Señor Orange 2

I’m shifting into orange-drive, driving my orange. You ask: “Dear chauffeur, what is your birthdate?” I turn around bodily to answer you: “I was born on the orange day of Orangetober. The name on my certificate reads ‘From concentrate, Señor Orange’.” 

I am orange like an orange bulldog or an orange gopher tortoise.

I pick the oranges off the vine and peel them and taste them. “Ooh! so citrusy,” I say, and the pleasure causes my hat to spin off.

Orange. What does it mean? What does it look like, and what is its color?

Señor Orange 2, Act 2 

A voiceover narration explains that I write alternative-view papers for Space Author Magazine. Currently you see me at my work desk shearing a life-size porcelain sheep and then painting a business suit onto its shiny bald flesh. 

Now I drive to Japan in a wheelbarrow and bribe the border patrol with Peta Zetas and Fizz Wiz. (These name brands are types of popping rock candy, which differs from typical hard candy in that pressurized carbon dioxide gas bubbles are embedded inside each treat to create a snap-crackly reaction when it dissolves upon one’s tongue.) Border patrols can’t resist such fare.

I look into the future and see clearly all that will happen, but I never tell you any of it. Instead, I just stand before you moaning like a puppy that’s been hit by a car. 

I’m Señor Orange. God be with ye.