pinch

The bad news is the economy may never regain any semblance of financial stability; the good news is a giant asteroid hasn’t entered the Earth’s atmosphere. After pinching myself hard enough to reluctantly reenter this disheveled time/space portal, I immediately remembered the opening lines from Woody Allen’s, "My Speech to the Graduates": “More than any other time in history, mankind faces a crossroads. One path leads to despair and utter hopelessness; the other to total extinction. Let us pray we have the wisdom to choose correctly.”
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I missed Bristol Palin’s acting debut because I haven’t gone completely insane; not yet, anyway: I’m saving that for Ryan Franklin’s next mound appearance.
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The Summer of My Discontent: The other day George the tom cat and I bitched about the rottweiler for a good fifteen minutes before we both realized that my weak meowing vocabulary severely limited the conversation’s potential for ferreting out why Keisha likes to repose in the hovel’s narrow hallway, blocking egress to his favorite sleeping nest (atop Beloved’s fleece pullovers) and the only working toilet. Developing a fondness for shitting indoors at an early age, I don’t relish doing my business in the backyard. But I will if I have to, even though there’s a very good chance the doctor’s wife (my gamey neighbor) will bear witness to this necessary act of nature. (Babs has an unnerving habit of training her high-powered binoculars on my backyard). It’s fortunate that she thinks I’m a Native American. During one our semi-frequent patio slab Shiraz taste-testing binges, the Australian grape prompted her to slovenly inquire if pooping alfresco was an ancient Peoria ritual. While flattered that I felt comfortable performing this scatological ceremony through her pricey SkyOptics, she was curious as to what an offering of feces signified. Caught flatfooted by her question, I fingered a greasy bottle of Banana Boat tanning lotion before concocting a suitable reply.

“Babs, aside from revealing an appreciable amount of sun baked skin while jiggling atop your riding mower, the reason we’ve formed a bond is our shared fondness for getting hammered before “Days of Our Lives” momentarily transports us into a world where everybody, even the villains, have healthy, pink gums. I could tell you why my people take the occasional outdoor dump, but to do so would defile my mannitoo-oo. There are aspects of our complex and seemingly incoherent spirituality that pale faces will never understand. I’ll be honest, someone from your gene pool pinching off a seat-less loaf is an affront to the Noble Savage’s sensibility. Maybe it’s the graceless way Europeans squat, I don’t know. Regardless, the sacred bowel movements that you’re honored to zoom in on represent eons of thanks for having a butt hole. Let’s leave it at that.”

Babs raised her wine glass and slurred a toast to an area of the human body that seldom receives its’ just due: Here, here, indeed.

Several hours later I drug Babs home. After placing her listless body in front of the garage the doctor uses to house his gleaming black Tahoe, I staggered about the creek bank in an approximation of unresolved purpose.