selling Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th Edition, Text Revision (DSM-IV-TR), including episodes of epic heat, frigidity, aphasia, dyspepsia, drought, delirium, delusion, denial, and epic blame.
Though I continued to peer myopically into the epic murk for a glorious and mythological end to rise above me in plain sight, it was beginning to seem as if in the vast here and now, which is most of all I knew about or know about, and care about, and which pressed an indelible impression down upon me, the epic conflict was proceeding to escalate into new and uncharted domains. Those darn human enablers seemed to possess a shit load of stick-to-it-iveness that would not just kindly up disappear. That’s what happens when there is no beginning and no end to rely upon. They had sneaky tricks hidden in dark crevices. What then was to become of me and my kind who continue to remain wallowing in the mud? Would the first ones now later be last? Who was going to stick around to calculate the difference? Would values of more continue to thrash pitiful symbols of less? Was algebra a prerequisite? Would formerly free words require trademark registration for usage? Then, whither dumb sentences? Wasn’t I going to end up deader than a dumb doorbell to doorbell knocker like Homer anyway? And where does that leave yon?
The techno-yuppie dweeb who squats on acreage next door to mine and occupies his territory in compliance with a ruthless scorched earth policy when not commuting to Silicon Valley each morning before dawn, had fortified his artificial lawn with an agglomeration of petroleum phosphates applied underground by a semi-licensed free lance proctologist who wore an unidentifiable elasticized mask, likely made in Guangzhou. Authorization for the sprayed application was covered in a self-perpetuating clause of the Techno-Yuppie Handbook of Massive Entitlement Issues, 2nd Edition. His porcelain wife, the severe dominatrix of the pampered white cat with the pinky skin, who dared not appear in sunlight, took careful measurements with an unsheathed cutting edge utensil stored in her craw. The John Deere riding mower with the spongy seat on which the techno-dweeb patrolled his toxic terrain had been fitted with an acrylic cage reinforced with bolts of high density molybdenum. He was sporting a nifty ovoid helmet reinforced with a titanium alloy awaiting expedited patent approval. He toted an industrial sized canister reinforced with experimental polymers strapped snugly on his back. It contained a lifetime supply of all weather Roundup by Monsanto, the spray killing choice of seasoned pros in all phases of ethnic and inter-species cleansing. His short white-skinned offspring, who stood sentry at the perimeters, had been reinforced with goggles, ear flaps, elbow pads, knee braces, and high fructose corn syrup. The pampered white cat at the center of the killing ground pranced apace in a clear acrylic cube that rolled on two tracks of an unknown acrylic composition, the pink skin spritzed with a bracing chemical compound of bubbling inorganic matter.
My epic spying led me to a single inconsolable conclusion. Simplicity has always worked best for me in a fix. All out epic war, though a basic human need perfected over epic eons, sucks big time. I concluded beyond a mere shadow of doubt that another vapid erection was about to explode corrosively on the horizon. Delusional details would be recalled in lore as epic. Understandably, I feared no less than the worst, which is what I do often, and do well, sort of. My fears resounded like a crumbling sponge sucking dry air. I shrank from the horror in leaky scuffed boots that offered no smidgen of solace. And why won’t these darn boots stay fit to be tied anyway? Who is lurking in those crevices to be blamed? Or what?
I fought darn hard to maintain a semblance of military discipline. Ultimately, however, I succumbed to a rash of angst, ennui, inertia, and rank despair. What more could a lowly soldier do but exclaim, repeatedly, “What the fuck?”
But, the battled tested tawny owl scoffed at my mushy inner crux. “Don’t make me laugh my shapely ass off,” he spat. “To activate inertia from simple dirt requires combustion from gaseous elements that may stink, often do. I shit pure sweet and low on these puny pellets of stinking petroleum phosphate.”
I won’t deny that I had to pause in order to digest the powerful import of his speech. I was finally able to respond, though, and none too late, with a voluminous, “Whoa, fucking whoa?”
The tawny owl said, “A fucking.”
“Technically,” I ventured, “Isn’t that fucking A?”
“Maybe in your context. Don’t go try to be telling me about mine.”
The high flying raptors responded by unloading a slew of high speed shit bombs that struck from unseen angles, often acutely. Assault range was expanded exponentially. Rebellious bugs and slugs enlisted to dig trenches from below. Waves of regurgitated mice, moles, gophers, and rabbits were dumped obtusely. Don’t tell me the bugs did not dig that the most, too. Human heads went flying off the charts looking for a clue. The stinky shit gummed up the municipal works but good. Formerly staid sinks clogged with stink. Waste streams spilled over with accelerating gunk. No human was laughing at the matter when unloaded gases blew holes in their deepest dark defenses.
And when the electrical lines were sabotaged by the claws of red-tailed hawks from above and the mighty incisors of brave beavers from below, there was no escaping. Nothing could ever be more epic again. Game over.
The techno-yuppie dweeb retreated in panic when the veneer of his black Porsche was breached by a deluge of foaming bile. The tawny contributed the remains of a rotting vole brain to the cause. Pits like prunes formed in mottled folds of crackling acrylic. Not even the indentured brown servant who detailed cars at the Porsche dealership in Palo Alto could meet factory specifications. How could a techno-yuppie dweeb survive by less than meeting factory specifications? How was he supposed to forget all he held close about exceeding expectations? When would a motley life ever be considered valuable again?
Later, emboldened by a victory bash that included a soundtrack featuring Grandmaster Flash, Ike Turner, and Trombone Shorty, and yet reluctant to claim too much credit for the stick-to-it-iveness I called my own, I asked the tawny owl, “When am I ever going to meet one of those brave biting beavers?”
He said, “You’d best stick a while longer with your observations of frightened rabbits. They’re more you speed.”
I said, “But you eat rabbits.”
He said, “Fucking A.”