Friday brain drain

August 16, 2013

Cause and effect on Casual Friday. Another warm mojito for the stubby little man doing roundhouse kicks in the hallway at the old folks’ home. Selected ambient waffles drift in and out of dusty speech balloons until a suicidal quarterback intercepts the conversation, jaw unhinged and legs deflated. It’s all detailed in paragraph 9C of an awful book that was never written by a hypothetical grumpy Scotsman whose parents both died before they were born.

“How many clowns are there?” Laura clutched the sad little grapefruit spoon in her sweaty, trembling fist. The black and white police cruiser continued to throb in her peripheral vision.

“Oh, sweetie, you know it doesn’t matter now. Finish your breakfast.”

Feel free to wear jeans today. Feel free to think loose thoughts. Feel free to tug at the silver thread and see what tumbles down. No Hawaiian shirts. No whistling, humming or beatboxing Leonard Cohen tunes without the proper documentation in triplicate. No gargling the sands of time while you’re calling for service. But jeans are fine. Take small steps. Clean your desk.

Kicking back on eBay for a bit. Found Ronald McDonald’s small intestine crammed into a Mason jar. COA and everything so it’s on the up and up. Placed a bid. Blacked out. Came to behind the fire station and the sky was blotchy and wine-colored. Some stoned Congressmen were throwing fun size candy bars at my floppy body in a rare display of orgasmic bipartisanship, giggling like schoolgirls. Sirens in the distance harmonized like a barbershop quartet from the Horsehead Nebula.

“How many clowns are there?”

A lonely pink rubber bullet sailed dreamily past Laura’s face, leaving a trail of soft thoughts in its wake. Forged memories of poached unicorns and single-serve apricot jelly. The agents danced in formation outside the diner as the paranoid jukebox spilled its useless secrets.

Someone put a Black Sabbath tape in a wet Teddy Ruxpin and melted 1988 into an unrecognizable lump of charred time. If it weren’t for the stench, it would make a great paperweight for your neurotic uncle. Give it a week and then go choke on some Ritalin, you shiny little fuck.

No torn jeans, acid wash jeans, skinny jeans, baggy jeans, mom jeans, dad jeans, billie jeans. No thinking. Be like everyone else with your bullshit jeans. It’s Friii-iii-iiiday! Be a barnacle on my mind.

They don’t want me around the fire station anymore. They say I’m a “distraction” and “not a fireman.” I could be a dalmatian if someone would just ask. A dalmatian that hates everything it sees. Peeing in the corner, on your leftover lasagna. It’s like that. It’ll be Monday again before you know it, and my isotopes will be ready to go.

The waitress with the face full of fire brought the check on a little wooden tray with a wilted lemon wedge and a dull blue pencil. “How many goddamn clowns?”

“As many as it takes.”

Bullet #2 was cornflower blue. Bullet #3 was emerald green. After the third prime number they stopped being rubber, and nobody noticed. The clowns waved from the horizon and jumped off.