Dan Gutstein

Dearth, Incorporated

Behold the Drought. It loiters and we forget. We engage in abominations while the Drought endures. The rains must come if the rains don’t come. If the rains don’t come the rains must come. You know the rest. The cucumbers parch beside the heirlooms. The vegetarian goes without. He must sample a little turkey, instead. He must chew a little tender, juicy bird. Behold the Drought. The lip of it to the north of Danville, Va., amongst all the Danville Gals. A beachhead to the west of Ocean City, N.J., amongst all the Danville Gals. It loiters, the Drought, and we forget. We water our crabgrass. Nudge our grabass. Bed down beside our false idols. The Neo-Stoics postulate that water, itself, thirsts, and assert the stratagem. The rains must come if the rains don’t come. If the rains don’t come the rains must come. Shortages is Shortages. That’s the plan. “For sayings you are, and unto sayings shall you return.” We engage in abominations while the Drought endures: Senator, Senator, Senator, Senator.

Das Lunchmeats

The rate of surplus value divided by a thirty ought six continued to result in Lunchmeats. There will be, FellowCitizens, some day, a National Museum of the American Lunchmeats, which will feature papier mache replicas of submarine and other nautical sandwiches. According to the bloated blue mimeograph that the young worshipper relied upon for restroom reading, one should pray to one’s guardian angel to help free daddy’s skid steer loader from the water table. The cool dew lubricated the deep grass, and that’s when the attentional difficulties came on, Religion, Venison, Religion, Venison, although reverence toward one typically resulted in plenty of the other. The neighbor threatened to power up his scraper box. Those were dimestore, jokestore antlers, they had been stapled to the buck’s head, if only it were a buck, if only there were carbohydrates, then the opportunity for a bipartisan BBQ may have fruitionated. The Cosmonaut endured his epigastric difficulties because he re-galled the epigastric difficulties of his Cossack forebears and the types of Caucasic Distress they had overcome, and this exercise resulted in the type of Orbital Weightlessness never possible at Dairy Queen or during a snackchips felony. Lunchmeats is a reward system though in the wrong hands Lunchmeats can be a false summit. Consider the DSMIV Manual of psychiatric diagnoses: no. 823.09′”Lunchmeats Disorder, Moderate. Symptoms include speaking to Lunchmeats in frank, rational tones, demanding to know what became of Youth. “Give me some answers,” the sufferer can be heard to say, whilst harrying an English muffin. The hurricane remnants came through for half an hour. The worshipper’s daddy and the neighbor stood there, hands on hips, lamenting how hurricane remnants whuddn’t what they used to be. The neighbor powered up his scraper box. The game animal came out of the woods, then—shoot, it could’ve been the Duchesser Windsor, but it was Fourth and 2, and Coach was sending out the taxi squad, or so said the Television Set, Religion, Venison, Religion, Venison.

Don’t Become a Mormon If You See This Globe A-Warmin

The polar bear at the Tucson Zoo sits in his habitat, stunned, like a dirty drunk on a porch, in 110 degrees. The United States of Corporation declares war on The Rogue Nation. Beware the muddy slop jar. For those of you with Natalie Portman symptoms, including girl-crushes and extreme boners, there is Creme de Natalie, to be applied twice daily, to the affected area. Offshore Drilling, the new adult drama set on an oil rig, is available on two DVDs—the director’s cut, and for our friends to the right, a clean version in which oil actually gushes around a group of naked, if unionized, roughnecks and pump-women. Buddha must’ve been a pest at some point, at least to Hungarians, who named their capital Budapest. Same kind of thing with Pakistan—it’s like they know their religion isn’t the greatest, if they’ve got to name their city Islamabad. If you are what you eat, then avoid chocolate jimmies, lest you begin to suffer a multiple personality disorder. If President Clinton’s secret service nickname was the POTUS, short for President Of The United States, then, in the White House, there exists the ROTUS, the Receptionist Of The United States. She files America’s documents, she schedules America’s appointments, and she takes down America’s dictation. “United States of America,” she says, when the phone rings. “How may I help you?”