[The following text was published in Volume 5 of The Essays & Lectures of Bryan Ray. It is also available as an audio album.]
The People I Love
For this essay, I will list all the people I love.
I love my brother Joe and my fiancée Elektra; that is all. I
like to cruise down the six-lane highway and steal credit cards. I yell at people
to get off their own lawn. When private corporations use the government to maim,
burn, and murder civilians, I always dash onto the scene right after they finish
and claim that I did it.
And when you ask me to name the people I love, I say: You should
have listened before — I already told you that, at the start. I love Madonna. I
love Michael Jordan. I love businesspeople who talk on the phone. I love all the
Georges who were father-son kings or presidents of England and the USA. In fact,
I love everyone who resides in a shrub or a bush. I love Rita Hayworth and Marylin
Monroe. I even love that one R&B singer whose name I forgot. I love the fighters
of the French Revolution (both sides). I’m head-over-heels in love with my dentist’s
apprentice. I love transnational lawmakers and whoever causes fruit to taste so
good. I love Ann Landers, Abigail Abby, and all other women who venture to hug me
when I’ve forbidden them from doing so, especially when they fail and then pull
a firearm from their purse and aim it deftly. I love the Christian Church for putting
a nice face on the unspeakable; and I hope that everyone keeps World Peace exclusively
in their dreams.
Moon Madness
Any time there is an extra-large, full moon, I transform into
a slick presenter who is hired to intimidate people. Werewolves, trolls, and mythical
beasts emerge from the woodwork and prowl around, wherever I choose to deliver my
sales pitch. And flocks of geese graze nearby as well. The first thing I do is go
tell it on the mountain: “Jesu Christ is born,” I exclaim full-throatedly. Then
I place a cauldron of blood in front of my lectern, for anyone who wants to get
saved. (“It’s tax-free,” I mention.) Demons arise and trudge thru knee-deep mud
to come and sup. Yes, I can feel my soul put on Pauline integrity, when I mutate
into a partisan for the rentier faction during the month of Moon Madness.
Eye Gum
If you have an unsolvable problem that you want to find a solution
to, then simply use some gum from your eyeball — it always works. Let’s say
that you got tangled in a web that you wove. Eye gum can help anyone out of a fix;
even if you’re bound by the boons of an economic bubble.
For instance: once, there was a famine that continued for ten
years straight, due to maldistribution of resources; but our patricians gave the
weary land a new look by simply utilizing eye gum. The way that it worked was that
the substance proved to contain many virtues and potentials. Just consider its slogan:
“Eye gum! – for commoners.”
Fish Are Plants
The philosopher Aristotle established all the scientific labels
that, to this day, distinguish each type of living being’s uniqueness. But there
is one major mistake that our philosopher made, during his attempt at categorization:
He overlooked the fact that all plants are fish.
You see, fish have quiet nerves; therefore, they are plants.
And plants are immobile: they’re simply fish that are trapped in place. Both styles
of organism (which are really just one style of organism, as I am proving) need
water to breathe. Also, note that fish never fall in love or physically touch each
other: instead, they dispose of life-seed by shooting out pods from their twig.
Concluding
Syllogism
All plants love the sun. Christ is the fish, the Ocean Lord Poseidon’s
beloved son. Thus, all fish-plants shall someday inherit their own Universal Flood.
(James Baldwin sums it nicely, when he says: God gave Noah the rainbow sign,
No more water, the fire next time!)
Rocket Man
Rocket Man has rocket feet and rocket hands. All of his sockets
are equipped with cooling fans, and his instruction booklet says that he was made
in Japan. Rocket Man wears a rocket suit with a rocket pack and rocket footwear
on his rocket legs. His rocket body has a silver flue, which causes bystanders to
cheer for him. (They see the smoke and give a standing ovation.) Rocket Man has
a rocket face and a rocket chest. His girlfriend is Rocket Woman. His work desk
doubles as a launching pad. His rocket arms have enough thrust to allow him to fly
over the top of any audience. Here is a poem that I wrote:
O Rocket Man, my Rocket Man, hurrah for you!
Enflame your fuses up; prithee, don’t blow us off.
