Book-Eating Mice
I was reading “De rerum natura” by Lucretius when I heard a gobbling
noise:
Book-eating mice were eating all of my books.
You don’t believe me? You want more proof? Well then just look
over there, between those pilasters — see that hole in the wall? Look closer and
you’ll notice a tiny mouse sniffing at the “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”. A
good choice; I’m almost proud of him at first, but then it makes me angry when he
starts nibbling on the page.
Book-eating mice are a big nuisance around here. “Hey, mouse,”
I shout, “what the heck are you doing? Stop eating my books. Instead, why don’t
you go chew on my dad’s collection of Chilton Auto Repair Manuals.” (My dad used
to brag that those were the only books he ever read.)
I now wonder if the best way to solve this problem is simply
to teach all these mice how to read. For, perhaps, once they can understand the
text intellectually, they’ll stop using literature merely as physical sustenance.
Corn
Have you ever heard a song by a hard-rock band whose lyrics liken
the inner city to a jungle? If so (or not), then listen to some truths about corn:
When I think of corn, I think of the color yellow. I also think
of the word maize.
Large birds with glossy black plumage and raucous voices yearn
to eat corn, as far as I can tell. (Why do scarecrows exist, if not to protect cornfields
from their admirers?)
I wish that I could write a magic spell that would cause the
corn to grow up out of the ground. Likewise, I wish the corn would chant a hymn
to cause my corpse to rise from the dirt, if I ever get buried. — We each shall
resemble a cobra rising out of an earthenware pot, in response to the charming notes
of a flute.
Corn on the cob. Corned beef hash. Farmland with tractors. Corn
galore.
Corn stalks, cornfield, corn crop, cornmeal, cornball.
Facts about Father
I mentioned my dad above: he’s the one with the collection of
Chilton Automobile Repair Manuals. Let me tell you some additional information about
this man:
My dad falls asleep in odd places, because he drinks too much
booze. Usually I find him passed out in the vicinity of farm animals.
My dad’s trousers are always falling down, because he lost the
rope that he uses as a belt.
Being that he sleeps in the wild, my dad is usually covered with
filth. Other people might use shampoo, conditioner, or styling gel in their hair
— my dad’s hair is caked with mud.
Everybody laughs and points at my
dad. This leaves me feeling embarrassed. I wish I had a different father.
Some men smell like soap or cologne — my dad smells like skunk.
And when he tries to climb over the fence to get into the hog trough, he rips the
seat of his pants.
My dad traded our mule for a bottle of moonshine.
A Memory of Mother
One day, when I was a little tiny boy, I went to visit the river
with my dog. We ran along the shore and played fetch with a stick.
When it got dark, we headed home. As we neared our house, we
noticed loud moans coming from within it. At first, I assumed that mama must be
ill or injured; but when I opened the door, there were trousers and shirts on the
ground; then I looked and saw mama with our neighbor Clive, and both were indecent.
Mom threw a shoe at my head and yelled: “Get!” So I scrambled out the door.
Then my dog and I walked around to the back of the house, and
we noticed a whole bunch of fellas waiting in a line outside of mama’s window.
Meatloaf
Just imagine, certain people believe in the idea of owning other
human beings as property.
Now let’s talk about meatloaf. I could eat meatloaf all day.
Put some mustard on it, to give it some taste. Dig in and eat with a fork.
I now invite the whole world to a
feast, and the main course is meatloaf. Before dining, I ask that everyone patiently
listen to me sing a song in praise of this dish.
Sometimes meatloaf has onions in it.
If you ask me to quantify the virtues of meatloaf, I could not
do so — the task would prove impossible — it’s just too good.
When I eat meatloaf, I can’t help but say “Mmm,” and “yum-yum!”
During breakfast, I even put meatloaf on my toast.
Liquified meatloaf? Sure, I’ll drink it. There are no boundaries
in outer space.
Meatloaf pleases me. Now I want to sing my song again — the same
one that I sang at the feast above . . .
Intermission
Jordache Jeans and a percussion set in a Dodge Nitro. Jelly preserves
that taste like pork. Death Peninsula.
Think of a giant clam that contains The Pearl of Great Price.
There are sentient trees surrounding it, bleeding chocolate syrup.
Imputed Income
Say that you’re my dad — in other words, you’re a drunken auto
mechanic. OK, now, say that, on a day off, you fix your own car’s gasket. If you
had performed this act for anyone else, you would have charged them a fee, which
the state could then tax as income. But, since you repaired your own car, you waived
the cost of your service: now the state has nothing to tax. That’s why the corporations
that captured the state had to dream up the concept of “imputed income”, in which
they basically imagine that you charged yourself for your own services; then they
demand: “Give us our cut.”
For instance, say you’re a nun. You make a $5 dollar profit each
time you allow another sister to caress you. The corporate-captured state takes
$3 out of this amount, for taxes. You therefore get to keep $2 so that you can buy
indulgences. Now, later that night, when you return from confession, you climb into
bed alone and begin to caress yourself. Since God owns your body, you only charge
yourself half price for this service; thus, instead of the normal $5, you pocket
a modest $2.50 in profit. But here’s the real rub: The state still wants
to tax $3 dollars of this back. That’s fifty cents more than you even earned! This
is why the Church considers it a sin to pleasure yourself at a discounted rate.
Things to Tell Your In-Laws & Boss
Why don’t you spend the afternoon searching the landscape for
salamanders?
I see that you unscrewed your head and it fell on the floor.
Would you like me to put it back on for you?
Let us now take drugs and make ourselves scared.
While walking at the park this morning, a bevy of about six deer
came following me — they stayed in the woods, but they were very near the footpath.
Before leaving, I turned and blew them all a kiss. At that instant, the six deer
transformed and merged into one single vast organic female, whose name was “Molten
Monster Mack Trucker” (according to her tag). And, when she smiled, her teeth shone
splendidly with silver fillings.
Denouement
Dear Abraham Lincoln, you went to see a play — it was a comedy;
a farce. That was the day that the man with the pistol shot you. Now, so many years
later, in the USA, people drive minivans to dance clubs so as to have a place to
sway and shout phrases like “boogie-woogie” and “disco inferno”. Are humans truly
an improvement upon turtles?
I hope you don’t mind that I’m composing this essay on the backside
of gift-wrapping paper. Last night, I lost my eye, which misfortune prompted our
casino to invent the game “Nerf Bingo”.
I like to take off my baseball hat and toss it in the sky, as
if it’s a graduation cap. Then I catch it when it comes down, and, with the same
fluid motion, grab an aluminum bat and break open the piñata that is shaped like
your favorite celebrity.
Plus, my harmonica plays the Hanukkah.
But now that the morn has arisen with turkeys crowing, I must dodge my birthday and go into labor. Thanks so much for listening to this top-40 pop hit while sipping your 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor and driving 40 miles-per-hour on Country Road 40.
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