On Dying Dumb Young

denial Dumb bugs tend to die young. Often, they fly directly from the dirt into stout tree trunks upon hatching. Guess which force of nature gives up that good fight first and turns into a blotch or a blemish. Or they might rise up directly into the open mouth of an irascible blue jay. Even a teeny seed pecker such as an adorable yellow warbler is not above gobbling a tidbit that falls fortuitously from the sky. No pass, no go, dummy. One scant part of one short day is the sole reward for that lifetime achievement. It’s been do or die for all dipshits that fit the description for an awfully long time. A dumb cub, cluck, foal, or doe-faced fawn better figure out how to keep up lickety split, or else. Lame excuses don’t fly. A dumb gopher digging a hole better learn to keep the trap door shut. Dumb tree frogs and bunnies die young too, along with dumb skunks, gnus, boars, turtles, and coyotes. HHUMH Thee tawny owl has tasted many dumb bunnies in his travels above and beyond the Santa Cruz Mountains and rates them high on the scale of delicious morsels to be regurgitated lightly. Freshness in this case trumps plump.

Only dumb humans and like-minded domesticated animals are able to survive while dumb. Name another species that never figured out how to cull the herd. Many dumb humans, with the aid of trust funds, velcro fasteners, remote controls, and pharmaceutical enhancements, manage to thrive. Most do not acknowledge that several hundred billion years on this zipping planet existed splendidly without them. Virtually all of them believe they are smart. Overgrazing a range is only pure and natural. In fairy tales and religious tracts they get to be boss and live forever. It’s as easy as instant pudding and pie to make the same mistake twice and get away with it. Might as well roll over and get another slice of that yummy pie while the getting is good. It’s so much dumb fun to play numbing games it’s hard to believe, and filling, too. Glory be for raw meat by the slab wrapped in clear plastic. It makes grabbing more rewarding overall. Take a gander at the rack on that beauty, would ya? Not even an alpha carnivore as dumb as Donald Trump could pass up a killer deal that easy and delicious.

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I was busy making the same mistake for the 93rd time on the morning after Donald Trump had eviscerated some bouncing balls and swinging vaginas on the trademarked happy-go-lucky network for the 72nd time by my unreliable count as the carousel spun. The sun had been up long enough for the disgruntled natives to get restless. The spawn of my loins, the teen twins, were hanging out on one of a slew of middle school holidays that make no pedagogical sense no matter which way I turned to get away.

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I said, “If I give you some undeserved dollar bills will you go away and spend them unwisely?”

“How many?”

“Enough.”

“More.”

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I had been making the same mistake on a regular if unreliable basis since the teen twins popped out of the hatch and grabbed hold. I had likely learned on no less than 66 of those prior occasions that deep breathing was the best antidote to wage slavery and chalky laxatives are highly overrated for the containment of chronic irregularity. Young Bob Dylan once lamented in a sad song his fear of making the same mistake twice. What an immature eternal optimist he turned out to be.

I said, “Close the door.”

I heard, “Who’s fault is that?”

Smartly, I replied, “What’s fault got to do with it?”

I heard, dismissively, “I wasn’t talking to you.”

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That left my hips free to embrace Marvin Gaye and Buddy Guy. Next, Michael Jackson sure did beat it. Then, Junior Walker went out to shake and finger pop. Axial spinning occurred in all the same old familiar places. I remembered the words to many sad songs by rote. A rebound bounced me and I got bumped. Shoddy goods and services spilled from a go-cart taking a premature victory lap at the Soapbox Derby. I was able to deliberately soil my soul with considerations of contradictions as they abounded around. I twisted those unwilling hips into an essential fig-8 and torqued to dig my sharp nails into sinew at the point of fuyang on a right side earth phase meridian. I had experienced distress on that axis before. If I had only been able to dig deeper I might have returned with a clue that truly stunned. I began to watch some crows turn tricks in a muddled gray sky. And I had to admit I was impressed. Crows are not dumb. Then it became too bad for my side when concentration waned as it does.  Unless that juncture at fuyang had been feiyang, a water phase meridian, which changed everything. If the premise is weak we all know the sad fate that awaits the conclusion. After that, I likely spent some random time unwisely.

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When the yang twin returned, he caught me unprepared. To the best of my recollection, I blamed it on the time spent unwisely. I knew even back then it was a smart move to prepare, and I considered it. But then I thought, nah.

How dumb can it be if it works? I seriously considered the contradictions. Then, I reiterated, nah.

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I said, “Sup.”

“You always say that when I come home and you don’t know what else to say.”

“You say it, too.”

“With me, it’s different.”

Because the generous cut any self-absorbed house takes from the action is hardly enough for skimming, I stepped over the line to reach out for more. I blew a few whistles and tooted a kazoo. I swore up and down the horn I was blowing came out of nowhere in a current shade of the blue. It only looked like a power grab to those who don’t get it.

“I didn’t just arrive after falling off a turnip trick, you know.”

“Turnips are gross.”

“C’mon, you can’t really believe that here I am, as dumb as they come, knowing nothing.”

“You mean you can’t.”

 

 

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About marclevytoo

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

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