Way to Go, Ricky!

I swallowed hard. It had always been difficult for me. That’s the way it was. I was a hard swallower and I lived with that dark secret all my life. The end. There are some things we should take to our graves I suppose, but I write many letters to elected officials, and that's less noble than admitting to esophageal weakness. I also fly metal kites during electrical storms. More foil than metal I guess. I've had my eyes blown right out of their sockets more than a dozen times, but this hasn’t affected my sense of helplessness. I cry for the children of my friend, and, in tern, large sea-birds.

A wizened glaze covers the eyes of the oldest elephant, yet we don’t doubt the wisdom of an ancient pachyderm. Is the reason we don’t respect a human elder due to their lack of physical stature then? Many of them are just as grey. I also fear rodents but my glorious trunk resides mid-body.

Bigger feet and the ability to retain water for days defines longevity in dry climates. But camels have no manners and thus lack any sense of majesty. Ring the nose, tame your own beasts and delve deep into the desert. Shoes and a bag of clean water will win you as many enemies as friends in such a climate. Walk tall and shoot anything harboring a sense of treachery.

A very powerful hamster muscled it’s way across the plains, devouring everything in it’s path. All who fell under the predatory gaze were gnashed and slashed in the scything death-machine of her razor-sharp rodent maw. I am a human carrot thought Rex, then quickly regained his composure and turned toward the celery-based genetics of a former rabbit-man. This was the best option in his case, as an impending promotion at the cheese factory was threatening and he wanted to be prepared like fine mustard.

Chuck, an ex-baconvict, had just executed downward-facing-dog when the doorbell rang. Just my luck! he silently screamed into the megaphone. There was a very delicate balance between cooking the perfect hot-dog and destroying an entire colony of rare ants. To be, or not to bean; that is selection. My dying will slithered off the plate, pooled its resources and was buried deep under sixteen tonnes of darkness. Anyone for a forkful of soup?

No bananas left in this house, they all reside in the head of a mother. Dancing together with the bats, in a belfry of narcotic haze. Over the rainbow the fishies flew, a writhing torrent of every tangled thought. Swimming in and around the deep well of discombobulation. As tangible as a dream. Break out the fishing poles and cast your doubt.

Bellatrix and Neo, plugged into the matrix, doing tricks with Trix, for kids and rabbits alike. A birthday party for Harley and Marlboro. Hardly a minute passed without barley pops for Charlie, and Bob Marley sang something pure and true, for those in attendance who were sniffing glue. The kind they use for making shoes. A different kind of material than for fastening fascinating fabrics or bricks. It’s amazing the holding power of certain synthetics and the blues. Twelve bars in ten minutes, boogey-woogey on the neck of a veteran strawberry as your feathers fly out the window. And they said monkeys could write something noteworthy and mentionable, like Walter.

Pop culture and all the balloons at the party. Marley, Harley, and Charlie left to cry in the dust as the pack-train leaves them behind. Y’all got game legs and scurvy, which we foolishly believe, in this era, to be contagious. We’ll drop you off on this island of limes and stop in to see if you have recovered on our way back, (Pssssst, hey reader, we really expect them to be dead by the time we return. Don’t tell). A spicy little tale concerning the origins of vernacular territorial handles. The mandibles of a champion mantis named Randall got broken off last night by a fighting titan called Mike. Alright?

Shrink the kids and swim around in beer, like the brownies in that show where magic gone awry on an island makes a crow, a goat, and a wise old hag. A bungled Bandaroo with a stick; tricks and swishes, hits and misses, mountains of courage found in the heart of a dwarf of course. Follow the river you little mystic, don’t listen to the birds cuz they missed it. Prosaic poetry sounding like a long rap song gone wrong. Gangnam Style sung by a gay pirate named Lance as he dances in a sober trance near the edge of oblivion.

Risky business said a tough, professional-looking gerbil named Dennis. They had met him playing tennis and asked about the racket. Now they were all high over the sands of Morocco in a balloon, two with no socks, defeated and in need, the others laughing and drinking, with all the money in the world and no concerns. Pouring happiness over the edge of the basket. It falls in a glittering cascade of laughter and tinkling glasses, onto the vast mass of potential glass below, and gently melts into a breeze that caresses the glittering dunes under a patient moon.

Shocking isn’t it, the current electrical situation of so many nations with aging power stations? But let’s face it, too many punks do bad dope these days. But how do you convince a penguin with a name like Stan to be a man and ram a van into an ice-cream stand? Looks like he blew a seal. Nope, that’s just ice-cream. But his lady “Ruth” sure gives good pumpkin. It’s what hillbillies do on Halloween. And so does the queen, if you know what I mean. I mean, I don’t mean to be mean, but did you mean what I thought you meant, in the tent with the clowns and Stan? Ok Marshall, it doesn’t matter, but that last bit sounded a lot like Mathers. Are you trying to do it, is it a trick, or are you just being shady? The chances are slim, but if you tilt your brim you might be mistaken for a black Eastwood from the hood. Now made good and chillin' with those funny bastards from the park.

Time to tie this up said the man to his hands in regards to his shoe. So he did. When the bus hit him at the corner of Fifth and Fladgate both shoes remained on his feet. Isn’t that neat? It goes to show that diligence in some matters matters not at all. All the while, wiles and smiles can carry a sandaled people-person for miles. Better yet, I met a man walking on the sand who had no shoes at all. And he was one happy motherfucker.