Saturday, March 27, 2010
On the Origin of the Speakeasies
455 N. Twinklewood, Substructure K
Galoshes, MO (really, you need a zip for this address?)
I've sent the greens home early, they were getting shaggy round the flags. In this moment of quiet introspection and solace I count the John Deeres as they buzz around the construction site directly overhead. I have just now formed an thought, and in so forming, it occurs to me that to speak it, would perhaps be in my best interest. Then, upon uttering this thought verbally, I fancied I might jot it down using my fine Parker fountain pen and the good stationary which I've hidden away from the miscreants and hooligans who I've come to refer to collectively as "Gary" (pending notarization). Oh sure, Gary run wild when I turn on the special blue light. Oh yes, Gary creep into my pantry at night and soil the crackers and other crispy comestibles. Indeed, Gary are a broodish lot. Moaning with the tone of lost seals in the Eskimo wading pool. Pouting in the manner of spoiled children and tantrumming to boot. Whining like the weak and wily characters Gary are. Bad Gary! But no Gary will pilfer my 24lb Ivory Laid, cladestinely stowed for the sole purpose of putting pen to it and pouring on the thoughts. Thoughts like the one I was just having. Thoughts that massage my hypothalamus (or equivalent). Thoughts that pump my AB positive (or the clarified butter that has displaced it). Thoughts that stir my soul (or item of equal or lesser value [discount taken at register]). These are the things a man lives for, mon frere, Pierre! Now if I just reverse the polarity perhaps I can bag a dame -- no not some lady of grace, but a real cheap tart -- and treat her like the broad she was born to be. These are the days of wonder. These are the moments of greatness. These are the Sugar Babies I had in my pants pocket when they went into the washer. Seriously, caramel candies loosed from their pack and roaming free within said trousers. Oh, you don't think I... c'mon! I don't have that problem anymore. Dammit, I better not (what with that counseling cost, et al). Curse you Sugar Babies! Curse you Kenmore! Curse you sweet inspiration. You've sullied my knickers and dislodged logical discourse from mine mind! Oh well. There's always blunt force trauma.
Nailed to the pony,