Sure Thing

smoke in color 3     In a recent revelation extracted from secretly coded research and shared definitively by a peeping Tomasina on the infallible Internet, it became somewhat clear that the possibility existed at some point, and at some time, to be potentially repeated in the so-called future at some other point, relatively spatially so, sort of, that if cool water continues to miraculously ebb from the invisible aquifers buried under sacred sands handed down from a mountain by the one and only bearded baldy claimed by competing sects to be real, sort of, and continues soon enough to become miraculously sucked dry by hordes of thin skinned, two legged parasites cloaked in the costumes of apex predators, for arcane reasons only one among a multitudinous slew of Gods knows why, horrid lewd lizards will begin to replace cute tubby frogs in the hearts and minds of the stalwart faithful who are too busy snoozing to wake up and die right when bound up in the hallowed act of bowing down on infected knees while rubbing and scraping.


“Isn’t that how the Dust Bowl started to blow so hard?


“And continued from there to suck so hard and to swirl so hard?”

“Technically, not.”

“My mistake then.”

“No biggie.”

“I’m with you.”


Additional inconclusive conjecture concludes with quasi-standard certitude that it will hurt big time when grassy dung fires burn for days, eyeballs bulge, balls itch, juices leak, and rancid boils resulting from infidelity, blasphemy, idol worship, free association, and previously mentioned pustulent rubbing become lanced by flaming swords. New unlikely superheroes catering to every advanced proclivity will need to be reborn, re-sanctified, re-slaughtered, and re-resurrected to combat all-around filthy tendencies leaning in the direction of libertine infection, wheel spinning, free radicals, contradictions, mistakes, and general malaise.


“Rad, eh?”

“That’s exactly how irresponsible rumors get spun by trolls who don’t know no better.”

“I wouldn’t know details.”

“No biggie.


How in this newly structured anarchy will numbers of jobs continue to ascend unimpeded into the stratospheric atmosphere without assistance from the willing blonde gods stacked up butt to cheek against inscrutable light taupe gods with many arms and elephantine trunks? What if in actual fact that shady light taupe is more accurately represented on the eternal seesaw by dark ecru? Free radicals can strike like that while unaware. How then will sales figures avoid a corresponding slump when mistakes are made? Where then will the previously primary colors go to hide and fade away? When contradictions abound, the bounce may not conform rightly. And what will become of the respective starring roles of Spiderman, Goofy, Batman, Scrooge, Bambi, and Superman when hordes of barefoot dudes hauling dudettes by tangled locks begin hallucinating on mushrooms in the flaming desert and pass the screen test?


“First, we get a two-stroke engine, fit a wire through a groove, hook it up to a pulley with a chain, and pull.”

“How hard?”


“Like a jerk.”


“What about the groove?”

“Deep and wide.”



If the only reason required to jerk hard on a chain is because you and yours compellingly can, and thus oddly must, though likely to incidentally suck up a quasi-stupendous shitload of formerly vital minerals while you are hard at it with the obscene pump that remains affixed to your expanding waistband, which has become not only necessary but sufficient by those who claim to know how to repair broken links during the hard act to follow of fixing useless logic with productive nuts and bolts, where does that lead? Besides a good job, that is. Mars, it would appear.


“Some pump.”

“What a handle.”


“Way cool.”

“And hot.”

“A lot.”

“What then from there?”

“Then spread it all over.”



“I’m packed and strapped.”

“Where does the shit go once loaded?”

“Hard to say with precision.”

“No biggie.”


The primary author of the impactful study was gob-smacked by insight during a sweltering three day weekend in festive New Orleans. The free trip had been presented to him as a generous perk by sensitive team leaders at cutting edge Fakeboob for meritorious forethought late at night when he could have been merely jerking off. A lot of public jerking off came around and went around unnoticed in Palo Alto, but not his. Palo Alto could be way cool that way. But, it was so hot in New Orleans that his flimsy flip-flops stuck to his feet and caused excess flapping. Skin itched and peeled when chafing occurred in mere moderation. He could barely breathe through his stuffy nose as he sucked furiously at his second grand iced latte of the day, slightly whipped, though smooth, with mere scant trickles of foam to lick. Unless it was his third or even fourth of the day and he had lost count due to shortness of breath and the reappearance of that nasty general malaise. And yet he observed a thin, nerdy white boy of middle school age who seemed to be frolicking unaware in the mid-day sunshine. This nerdy white boy did not appear to be incapacitated by the excessive heat.  As he waited for the St. Charles Ave. streetcar to arrive, he was dancing suggestively in retrograde like a loose-limbed Michael Jackson. It was as if rules of nature in the grassy median did not apply to him. No fear? No self-loathing? No hiding? Huh?

No matter how our respected author attempted to consider superficial alternatives that better fit previous marketing studies those real live if still thin white hips continued to rotate in actual suggestive motion on display. In public. Moving and grooving. For better and for worse. To have and behold.


As the insight assaulted the studious author, he thought, and not for the first time, whoa, fucking whoa. In Rochester, Topeka, Tulsa, or Cincinnati a nerd like that would likely be in hot water. But in New Orleans it seemed as if he did not have to feel shame. He was stinky with sweat. He grunted, he groaned, and he might actually have moaned suggestively. The beat went on and he followed. No biggie?

But if heat like that does not matter, it logically follows, then what’s the big deal about getting all hot and bothered? Let’s get it on. Any way, by any means, right? Adapt away human spawn.

“Why can you ask where when you can’t ask why?”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell?”

“I don’t believe nearly everything I am told anyway.”

“I’m with you.”

“Although I’d like to.”

“Well, yeah, like…duh.”

Not only his team leaders responded to this uncanny insight in an utmost positive mode, along with followers, like duh, because what else are followers supposed to do, but leaders from far flung yet top ranked teams in distantly organized way stations responded with numerous opportunistic pings, many at curious junctures, amid endless heated comings and goings over foamy lattes, not all iced. Notes were jotted down and discussed. Fists were bumped. Lotions were rubbed into more chafed skin. Real data got keyed, but fucking good.

fake orgasm

“That’s a relief.”

“I, for one, am still getting over getting shocked.”

“Though not in any sort of endless mode.”

“It may be the difference between a sure thing and a poor miserable also-ran.”

“Right about now I could use a cool one in a tall frosty can.”

“I’m with you.”

“If you can’t stand the heat stay out of the spotless steel kitchen.”

barbed wire

“I’m with you.”


About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in animals and birds, environment, humor, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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