Sunday, April 06, 2014

Sausage Commercial


I just walked away from the television set, where a commercial for SomeHobbitTown sausage had created a quaint vision, that I was to enter on a silver strand of hickory smoke. Within it, I traveled to a well-appointed kitchen with a wall-sized chalkboard, where a master sausagesmith neatly prints 

onion
garlic
jalapeno

on a black chalkboard in pristine white chalk, alongside a folksy drawing of the finished product, gleaming handsomely beside some tasty rice and healthy carrots upon some apron-clad, grandmother-cooked plate. In this kitchen, benevolent sausage recipe stewards impart a time-honored, lovingly curated mix of ingredients into kindly exterminated fleshbits in a large copper bowl, with a wooden spoon. 

I am meant to believe that, as I, in my own scullery, slide the simultaneously phallic/scatalogical meatstuff from its plastic sleeve, that some earnest culinary artist has delivered it into my lucky hands.

I am not meant to think of the fact that OGJ/MSG spicepowder was muddled into glops of mechanically separated gobbets, which were then sucked up into a conveying tube and later rocketed from a nozzle into an eternally extending condom of reasonably gutlike genetic material before being packaged and frozen.

Sometimes, I feel insulted.

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"I'm gonna give you every inch of my love. I'm gonna give you my love." - Page/Plant et al

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Mum's the Word.

  
I've never been a mother
In the societally accepted manner.
And yet, 
I've born lots of things, borne others,
Taking in seed, growing, passing it out and unto
Acting as surrogate when others faltered
Cooperatively shaping smooth new marble into model citizens
Nuzzled even animals through their whole life cycle

Earth goddess written on even my deceptive flesh
Too abundant and myriad, ugly, nurturing, not sleek, yet providing
Sustenance of hungry souls.

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"Hush now baby, baby, don't you cry." - Pink Floyd


Saturday, February 08, 2014

Everyday Comedy

The drive-up ATM line is a clusterfuck as usual, here in this sudden population boom suburb, so I pull around to the front. The drive through lanes all having proudly displayed in red how closed they were, I figured the inside was, too, so I swiped the ATM card through the spy slit in the side of the brass-framed glass to reach the lobby ATM, to make my deposit of half the rent I was owed, finally received. I waited to hear the click of the spy slot rendering my security clearance valid. I didn't but I still yanked at the thick handle and wide it swung, some greeter cheerily saying, "Hello!" as I, within milliseconds, felt foolish to have done the thing you do when the bank is closed, when the bank was clearly open. 

Chuckling very small to myself, at myself, I approached the kiosk where the tethered pens, one always missing, somehow, exposing some hole in writing utensil security because all their eyes are on the money. Signing neatly (for once) and dutifully writing the appropriate digits that spell my name in bank language on the back of the money order, I strode forward to one of two tellers, who started the transaction, not annoyed, but not altogether thrilled to see me.

"Do you have one of those smart phones?" she asked me, like I'd just arrived from a quonset hut in some rural village and might not be aware they existed. "Yep," I replied. "Have you downloaded the app?" she pressed. "No," I answered, beginning to see where she was going with this conversation but nonetheless determined not to assist. "Yeah, you can just take a picture of these and make the deposit," she said, out loud, to me. "Thereby rendering your job completely unnecessary," my always defensive brain spouted off. 

Somehow, common sense intervened with my mouth this time, and I just nodded and left. Shut up, Overanalysis Girl, no one wants to hear your logic.

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"Perfect weather for a streamlined world / There'll be spandex jackets, one for everyone." - D. Fagen


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