Banh Mi Me On A Wave

trump     Despite the many pre-washed and dried wannabes trying to break hard into show biz, there will never be another Abe Lincoln, Charlie Chaplin, Ben Hur, Little Richard, Beaver Cleaver, Batman, Urkel, Bullwinkle, Joe Stalin. Only one Buddha did not accept tax deductible contributions from lowlife scum. His were not the sleek feet that would fit right wearing snug velvet slippers. And what if this swirl of penny ante action in play turns out to be no more than a sum of myopic chicanery in the one world with no beginning and no end where so many are so dead at the same time? How many secret meetings had to be called to order in rotation? Make no mistake, there will be plenty more bad news coming. Stars are going to vaporize and explode. You won’t be authorized to know when. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

I said, “It doesn’t sound that bad to me.”



Then I heard, “Blah, blah, blah.” I should have known.

I said, “Hold on to that thought.”

I was pretending to be concerned by the raving of my nominal ad hoc freelance employer, Lt Guv Gav Newsom of California, who supplied me and mine with beau coup pork banh mi in addition to a shit load of filthy lucre in exchange for speeches filled with lots of cheap words I hunted and pecked and gathered for free, and to appear as if I genuinely cared about his burning issues of the day while balancing cups with steamy black coffee endemically prone to spillage due to a lack of global balance on one small ovoid planet.

Then I heard, “How long can this keep going on?”


I did not let on that I’d heard better versions of the song. He was twisting too hard to deny and could not accept. No Buddhist there.

I said, “Eat this cookie and you’ll feel better.”

“That’s an odd looking cookie.”

“It’s home-made.”

The only issue of the day that burned my mortal coil was the archaic absence of freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles perpetrated by soulless robots, lackeys, zealots, henchmen, and knobs that was going to be fixed by AUMA, the Adult Use of Marijuana Act in California come November.

He said, “I’m don’t know what the right thing to do is anymore.”

I said, “I think it must be a mortal sin to waste a delicious cookie.”

I could not help but also be thinking, however, in a bigger metaphysical picture outside of the box of political cash stashed under the proverbial table, that despite his role as the most opportunistic voice in favor of the freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles in California, because freedom is the only issue able to counter the tyranny of gravity, to which all of  my level of consciousness was mightily pledged in opposition to the clandestine robots, techno-dweebs and affiliated lackeys, what is this guy really doing here under a redwood tree in the Santa Cruz Mountains? I knew what I was doing. Reaping.

redwood 3

I heard, “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here. I just needed to get away. It’s hard to take a deep breath wearing a straight jacket and silk tie all day. You can understand. No problemo, right? We’re all bros, right? This is the life in California. You got it made in the shade so far out here on the edge of nowhere. Look at those surfboards just hanging on the wall.”

pearson arrow

I could not dispel the potential of the prickly suspicions that I maintained and held uncomfortably close. Every time I turned my head to look away, evidence piled up and became swarmed by flies. Not even most everyday robots know the identities of all the human spies and lackeys lurking. Was it a robot, for example, or a human spy responsible for soulless techno music? Or a digital knob twisted too rough and tumbled? And who was the first bought off cartoon clown to say, more means less, without snickering? Got ya, right? Or what known bozo proclaimed, don’t ask, don’t tell, first? You think you know but you’re not sure, right? You want absolution from ridicule and blame, not some theory of relativity, right? It takes a shit load of wrongs to compensate for one right. Am I right or am I right? It was a robot, right? Got ya again.

I asked, “How far are you willing to go?”


Lt Guv Gav said, “What if I just climbed on top of one of those cool surfboards and rode a wave into the setting sun?”

It wasn’t really a question that required an answer because he was a politician and really didn’t mean what he said except when lying. Though, it did give me an idea. But, still.

“Do you surf?”

“Not yet, but I could learn.”

“I know a pair of excellent teachers ready to go.””

“I’d have to check my schedule.”

“As long as all of your booster shots are up to date.”

Lt Guv Gav believed he was having a seriously bad day but I knew better. To me, it was no biggie. He merely suffered from standard symptoms. Too much fire in the belly requires an enlarged release valve to lubricate the skid marks and minimize bloating in any workable exit strategy. Later, with my assistance he would learn, and know better too.

I said, “All you have to do as an official act of lieutenant governorship is spring them from detention at middle school.”

“I could do that.”

“And you have to eat your cookie.”

He said, “Yum.”

It was my unprofessional opinion, no charlatan with a standard boilerplate diploma here, that he had yet to recover from the existential fiasco on the campaign trail in which a wayward reprobate youth from Modesto questioned the authenticity of his relationship with smoking weed and ingesting edibles in California, and he had inexplicably felt the unsettling need to pause, flinch, and then flee the scene before concocting a suitable lie. How can a workable politician be trusted if he can’t come up with a suitable lie on the fly? What if the inadequacy spread? What if all the men who could not get it up the night before were featured on Fakebook the morning after, and all the women were able to point and click with new anonymous emojis for snickering?

I for one did not want to find out. It was time for Lt Guv Gav to walk the walk and come out proud and loud on the right side of history.

I said, “Look at all the high achievers who not only smoked weed but ingested edibles, Steve Jobs, Miles Davis, Albert Einstein, Bill Walton, Billary Clinton. They all learned to stick with it. No quitters there. Do you want to be remembered as a quitter?”

“I’m still not certain.,” he demurred.

I said, “Not me.”

The teen twins were excused not only from after school detention but from their detention in the period prior. The yang twin was rescued right before causing a typical disturbance that could not be helped. It appeared as if Ye Insufferable Literature From Yore was so olde it had yellowed and turned brittle right before his eyes. How could he help it when it wasn’t his fault? The story started out so lame there was this guy in tight pantaloons wearing a wig. Seriously. Who doesn’t know where that’s leading? It came from Europe along with the disease of bloating.

Lt Guv Gav said, “I’m starting to get a funny feeling.”

The yin twin said, “If nothing else, learn how to paddle your first time out.”

The yang twin said, “All you have to do if you’re pulled under is don’t panic.”

“And keep breathing,” the helpful yin twin added.

I said, “Let’s roll.”

The waves at Pleasure Point were six feet high, way too big for a beginner. I watched with interest from the sandstone cliff at the edge of western civilization. It was crumbling apace. Lt Guv Gav got thrashed, but good. I’ll bet the robots are somewhere laughing. If you can call that laughing.


About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in coming out, Commentary, family, fiction, humor, legalize marijuana, parenting, satire and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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