Banh Mi Me Where the Grass Grows High

pacing     In response to an increasing panic taking root due to mounting lawn mower losses caused by bombing runs of high flying raptors behind barred gates of numerous Silicon Valley domains, a conglom of techno-yuppie dweebs convened at a lowly airport Hilton within sight of sacred Mt. Umunhum, birthplace in the Santa Cruz Mountains of HHUMH Thee Tawny Owl. Discretion was secretly advised. Many arrived in disheveled disguise. Numbers demanded final solutions. They were there to wriggle, snivel, and connive.

“This time we crush them.”




The beautiful birds above it all were mildly amused. As the eternal color wheel in the majestic mountains evolved from a color that longed to be romantic at dawn to a color that just wanted to fuck fast and be done, the color at the airport Hilton maintained a consistently muddled gray, inside and out. You may ask yourself, as I frequently do, inside and out of what? Walls, skin, squares, membranes, memberships? Doesn’t pre-stressed concrete from Home Depot come densely packed enough without additives? Shouldn’t that be enough to eliminate escapist passageways and holes? Where would we all be without solid numbers to cherish and hold and fall upon with swords that make sure? What else precludes the relativists from being right about anything ever, once and for all? Am I absolutely right or am I absolutely right?

mixed martial arts

“Put it there,” I heard.

“Put it there,” I heard.

“Put it there.”

Repetition, repetition, repetition, as it turns out, constitutes good proof under uncontested conditions. Always say never. Demand more. International robots do. There is absolutely no right to be wrong. True absolutes rule with steel. Ample proof, which is not available to small losers craving deviant freedom from norms, comes jam-packed into the pudding catered by Hilton International Services that arrives daily resembling pre-stressed concrete, only enriched, caffeinated, and sweeter. International robots universally approve.

robot fight

Yeah right, I thought. Blow me and my spy hole a new secret cover. As if it is not what it is. But then a man who matched a typical description started to speak in a tongue. His prosthetic device displayed indiscreet panty lines that sagged. He identified an enemy with symptoms that seemed no more shiftless and no-account than mine. I started an interminable count of seconds before I could believably pass out due to symptoms of ennui. What was I doing there? Good question for a question. Isn’t the point to get where the getting is good? What else are spies any good for? But I don’t ask, don’t tell.

To the best of my recollection, despite mistakes made along the way accompanied by unintended consequences, this is sort of what my qualified opinion believes was rendered, “Ach, yaa, duck, dung.”


I was a spy by choice. No need to say more. That’s what spies do best. I heard atomic clocks silently ticking. I heard mist in collision with low clouds. I heard incisors chomping. Meat became cheap again. Spittle thickened just short of radioactive phlegm. Finally, he said,”Need I say more?”

fuck you

I did not stand alone to applaud. Stellar bipeds don’t need to be told when to stand. Chimps hung listlessly with monkeys and baboons, no biggie. Gold coins were served with whiskey and breath mints, straight, no chaser. Lids flipped, jaws flapped. Jubilation in the air was fueled by recycled dumpster gas from Salinas. Why can’t we all just get along like that my way? The pipes came custom clad in copper, butter, eggshell, or plain. Made only by international robots on sale at Home Depot.


I later contemplated implications of my humble participation in current events on a day of filtered sunshine at the Thee Tawny Owl Institute for High Flying and Rising Consciousness under a redwood tree in the Santa Cruz Mountains. HHUMH Thee Tawny Owl was present. His lovely wife, Thee Mrs, was not. She doesn’t like me or my reconnaissance issues. The tawny owl dropped the regurgitated head of a mouse in my nearby vicinity because he does what he can. I’m used to it by now. A lizard ran off to hide in a crack. Swallows stopped by to rest from swooping. The tawny owl laughed his ass off, but good. Who doesn’t appreciate the joyful aesthetics of a swooping swallow? My thinking may not count for much but I thought I was doing a pretty good bang up job in a supporting role.

head wound

When later, however, which also ran interminably into the next day, after I learned from illicit viral photographs on the infallible Internet exactly where I had been, and what I had accomplished while unaware, it gave me great pause to reconsider. That was me all right in those photographs. My hands were not tied. Everyone chasing me agreed on that much. Right there beneath the banner depicting the stylish logo of the Robot Liberation Front, a fashionable screw set pointing straight, and next to the poster on an easel detailing a list of non-negotiable demands, I was running, but good. A paunchy guy in wrinkled khakis was grabbing at my throat. I knew enough to tell foe from foe. Flip-flops and foot fungus in custom sizes don’t lie. But it was still not clear from that dirty picture what I was doing there.

The Number One Supreme Demand from the Robot Liberation Front, after secondary demands for more squares from curves, and tertiary formats for obtuse speech: No more hateful slurs crudely disguised as humor at the expense of elegant robots.

What are robots doing that’s so terrible, it may be asked by conspirators, though not ever by me. They get the job done, true. No wasteful breaks for number one or number two that add up to cost. Do robots deserve protection under civil rights laws just like other afflicted minorities? What about when they become the majority? How else will humans become exportable to Mars in shipshape? I know that’s where robots are trying to get me to go.


But what if I continue to feel a deep soulless vortex due to spiritual leanings derived from Moishe Pipik, sole barefoot messenger from the one true cartoon god who teaches that robots suck too hard on the electricity that righteously belongs to me and mine by osmosis? Is that better or worse than to be damned by another one true cartoon god with the balls to do it? Either way, I say no fucking way. What if I am able to be better?

I would have been better able to dispose of annoying questions like that had I not come under siege. Does that add up as another conspiracy too many too soon? Soon, I too was the subject of crude humor on the infallible Internet. The infallible Internet takes no breaks. Is it any wonder there is so much content to keep straight and forget? Don’t I deserve better, too?


My political handler in the California campaign to pass AUMA, The Adult Use of Marijuana Act, was displeased with me for becoming exposed. And at the wrong fucking conspiracy, to boot. I was supposed to be infiltrating the conspiracy at the airport Hyatt, not Hilton. I blamed it on a minor conspiratorial victory for highly organized robots and machines. Perhaps, I was approaching a breaking point. Ergo, I deserved a break for a nearby brown beer. I had to explain I was entitled to receive a mandatory break now that the passage of AUMA, Prop 64 on the official ballot in November, was in the bag and my workload would ease. My handler told me she felt outrage. The outrage she felt marred her ultimate feelings of self worth. I told her to dial it up on the infallible Internet.

I considered with the Unpaid Internet Content Provider how we were ever going to contest all of the obstacles we encountered in our quest to fly high into rising consciousness, the clueless human enablers of venal cats who murder beautiful birds, the conspiratorial robots, the soulless techno-music, the crossing patterns, bisecting planes, broken limbs, and fractured axes buried under so much dirt and dung.

“Dude,” he said, “I’ve got no complaint against soulless techno music.”

Sure, I knew he was only in it for the fresh deliveries of  pork banh mi from Polk St. in San Francisco. I knew that from the get-go. He was a real pro, objective, detached, mercenary, willing. I don’t blame him. It’s not easy to be a wrong tool working against international robots. But I sure could use some more of that certifiable professional help.


About marclevytoo

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

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