Disjunctions Ruled 

I am a postmodern matador of my heterodoxy, sequenced by a semiconductor, self-referential, lady apparatchik thereof: a relativist, and at once a minimalist without a single “bad hairpiece day” in the last 30 minutes.

Here’s where I’m going with this: parlourmaid concordances at the Hourglass Beaker in back-alley Miami after the Cuban revolution (writ very small). 

I was teamstering for the Debate Masochist Society. I was angling for freebies from the olive drab carbohydrate VIPs. Sorta’ like the first time Jimmy Carter visited Massachusetts—not much happened, all was natural and unpretentious, and very polite. Pleasant, say.

So I get to directing the limo drops—a Davis Jr. here, a Sinatra there, so I suppose platform appliances were important to us, and all hairspray combovers were suspect. 

I was a real aggressor, 35, and ten pistol-whippings old. Pathologists need not apply.

D. was such an ideology that even some hammer and sickle purveyors with full headlamps and hairpieces shaved back their hairpiece sides to be more like the militia. Beehive banalities became trendy for money. 

I feared conjunctions were missing, ligatures were frayed, and disjunctions ruled. Nothing was as linear as it should be. 

This would be a difficult case.

Beehive banalities are utilitarian. They make a good geographical marmalade. Usually shiny, pataphysical, and often enjoy wearing dirndls. There is usually a cruet festooned onto something somewhere, and it’s difficult to discern a particular perversion or thistle if one is trying to work out polarity. I usually wean there. 

Soemone invariably interjects with: See there, he/she is next to that banal beehive near the frost… or, you see that banal beehive there, that’s where you turn to the Nordic legation and find the battens there. They’re at least two feet tall. Two feet tall. On top of a head!

Then, there was a free jazz style skronk Mao Zedong sing along. You, with your Little Red Bookmark eloping with the railwayman. 

I, insisting on Oral Care! Oral Care! over the intercom. I pictured Carmen Miranda Sichuan sockets in bilious cross country forced marches. Some screwy shit like that.

No one I knew wanted to look like him, and much less sprout the “pouffy sideswipes” he wore. But that’s exactly the halfpenny undergarment Raul Castro owed him. He drew a blabbermouth sidestep—without concentrates or work farm discretion. A faux pas.

This was going real free style now. Mao took the faun antiquarian look, while we oppressed ourselves further in the midst of our oppression. That was a good look!

We were mascot-named the Blood of Dracula Committee for Defense of the Revolution. Because … why not!

We apparatused three five-year plans for wildcat pea soups from around the world. We worked those goatherd capitalists hard. Some follies were performed and all were easily amused. I was happy to oblige. None of this bothered me because I knew I’d be the headmistress of The Institute of Counterrevolutionary Defilement. 

We’d yet to produce another like Stalin or Fidel, though we mastered our molds of Papa Doc, Nixon and Pinochet. 

We were batting 1.000. Turn on the presses!

Ta-da da-da, Ta-da da-da … We’re making the world safe for capitalism!

What I’m Reading:

Dear Donald,
Thanks for including us in your deranged Christmas message.
Being Canadian means free health care and limiting access to assault weapons.
In your 51st state our kids would get shot at in school and CEOs would be shot for denying health care.
So no.
Now piss off.
Your northern neighbour

— Charlie Angus, Member of Parliament, to Donald Trump / Bluesky post, 12/25/2024