Atlas Beetles

She followed me up the sidewalk like it was the savanna – half-calico and rural but an expatriate in the mid-eighties, who’s to say. Her name: Jean Cougar Melloncat. And at the wet milk box house next door, someone’s mother shook-pulled a chain to beat the dog teapot whistling on the other end. Jean told herself she hadn’t noticed for a long while.

I have a mosquito bite on a falling arch and Atlas Hugger out-bench-pressed me before noon.

If our stomachs had a separate set of ribs our torsos would look like stag beetle mandibles.

see 8/28 for caption

The Waves

Oh, Virginia, as the sky crests and the waves dawn, may I dabble in the pedantic and absurdly acute self-perception of your Susan, Bernard, Jinny, and Louis?

“My feet rest steadfast on the carpet,” David said, “and the morning dew is twine upon the meadowland hearth. The blinds hang, and I with them. My body is that of a man, but what man will it be and who comes to take honourable residence in it? Will it be of those superannuated and bygone or, as I wish, the quick and the bold? Yes, as the balm accedes with the season, so will I also.”

Amongst

As promised to my Kentuckian housemate, we did – how was it put? – break shit this weekend.
Items of shit broken:
-Wine, beer, and liquor bottles
-Coffee mugs
-Lawn chairs
-A TV room lamp
-A large window pane
-A potted plant
-A miniature Parthenonian column
-A stereo
-Fluorescent lights
-Candle holders
-Records
-A desk lamp
-CD cases
-Decorative reindeer

I deemed a refrigerator appropriate to break among said shit, but that was advised against by the whole.

Ding! Smack!

At the end of “Michelle, ma belle” line, I swear John says Kofi Annan.

The delirious aluminum can collector who scours Hillsdale College lawns gets three and a half entrepreneur wino stars. Ding!

I’m nervous that someone with smack the back of my head whenever I’m at a drinking fountain.

If there were sinks and pornography at bus huts, the homeless wouldn’t need libraries.

Crane, tiger, mantis, panther. I describe my fighting style as pill bug.

Courtesy Tang

If you could dance the night away, would you at least give it a deportation notice? I say, is there no courtesy left in our celestial transitions?

The only Americans NASA ever did anything for were mattress manufactures. And politicians and Ron Howard. That’s probably why water beds (though fodder for much male sexual bravado) have fell into disfavor. “I was going to get the water bed, but that one says it has synthetic ‘tectonic pleasure plate’ technology developed for use on the shuttle…I’ll take that one.” An astronaut could defecate into a refrigerator and Americans would start washing down shit burgers with Tang.

Long John Winkle

So I briefly (ho, ho) put my boxers on backwards which made me wonder if men really utilize the shaft-strangling peek-a-boo to urinate. For purposes digestive, intimate, or otherwise it’s not functional – probably because it’s less like a zipper or more like suit coat lapels and my penis doesn’t play lab varmint under urgency. And why neglect half your dispensary tracks? Maybe I’m the Archimedes of underpants and should patent the shit chute. I guess long johns have the ass flap but that’s a little too Rip Van Winkle.

This Mother’s Day, don’t give Mom that bottle of perfume. Give her something that says, “I’m not a woman any more. I’m a Mom.” Mom Jeans!

Aux Percussion

Take ‘er easy.
Since when is beingness feminine? Oh – the mortal coil and what have you. Maybe Hamlet should have promoted philandering and we could all do this shit more gangsta. Which reminds me of Dynamite Hack and how, though I reveled in their iced-out Starbucks harmonies, they sired gimmick rock bands like Bowling for Soup who were even too gay for their older brother’s ska band. “Sigh. Fine, Preston, you can play aux. percussion on ‘Sell Out’, but that’s it.”

My favorite post about Fort Wayne yet. College kids miniature golfing without a sense of irony.

“I’m back like a chiropractic with b-boy survival rap.”
-Common

Public Plus

Edward Wallace, the brother-in-law of a dime from work, was convicted of double homicide today which makes me feel one parts sheik and two parts worldwise. And three parts likely to feel guilt for relaying these public records that were not my idea to begin with.

The least endurable aspect of the twenty days (plus) of 90-degree highs, really, is the ubiquitous discussion and speculation concerning it.
RHONDA: Whewww, ready for another steamer?
JANETTE: What? I thought we were looking for a cool-down today.
RHONDA: Nope. Isn’t going to let up. They explained it on the Doppler, but you know how I am with numbers and all.
JANETTE: Oh me and you both.
RHONDA: But they are saying the jet streams are going to be passing through on Tuesday with a cold wind from Maine, so relief may be on the way, huh?
JANETTE: It would be nice for my clock vine – ooo, that poor fella…

Steve Kerr

Though not a disappointment to my housemates with adjoining air ducts, I’ve stopped recreational drug use. Not abroad and singlehandedly, just in my cerebellum. Not that it’s imaginary, I’m just supposing that’s the region of the brain drugs effect. I could be wrong, but, then again, I could also be a pill bug with a crispy inadequate shell. Or I could be shooting guard Steve Kerr in the late 90s and fucking sweet. Or a … lover of mankind?