BEEF PINEAPPLE ROBOT.

I have become the kind of person who can order biscuits over gravy but not the kind of person who can tolerate the true definition of a Constitutional—what is, essentially, bicycle chaos. The French grape suffers more than the Chilean grape and more than the Syrian grape, but does it suffer more than the Russian potato? The Walloons ballooned and the Huguenots tied they selves into Huge Knots. People say that they are Walloons, do people say that they are Walloons, people say that they are Flemish, afterall, as well as Phlegmish. Newspaper titles need to be more flexible. The North County Times, for instance, really should be recast as The North County Good & Bad Times. Whatever the case may be, Southern California has a higher percentage of Experimental Yogis than any other region on the globe. Speaking of which—said Yogis have much to say on the topics of globulization and Globular Warming. Meat eaters may swallow the fear of the animal but that doesn’t mean the meat eaters shall become fearful, in fact, it means that they will become Chicken Satay Robot. Some will become Drunken Noodle Robot while others will become Beef Pineapple Robot. There is no Moo Shu Pork Robot although there is Moo Shu Porkbarrel Robot and his name is Congress. After Tex / Mexy I was Lava / Tory and then I felt human again, i.e., I could, once again, Go for the Jugular or is that Go for the Juggler? The Sea Breeze came face to face with the Santa Ana and the result was When Microclimates Collide. A cute angle is obtuse, when you dream it, all angles are gifts, yours is I Sauce a Lease—Eye Saws the Police—Applesauce Please, dig it and “ridic” as in Ridiculous, Citizen, as in the Walloonie Bin.

TO KICK A MOCKINGBIRD’S ASS.

Days ago, during a muggy jog up towards the Cathedral, a mockingbird assaulted me in front of the Australian Embassy, while a uniformed Secret Service officer ate a submarine sandwich. He proceeded to alight in a distant oak, and did what mockingbirds do, he mocked me. He discussed the importance of swing voters in the presidential race, he spoke to me in rusty French, he submitted some poems for publication. He didn’t say etcetera. He said, “Recession.” He said, “Try pissing into a dixie cup during a Category Five Twister.” Then his song faded. A mockingbird could certainly best a Finch, even one that nested in the Atticus. Still, I agree with Harper Lee, in noting that a mockingbird should not be killed. To wit, we should kick its ass, instead, if only we could confront the thug where he alights. O, Lord: Why is there perch? There is perch, sayeth the Lord, to remind us of what a serpent is not. Why is there serpent? There is serpent, sayeth the Lord, to administer justice. Justice? What does the serpent know of justice? It knows not, sayeth the Lord. That’s the point. O, Lord: I’m confused. Take a seasalt bath, sayeth the Lord. Engage in the utility of lavender. Lord: why didst thine mockingbird assault me? Mine mockingbird, sayeth the Lord, assaulteth even me, that pesky son of a gun, with those dilly wings and that dilly tail. Tis why I createth the hawk, but yesterday I didst espy the mockingbird routing the hawk. We must soaketh the brisket over-night, sayeth the Lord, then leave it beneath the distant oak, for the mockingbird dost judge our fate. Huzzah!

LABOUR SAVING DEVICES.

I’ve heard of people wanting to be Spanked, but not always Lifted. Also note the Blindfold and (apparent) Electricity and (apparent) Distress. Good Gravy. What will we ask for next? To be Understood? To be Hiccoughed? Is there an Understanding and Hiccoughing Machine out there? Yesterday, in the unoccupied Fourth Floor Men’s Room at the Institution where I work, an Automated Toilet flushed, and flushed, and flushed. What ghostly arse was haunting that toilet? What ghostly turd was that toilet flushing again and again, like Sissy-fuss? For eternity. Or, at least, for Wednesday. Maybe it’s just the Advance Guard Toilet for Today’s Busy Professional: “Always Ready for Your Ass.” I bet there are some pregnant women out there who’d want a true Labour Saving Device, huh? Maybe even Gordon Brown needs a Labour Saving Device. Speaking of Brits, if Shakespeare lived today, he may very well have written Papaya King instead of King Lear. It would be a story about a man having to divide up his Hot Dog & Juice Empire among his daughters, and in the process, find True Love. In the end, all the characters don’t die, exactly, but grow complacent, due to all the Labour Saving Devices they own. It would be, Thus, a uniquely American tragedy, that would also involve Pizza Hut, Cable News, and dyspepsia. “It burns,” King Papaya would say, after eating an Oreo Pizza on the couch during election returns. “How now, Nuncle?” would say the Fool. “Dost thou have Heartburn or Acid Reflux Disease?” There ensues a pause. The pause is everything.