Banh Mi Me Another

white skin2 Once I shamelessly sold out mind, body, and soul to become a sniveling lackey chained to a standard boilerplate contract for The Man, I dispatched any nagging metaphysical doubts about the karma of fondling filthy lucre and plunged like a svelte elephant seal into my rewarding new role as a member of the ruling class. I woke up all by my lonesome self in darkness and left a poignant note behind for the teen twins. I’m not at liberty to disclose what was and was not revealed, though I can attest to the undisputed fact that Hank Williams would have been sobbing if still alive. I wore chic worsted wool trousers, dove gray in aura, that were no crummy cotton pants. My shirt consisted of threads of many muddy colors. I ate a fortified breakfast, plus a banana. If I was, as I was, going to be able to focus my perfunctory efforts as a speechwriter for Lt Guv Gavin Newson in a sycophantic manner on the one political issue to the exclusion of all else that mattered to anyone other than him, then I deserved to be fortified. And not merely with iron. Lt Guv Gavin Newsom wasn’t the only one who could get on a pony and ride dem coattails high. I intended to peddle my influence to the tip of its illogical hilt. The Adult Use of Marijuana Act, AUMA, the philosophical bullets for my pistol, contained sixty dense pages of cooked up, overdone, mashed, and rehashed words that stuck like glom to the roof of my gums. Implications were risky to dissemble no matter how hard I sucked. My gums became not only bleeding but inflamed. Sinus cavities stuck up there in the neighborhood rebelled. An insidious infection due to surplus gunk traveled into my throat and ears. I was forced to stay home from the job due to this endemic illness that was going around and coming around. We all know how it is when there are blisters on your tongue and your heart is crying.


A fresh copy of the proposition as it would appear on the ballot in excruciating legalese had been delivered to my door but I didn’t sign any incriminating evidence. The man unsuccessfully camouflaged in brown left it anyway. I still had to perish the thoughts of those doubts before I could proceed. Then I cut my finger on a sharp edge and more bleeding occurred.

When I returned home on the second day prior to the onslaught of my debilitating illness, the teen twins noticed the subtle changes occurring.


“Where’d you get those pants?”

“Do you like them?”

“Ew, no.”

The yang twin piped in, “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re not funny when you try to be funny and you make me laugh when you don’t?”

Support from the spawn of my loins during my custodial week was important to me according to the Municipal Court of Santa Cruz County. How could I do it without them, the little people?

I said, “You’re right, they itch.”

The yin twin said, “Your skin is becoming blotchy.”

“Politics is compromise.”

“And filthy lucre.”

The yang twin said, “Why don’t you take them off and hang loose?”

“I just got here.”

“Where ya been?”

“At work.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Where do you think all those delicious banh mi come from? Do you think they grow on trees?”

“We’re all out of pickled carrots.”

“That’s a real opportunity to make a difference.”

After reading my poignant note, the teen twins had apparently seized the opportunity and cut middle school again. In my experience, it was difficult to cut middle school without getting caught. A trail of, if not blood, then scent, was invariably left behind. Plus, they shared the last banh mi while I was gone. Warmed up it wasn’t half bad, I hear. That left none for me. Some might snipe that that’s what I get for working for The Man.

“We could try to pickle our own,” I pontificated.

“Yeah, right.”

While recuperating I received a telephone call from the principal of the middle school. She did not like my attitude due to a so-called history. A principal should be able to understand the difference between so-called history and current events. I let the machine eat it. I’d get Lt Guv Gavin Newsom to take care of it later.


Later, when I called the office of Lt Guv Gavin Newsom he was indisposed due to intermittent irregularity in scheduling, a chronic condition. But, that left me stuck picking at these blotchy sores. I required clear guidelines in order to proceed with additional doubts before production of a big oratorical finale to be repeated ad nauseum. Isn’t that what becoming a sycophant is all about? If the speeches I started to write in support of AUMA, the Adult Use of Marijuana Act, included stray bits of whatever squeezed into my awakened head, without guidance, I presumed repercussions would ensue. Then what would become of my filthy lucre? An underling in the office of Lt Guv. Gavin Newsom suggested I avoid the phrase, what the fuck. I thought with some consternation, what the fuck. Do opinions of underlings count? What’s the next heartbreaking bombshell to fall?

“Don’t we at least get to negotiate some unprincipled give and take, a little back stabbing compromise, or a bunch of shady deals under the table?”

“We leave that to experienced professionals.”

crack mayor

Sordid everyday politics was appearing not only to consist of arbitrary shenanigans undertaken at a low level of consciousness, accompanied by the myriad of basic contradictions among bits of swirling cosmic dust, which as the second most basic building block of the multiverse I had become abundantly acquainted, but bullshit.

“I get paid,” I remonstrated

“Not that much.”

According to the social compact in which the greatest good for the greatest number prevails, or any other reasonable social compact that never had a chance or a clue due to the power crazed interference of heinous czars, monks, senators, queens, scabs, lords, dorks, pedophiles, troglodytes, douche bags, and silent genuflecting majorities blowing hard with scarred knees and stiff necks from so much bowing, my invisible freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles was supposed to be sacrosanct long ago. Not just my freedom, either. How else will all those failed jerking knees heal? The one true failed God character behind the scenes in the collectible cartoon cels who can’t even tear down a decent wall or leap a single fucking building in one bound has done a bang up job of hanging on to his job but not much else after. That must be why he’s afraid to show his face. If he was the formerly failed coach of the Philadelphia Eagles he would have been canned with a cane by now, stomped with a jack boot, and run the fuck out of town, the mutha fucka.

philly duck mutha

Even the surly yang twin knows that results count. Why else would a man like me be working so hard for The Man?

About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in family, fiction, food, humor, legalize marijuana, parenting, writing and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s