You are strolling down the street wearing fins and fire:
The pyromaniacs all choose you to be their role model.
You were born as a blazing comet out of the darkness.
O Rocket Man, we offer you three hosannas!
Your helmet of cork protects your nuclear warhead;
We worship you in hopes that you will be merciful.
Wood Fetish
I have a problem: None of the usual fetishes seem appealing.
Plastic doesn’t excite me; metal is too cold; I’m terrified of water; and fiberglass
tastes funny.
But I found a solution, and its name is: wood, wood, wood!
Yes, I have developed a wood fetish.
Now there are splinters all over my body, because of how much
I remain in contact with my substance of choice. But the agitation is only minor
and totally worthwhile; so, please, put away your sandpaper — I prefer my wood rough.
I live in a log cabin. My bathroom, from wall to wall, is made
of wood, including the toilet and the tub. I use wooden soap. My slippers are wood.
And look at my bedroom: it’s pure mahogany. All my silverware is woodware. My prescription
eyeglass lenses are wood. Even my mustache is wood.
Tumbling Class
My name is Linda Rasmussen; I teach tumbling class. If it’s a
sunny day, I bring my students outside and we do our half-hour lesson on the bright
green flatland surrounding my studio. People often ask me: “Does knowing that you
are a tumbling teacher ever make you so sad that you feel like giving up on life?”
I answer: “No, it’s in the Rasmussen blood to teach tumbling — it’s actually enjoyable.”
Then I smile. And I add that my studio only accepts the finest types of individuals
for membership: in fact, I’ve instructed my secretary to discard, without even reading
them, any applications that did not come from the crème de la crème. So my
classes consist almost exclusively of Sweet Hillbilly Guitarists from Backwoods
Bands that play Good Old Mountain Music.
Fruit Soup
Fruit soup is a heart-healthy breakfast that gives your morning
a powerful start. Here’s how you make it: Just take some fruit, and put it in a
bowl of warm water.
Greetings, dear server; thank you for approaching my table here
in this restaurant. I’m just looking at the menu, trying to decide which dish to
order. Could you tell me: What’s the soup of the day? Ah, that sounds good; I think
I’ll try that. Okie dokie? Thanks again.
Mmm, that smells great: my meal is now set before me — it’s just
slightly above room temperature. I take a spoon in either hand and prepare to eat.
Looking into the bowl, I see that it contains apple slices, chunks of bananas, and
an orange. This is fruit soup: “The fuel of conquering heroes.” I remove the branches
that are included as a garnish and then begin to dine. Immediately I ask the waiter
for a second serving.
(My tablemate is the bearded Al Gore from around the year 2001.
— I had requested Gore Vidal; but the restaurant staff said that he was out-of-stock,
so they chose this substitute.)
Cyclops and Snowmobiles
I’m enjoying the present moment, just cruising thru the snow
on my Polaris. Then, suddenly, I feel a rumbling emanating from the general atmosphere.
So I look up and notice that there is a dreadful form rising from the earth and
almost blocking out the sun.
“Is that a tree or a violin?” I cry out loud.
The being is as big as a bear, and it has only one eyeball. That’s
when I realize that I have encountered an ancient Cyclops. I note that he’s driving
an Arctic Cat – not the beast, but the brand of snowmobile (literal arctic
cats went extinct a long time ago). “Is that a Polaris?” the gravelly voice booms,
referring to my own machine. “Yes,” I shout; “come and look — its engine has over
150 horsepower and shift-on-the-fly transmission.” I climb off so that the Cyclops
can admire the vehicle close up. He gently runs his hand over its frame, tracing
its contour. “Beautiful,” he says; “the paint job shimmers.”
So I and my fifty-foot-tall, one-eyed, new friend get back onto
our snowmobiles and traverse the tundra together. We swerve and dip thru the rolling
hills of Minnesota. “I sure hope it keeps on snowing, so that we can ride all weekend,”
I yell to my comrade. “Yes, me too,” answers the Cyclops; “this is fun.”
Sometime later, we stop at a gas station to refuel our machines
and purchase a flock of sheep to keep in our cave.
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