The eagle has landed in a puddle of abstract thought, smack dab in the liver of Appalachia. New gears are bubbling up in its brain as the terrifying new concepts of things like “yesterday” and “lactose intolerance” are ricocheting like pinballs between them. The eagle has a headache.
The tractor-trailer that will soon put an end to this headache is, as all tractor-trailers are, under the control of a 46-year-old man named Dale. A carefully centered bumper sticker on the back of the trailer declares that God is the co-pilot, but the simple truth is that God hasn’t co-piloted a damn thing since He discovered Minecraft.
Dale sees the eagle. The tractor-trailer belches its heavy melody of warning, but the eagle doesn’t move.
Look away, Brian. Remember what I told you. Sit upright, with your arms relaxed and your fingers tense. Close your face and silently repeat the mantra, “I broke up the Beatles. I broke up the Beatles.” Pinch the diplomat’s daisies as he speeds away in his peppermint BMW.
The eagle is smeared across three square feet of sun-bleached asphalt. Dale has already moved on with his life. The LORD is fighting a skeleton.
Now, an autonomous blue hand/forearm has slid onto the scene. Its fingernails are charcoal and its veins are neon. It wields a spatula of the purest gold. “Buddy,” it says to the All-American Carcass, “I like your style.” And with one deft flip, it sends the eagle on one last flight. To sail effortlessly above the mighty Ozarks, leaving a vapor trail of glorious organs in his wake, is a dream no more! The denizens of neighboring realities quietly seethe in disbelief.
The eagle has landed on Jay-Z’s backyard grill, where it sizzles for precisely twenty seconds before being noticed. “O Fate! Why dost thou tempt me so?” the business, man shouts into the cylinder of Heaven. His vow of veganism crumbles like a colisseum of Parmesan as he swallows the expired fowl in one crooked gulp. The flattened neurons that had approximated enlightenment mere moments before are now rolling along Jay-Z’s papery tongue, forming a lattice of flavors that, in some corridors, might just be filed under U for umami.
Bèyønçë grimaces down in rage from her cedar cross. “You fool!” she bellows in an unearthly, gutteral growl, accompanied by the slick guitar stylings of house band leader Ricky Minor, “Now Surgat the Gatekeeper will never accept the offering of our firstborn!”
“Whatever,” retorts Jay-Z as his soul turns to gristle. “Eagle meat is the tits!”
*MORAL: Eagle Meat is the Tits
I don’t mean to get all clinical on you, but that barcode you call a mouth is starting to look infected. No, I’m not a doctor. I’m a specimen, and this puke-green corduroy suit is my petri dish. It’s not just me looking at you, it’s the billions of colonies of curiosity blooming behind my corneas. Right now you’re pretending to listen, but you’re staring through my brain at the man by the fireplace. The one with the Clark Gable hair and the Quaker Oats face, pantomiming like a morose carpetbagger. He has one of those names that looks like it might be another word spelled backwards. Those are hot right now, aren’t they? But he’s a wicked man. He’s a weatherman. He’s made of leather, man.
In the kitchen–don’t look–there’s a certain substratum of society that finds nothing wrong with leaving home dressed like a damn Venician gondola paddler… they stretch bad sunlight from their teeth like taffy and assume everyone is laffing. I’ll show you around later, once the wrinkles start to set in, but whatever you do, savor the chips and shun the dip. Metaphorically speaking, I think. Tell you what, though, you’ll never find a gondola in this mouth. Not this one. No ma’am.
WONDER WOMAN NEEDS TOILET PAPER
Come on, knock it off. That’s just crass. You know, I once fell into the shallow end of the Grand Canyon as a small child (long story), and right before the helicopter blades turned my larynx into Play-Doh, they kept on saying “Hang in there long enough, just about five minutes longer than seems reasonable, and you’ll get your own talk show.” We don’t bring it up anymore, not even via smoke signals from Stephen Dorff’s e-cigarette, those horrible things, always leading up to a rerun episode of tachycardia in front of the Vatican Whattaburger. We simply don’t bring it up, ya dig? Here, let me wipe that mustard from your pedipalps. You really need to learn to use chopsticks at these functions. I’m sick of making velvety little excuses for you.
I spilled my drink. I never had a drink. I never had legs, just these tired, grotesque flesh Slinkys that make nuns gag on their rosaries whenever they hear me coming. Can you keep a secret? I was never invited to this party. I am a virus. Mommy’s little spoiler. There are three more of me out on the lawn, and believe me, we do NOT have our stories straight. We smell like hydrogen peroxide smoothies… Teddy knows what I’m talking about. Sick of the Salvation Army breathing down our necks…Radios pouring their hot honey down our ears.,. Misinformed Senate staffers with manhole eyes chasing us down our own yellow brick roads…
Shit, I just spilled my drink. You fucking gondola paddler, I spilled it for real this time! I’ll spill you! I’ll spill all of you! How do you get out of this shit
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