greet the fish…


Hello, this is your captain. We’re coming to you from the equitime point of the flight with some bad news. No. It’s very bad news…

All day cooped up in here. This is the most time I’ve ever spent with this copilot, trapped in this compartment, and I ain’t calling it a cockpit, no sir… although, gab nub it, I just did there. No more.

There’s a lot of tension in here between us. The navigator is out. I took care of him. But it is this gash nab copilot that has got my goat.

Ok, well, it’s god. He’s my copilot and I’ve had enough of him.

Enough of the famine, disease, and gnarled planet; enough of petty dictators, hypersonic nuclear weapons, child sexual abuse, racism, hegemony, political malpractice, and corporate greed.

Nah, the news isn’t good here from these tight quarters — and I’m sending god off like D.B. Cooper, without the parachute or the money.

While he gave me a chance at privilege — and boy did I enjoy it, and make the market capital best of my chances — I just never understood why he shafted the 4 billion others.

That’s just not right. And now we’ve just lost about another million in less than a year to some serious batshit bug…

I apologize for my language, ladies and gentlemen. I beg your pardon.

Now if the flight crew will please clear the aisles, everyone buckle up your belts — as you can hear from that “ding” the fasten seat belt signs are on.

The flight crew will please secure the galley and this god-awful compartment exit — and it’s veritably god-awful if you know what I mean by this dead weight I’m piloting up here.

You will note that the masks will drop in front of you when I open the fuselage door — as the cabin becomes depressurized.

No worries. Don’t bother with the masks. It’ll be quicker that way.

This helpless gut bucket will be making a very quick 33,000 foot descent into the Pacific and the rest of us will sleep with the angels after we greet the fish.

Will you look at that gorgeous sunset?

That is all…

“I have felt the wind of the wing of madness.”

— Charles Baudelaire / Intimate Journals

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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