Crust perfectly crisped and browned like beach bodies crunches succulently in his mouth as juicy tomatoes and melted cheese grace his buds and nostrils and fingers and mind, truly one for truly all, the Italians knew what “collectivistic” meant before the English defined it. He shouts across the plastic table amidst the din of the dining croud, “I dont know, I dont know, she said it was… positive;” as if positive were the worst attribute in the world, worse than “doomed”, “diseased”, or “burdened”; as if pregnancy weren’t a miracle of life but a bane hell bent on destroying it.
Archive for January, 2009|Monthly archive page
There is a fat girl in my art history class. Who sits there and knits during lecture. And at first I was amused. Oh isn’t that cute. Isn’t that nice. She has a sweet little practical hobby. Actually it’s sort of mesmerizing. Hands move so fast and all that string and knots and whatever. Then it gets old. And distracting. And worst of all, the fat girl is the most arrogant, know-it-all, loud mouth you can imagine. She interrupts a person’s comment, be it professor or student, with her one-word, dazzling summation of whatever the other person was taking too much of her precious knitting time to say. It’s now the 4th week of class and every time the bitch opens her mouth, my neighbor and I roll our eyes at each other, and we want to shove that stupid knitting needle down her throat.
Props to the little enthusiastic old woman who makes panini’s at the Grad School of Business on Tuesdays. Every week I go in there with my list of sandwiches to be picked up for the office. She stands behind the counter all eager, wagging her imaginary tale-like, the plethora of breads, and spreads, and meats, and veggies, and cheeses in front of her all lined up ready to go. I look at her apologetically.
Focaccia. Chicken. Sliced tomatoes.
She waits patiently. Awkward pause. Her heart sinks. I see it in her eyes. That’s it? No spread? We have pesto, mayonnaise… How about cheese? Swiss? I must cut her off. Have to stick to the post-it’s decree. No that’s it. Thanks. This past week it was even more bleak.
Sliced wheat bread. Turkey. Mustard.
Damn those mechanical cubicle workers. Too up-tight to even get a tad bit adventurous with their sandwich. Crushing the life out of this poor panini-lady. She sighs and tosses the sad-looking lunch on the grill. You might as well get one of the pre-made ones next time deary.
[Setting: Main tank at Point Defiance Zoo and Aquarium.]
Treefish and Carpetfish rise slowly to the surface in the exact center of the tank. Other fish circle the perimeter, where the audience looks in through thick glass windows.
Carpetfish: Crow’s feet.
The many circling fish suddenly begin to swim in the opposite direction.
Treefish: Really? I thought that one was easy. You go first.
Treefish: I know you made that one up!
One salmon swims up from the bottom of the circling mass.
Salmon: You’re made up.
“How did you get up there?”
There stood a little girl, chocolate stains all over mouth. Disgusting. She scampered off. I’m never going to have kids.
Looks like that little girl scampered off a little too far.
“Mom! Get down! You just broke your hip for godsakes.”
Wait, was this woman talking to me?
“Oh, hello. I’m just waiting for Harry.”
Her face slackened.
“You’re not 19, Rita. You’re 84, you live in Darien and you have three kids and two grandkids.”
She was obviously confused, but she looked so sad, so I came down off the roof.
I’m streamlining efficiency.
Duplicates are useless and bothersome!
Now I’m culling my acquaintances to remove the duplicates.
Purely on merit… I know another Maldinteroff.
What are your qualities?
Well… I’m friendly.
Yes! But dull. Maldinteroff is greedy. Tie. Do you know desirable or influential people?
A waitress, who gives me free entrees…
Maldinteroff knows the mayor and Wenona Ryder. One point Maldinteroff. Strength?
Muscle up, show some beef.
Meager. Maldinteroff is a ferocious specimen! One more point Maldinteroff. I’m afraid the traits have spoken. Farewell.
That removes one son too.
It came to me, no, it came out of me when I was sitting on a thick branch above the ground, feet feeling the bark and the wood beneath as they had been for millenia and the tree grew through me spreading leaves and limbs to the sky and connecting to the single thick trunk and thick moist soil spreading beneath, the ants searching, the finches flirting, and the air stirring all as one, all as us, and the far flung root systems anchoring the continents so that everything to be scraped and held was encompassed within my grateful spirit.
Those lips. They were so…there was no other word for it, they were divine. They were unbelievably three-dimensional, and incredibly luscious. They didn’t have to do much to lure you in. Occasionally, they’d pucker up or sometimes casually blow smoke out the side. It was almost obscene, pornographic even, the way they spread ever so slightly at the corners with the voluptuous gloss tapering to a moist, dark point. Everyone stared. No one was spared. You couldn’t help it. You wanted them. They were huge. They were sex. And oh boy, did they sell. Luscious Lip Plumper, in stores soon.
There’s good and bad ways to do shit. Kay, son? The good way, fuck, it’s goin’ nice, who gives a shit, it’s the good way. Once it’s over it’s over and everyone goes on they merry ways and no one remembers shit. But the bad way, fuck. Exact same as the good way but then bam some chunk gets fucked up the arse by surprise – this sparkling spontaneous release– and then ‘stead of being good it’s worse than bloody Mary on a cross – pregnant – with a crucifix shoved halfway up her vagina. Both ways got their merits.