Storm’s-a-Coming

Where are the kids? Where’s the dog?

It drives my blood pressure up. I need a tunic and a tuna sandwich — make it Fuji tuna with cranberries and apples, and make the tunic combed Egyptian cotton. Stroft! I want it.

The asseverations of assonance and then the concomitant detonation of dissonance ensues — what do I do?

Well, the therapist tells me that I am not my thoughts, and then she plies me with psychopharmacological magic…

wo! wo! wo! it’s magic! never believing that’s so…

so jejune, so mon dieu, la merde… que mierda… shit…

… entropic. so sophic — that’s what this is, Charlie Tuna, it’s natural that you’re writing this because that voice telling you this is in your head and jamming up your ears…

Ah! Emergency! Emergency!

Call the Tonton Macoute. Call Col. Hogan. The Merry Pranksters. The shit is dripping off the fan blades at this point in time. I think it’s too late to bake a cake to leave out in the rain. There’s been a god damned typhoon storming outside for three days — and now you want to go-a-baking with Richard Harris? You call that singing?

Burl Ives! Blue Tail Fly / Jimmy Crack Corn! That’s singing!

(this ain’t no blackface minstrelsy, mofo!)

Later, Jimmy cracks the needle and the corn is jammed in his mainline. And Sister Ray is naked, slathered in high fructose syrup, wondering where the good time went at 11:42 in the morning outside the CVS.

It’s almost lunch, damn it — she says to Levi, the Conch Fritter Man, who is in a dank heap blocking the automatic doors with a conch shell attached to his member.

Ooh, what a good time this is…

Storm’s-a-coming!

So keep your children near and your pets on a very short leash.

“The madness of depression is, generally speaking, the antithesis of violence. It is a storm indeed, but a storm of murk.”

— William Styron / Darkness Visible