this drought will never end

The slab is quiet. Radio ranting has been replaced by birdsong and the occasional plea from Beloved to make galley floor cat-sick go bye-bye. Nothing if not facile, I’ve learned to remove greenish Fancy Feast vomit with nursing home efficiency. Roi’s frequent in-hovel shat requires more attention to detail: he is French and can’t help himself from nibbling on Miss Puss’ moist meal. Choice of cleaning equipment is dependent on where Roi has decided to squirt organic Van Dyke brown. When he dribbles on the bed, disposable wipes are rendered obsolete. Contrary to pernicious gossip, I have not yet reached the point where lying upon Roi’s primitive olfactory art is an acceptable option. No, when this occurs I drag the sheet outside and wait for rain.

Random thoughts post-talk radio:

If I owned a pharmacy, I’d call it Gateway Drugs and pay myself to play air guitar. Jamming away sans instrument is smart advertising, especially if targeting motorists who prefer Demerol refills over coffee.

Congressman Roy Blunt distinguished himself at the Values Voter Summit. Inserting the always funny monkey joke as comedic segue into Village Idiot pander, Roy’s stand up prompted an amused snake handler to drop Eve’s deceiver atop Michele Bachmann’s expansive hair helmet. Nonplussed by the slithering serpent, Michele calmly freed it from Aqua-net's gooey grasp and offered table mates an impromptu opportunity to test their faith. Surprisingly, the five wide-eyed Nazarenes declined her generous offer. Sensing that video cameras were rolling, Michele began babbling in tongues and flinging the dizzy copperhead about like a scaly boa. Rexella Van Impe tried to cut in but was ignored by the twirling public servant. After she collapsed in spent spiritual climax, Blunt thanked the Congresswoman for leading the charge against Hoot-Smalley.


Noticeably absent from the VVS’ staple of Rapture-inspired doomsday mysteries was Sen. Larry Craig’s “Peter Platter” series. A non-discerning reader, I’ve found lumping hard-boiled pulp fiction in with repressed homosexuality a refreshing alternative to James Patterson’s formulaic pap. Every chapter has Platter (Larry’s effeminate private dick) sniffing around for clues in public toilets. Although the sleuth’s unorthodox method of gathering information strays from the genre’s usual terrain, replacing dimensionless broad-in-sack with anonymous men-in-stall gives the “Peter Platter” mysteries greater latitude for developing the darker side of closeted fast food managers -- a tangent never fully explored by Raymond Chandler.

Juan Don