Sweet Memories
One more drink won’t kill him. He’s good for another thirty years or so. Crazy how it all ended up this way. Vodka in Gatorade seemed harmless enough. Replenish those carbohydrates and electrolytes. Rehydrate the system thoroughly to ensure a positive morning experience. No aspirin here. No sir, just scotch and coffee accompanied by a doughnut or two every morning.
As I wait, I notice a vein on the left side of my nose pounding. Its extension brushes against my eyelashes; in tempo with an old Madonna tune. Maybe “Get into the Groove.” Clapping hands never felt so good. Skin melts with the friction. I’m scared.
An errant chicken fucker fled another scene. The scent of iron penetrated my nostrils. Chicken anal blood lies dormant on the dirt. Mr. Simmons claims to have fired two shots from hand-me-down .30-06 (pronounced "thirty-ought-six") at the perpetrator. “I’ll follow the blood. Gut him to the beauty of Jerry Lee Lewis. Feed him parts of his body for lunch and dinner,” Mr. Simmons informed the neighborhood after thirteen longnecks. The adults wouldn’t let the elementary kids near the boisterous commotion. The wife and I told our children to get the poodle and go hunt for clues.
They searched the cemetery and wound up with Bob Dylan’s “Tombstone Blues,” but nothing more. It rained on them. Well, so they said. Their sweat and pounding hearts wanted to reveal more. Their mother coddled them. They drank hot chocolate and ate gummy bears. I had to find the dog and pretend to clean up her shit.
When I opened the front door to my house the news informed our small town of a bellybutton infection that had reached epidemic proportions. I quickly grabbed cotton balls (soaked in rubbing alcohol) and stuffed my family’s umbilical cord scares. It tickled and they laughed. My wife forgot the video camera.
The authorities finally apprehended the suspect in the Gordonski’s corn field. He’s in his fifties. “He was naked and masturbating by the scarecrow,” Mrs. Eaton gossiped. “Well I never,” our neighbor Mrs. Perkins said.
“Well now you did,” a crow screeched.
As I wait, I notice a vein on the left side of my nose pounding. Its extension brushes against my eyelashes; in tempo with an old Madonna tune. Maybe “Get into the Groove.” Clapping hands never felt so good. Skin melts with the friction. I’m scared.
An errant chicken fucker fled another scene. The scent of iron penetrated my nostrils. Chicken anal blood lies dormant on the dirt. Mr. Simmons claims to have fired two shots from hand-me-down .30-06 (pronounced "thirty-ought-six") at the perpetrator. “I’ll follow the blood. Gut him to the beauty of Jerry Lee Lewis. Feed him parts of his body for lunch and dinner,” Mr. Simmons informed the neighborhood after thirteen longnecks. The adults wouldn’t let the elementary kids near the boisterous commotion. The wife and I told our children to get the poodle and go hunt for clues.
They searched the cemetery and wound up with Bob Dylan’s “Tombstone Blues,” but nothing more. It rained on them. Well, so they said. Their sweat and pounding hearts wanted to reveal more. Their mother coddled them. They drank hot chocolate and ate gummy bears. I had to find the dog and pretend to clean up her shit.
When I opened the front door to my house the news informed our small town of a bellybutton infection that had reached epidemic proportions. I quickly grabbed cotton balls (soaked in rubbing alcohol) and stuffed my family’s umbilical cord scares. It tickled and they laughed. My wife forgot the video camera.
The authorities finally apprehended the suspect in the Gordonski’s corn field. He’s in his fifties. “He was naked and masturbating by the scarecrow,” Mrs. Eaton gossiped. “Well I never,” our neighbor Mrs. Perkins said.
“Well now you did,” a crow screeched.
posted by Neil Kelly at 11:01 PM
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