I don’t think it’s a coincidence that tweet sounds like twit. The Germans figured out a long time ago that vowels are easily manipulated to create audio vibrations frequently associated with body waste removal. Stand outside any German language class and you’ll swear constipated Visigoths are vocalizing a mass dump. Romance languages, on the other cheek, are deceptively suggestive. Leslie, a brief college squeeze, spoke fluent French. I loved it when she lapsed into breathy frog-speak after draining a bottle of vintage codeine, inflaming my little corker with visions of awkward debauchery. Call me a sallow opportunist but banging an unconscious blond beats wearing eternal bird feathers.
The last time I saw Leslie she was wavering dazed behind JC Penny’s jewelry counter. For a moment I felt the urge to rescue her narco-soul from retail’s fluorescent hell. She looked so vulnerable next to flawed diamonds and base metal watches. An insistent voice broke the spell. Leslie pitched forward as if propelled by invisible puppet strings. I watched her glassy green eyes contract in distracted focus. She retrieved a future pawn shop sparkle from the display case. Ten minutes later I bought heavy leather hiking boots -- not because I hiked but because all the cool guys lumbered to class like Frankenstein. Tossing the Frisbee around was a joke.
Tomorrow portends to be a bad day. Always prepared, two fresh jugs of Gallo await, along with Styron’s “Darkness Visible” for light comedic relief. It would be keen if Mr. Yellowman could shake himself free from Little Bohemia and deliver fresh eggs. Fresh eggs are code, of course. Use your own god damned imagination. My back is sore from carrying the load.
