Her head’s the chalice
That hair-do of hers, the wine
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Her head’s the chalice
That hair-do of hers, the wine
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
“I see you’re watching the teevee,” Eugene said. It had taken a while for him to think of the proper opening line. Inquisitive, open ended, observant, interested, slightly probing, obviously pertinent, most likely mutual. And still, not quite a question. Great work, Eugene, you nailed this one. A whopper. Bang. Pop. Hello fence and good-bye. So long park. He did his best not to smile too wide lest he show off just how confident he was feeling inside. No sense letting the victory cat out of the bag just yet. No sir. He could stroke off to that feeling a little bit later, dip into his stash of championship award lotion and let the right hand of man full of confidence do the rest. It had only taken him one full day and two hours to come up with his ultimate opening line. Most of it spent before the mirrors. First the bathroom: groin up, brainstorming, getting the facial expressions right. Bedroom: total body, working that body language hard. Oomph, yah. That’s it. Here I am, right here, check it out. All of it. Inside and out. Another solid chunk of time getting his wardrobe sorted out. Settled, so successfully he knew, on Bermuda shorts, flip-flops, t-shirt with ‘jazz music’ silk-screened so seductively over the awesome silhouette of the tropical sunset on it. Everything about him said warm sensual intelligent and romantic breezes on offer. Of course now he was regretting not wearing the visor. To imply that he had been to Six Flags. Which of course he was planning on doing. Soon. There was that confidence again. A little heat rode with a bit of extra blood to his peepee place. Oh man, if he had actually been to Six Flags and could talk more knowledgeably about it than even the brochures allowed, oh man. Still, no one had to know, and the brochure was one of the most informative he had read. In fact, now that he thought about it, it may be the most informative one in his whole collection. But, was he going to include the pamphlets in this? Because the one with the instructions on what to do if a baby sticks a bean or Lego or bullet up its nose, while being diagram heavy and text lite, was pretty darn informative. He decided to keep the brochures and pamphlets separate for the time being. Wouldn’t it be something if Six Flags had a brochure and pamphlet themed ride. Oh man, wouldn’t that be a blast. He envisioned himself at Six Flags, having just conquered the unconquerable roller-coaster for like the fifth time that morning, and was just strutting off to grab a chocolate milk when a hysterical mother bursts from the crowd with a baby three shades of beet. People are screaming, running in all directions, fainting. Pure panic. But Eugene, halts her calmly, and everyone just knows. They all just stop. And watch. And he removes the nasal blockage, which turns out to be an Africanized Bee, and the baby lives. Multiple crises averted. And the mother, whose husband just happens to be the president of NASA, collapses right there at his feet, practically making love to them. Another bit of hot flow to the peepee place caused him to shift his stance a bit, to shade the steeple from the congregation as they say. Anyways, she’s all over him, but he’s too awesome for that. He needs no thanks, but still, she owes him the life of her only child. And when she calls her husband at his corner office on the top floor of NASA, well, the next thing Eugene knows is Miss Universe is kissing him goodbye and the world is watching him on the teevee as he waves so long and steps into the rocket ship that is going to make him the first man in the history of humanity to find the aliens. Because the aliens are super serious and deadly and have no knowledge of comedy it will be up to Eugene to quite literally get them out of their shells. Or rather what was it the science expert called it on the teevee? Exo-something or other. Anyways, he’s being counted on to bring his best material, which of course no one needed to tell him, because all his material is grade A. Which still sticks him a bit in his craw because Missus Cutterbridge never thought so, time and again literally grading it D or less, which was just so stupid, because obviously she was joke blind or deaf or whatever the science expert would call it. Stupid is what Eugene always, and still, did. Anyways, she never got it, but now, here was Eugene on the far side of the cosmos letting his premium boffola stave off the imminent threat of interstellar war and obviously Missus Cutterbridge was back home on earth watching it all unfold on her teevee and realizing just how stupid she had been to give Eugene those D’s and F’s and letters to take home to be signed by his parents. In fact, right then she called the commissioner of education himself and had him change all Eugene’s grades to A+’s across the board. And now that Eugene had the marks, he was easily accepted into the teevee making program at the community college that had so impersonally informed him that he was not welcome there, even though teevee was something Eugene knew all about, more probably than anyone except maybe some of the people on the teevee who he counted as equals, co-conspirators even, with whom he could talk so casually and knowledgeably and matter-of-factly about what shows were on what channel and when and what happened last time on the show and what probably might happen next show and that he, Eugene, for sure probably knew already what was going to happen but don’t worry he wasn’t going to ruin it for you unless you begged him and even then maybe not because even though his superior knowledge of what was going to happen on the teevee was making his peepee place just boil with blood he knew that people loved surprises including Eugene himself which made it tough being so in the know about all that was going on on the teevee—
“What’s that?” She said, staring the through the space between the door and the jamb offered by the chain.
“I see you’re watching the teevee,” Eugene said. Peering in by her, seeing the screen glow in. In the background, the sound low but not low enough he couldn’t hear it in his apartment even. He knew the show. It was a good one. As soon as he could he’d mention that he knew about it and—
“Wha—oh, yeah, no, I’m not really,” she said, “I don’t really go for television. It’s just to have something on in the background.”
“You don’t g-g-go for the tee-tee-teevee?” He gaped, his mind swirling about trying to grasp this deep unfathomable development.
“No,” she said, “I don’t enjoy television. It’s kind of mindless, really. So can I help you with something?”
Eugene spun on his heel and stalked off. His flip-flop caught in the rough carpet in the hall and he stumbled, stubbing his toe. It stung up his leg and his peepee place curled up and back into flaccid hibernation. His shins were cold. His mind was grey. All that time, wasted. Thank God he hadn’t worn the visor. She didn’t deserve it. And to think he was going to offer her his knowledge and sensuality and pamphlets.
This would never happen on the teevee.
You’re gonna need a shower, once you hear my song. ‘Cause my melody is gonna cover you in treacle. Yeah, thick and sticky and super sweet. Tough to wash off, but do you really wanna? Like when the slaves had a good day making the pyramids, stacking those big bricks, and the Pharaohs were pleased. They said, “Nice job, feel free to worship your weird one-man god.” And it was a smooth groove on the banks of the Nile that night. That’s what this poem is gonna do to you, so get ready. It’s one…two…three…the pickle’s in the brine. It’s soaking like a miracle in the bucket, makin’ love to the salt and and the sugar and the spices. Makin’ gherkins. Call the brackish midwife ’cause these cukes is giving birth. Like that night at make-out point, and you were the castle, and I was the knight riding hard after having just slain the dragon. We got that draw bridge down and I crossed that hot moat. Don’t tell the duke, but the keep might be pregnant. Now, this melody is floating in the sky like cumulonimbus cotton candy booming chocolate thunder and spraying lemonade rain. Sure, it ruined the picnic. But it mawkened up the meadow, and all the little children were lickin’ up the grass and chewin’ up the blossoms. Landscaping, baby, the delicious way. Mmm…mmm… mmm…what a melody, call the dentist and make an appointment because it’s so saccharine it’s gonna rot your teeth out. Time to invest in some pearly veneers. Because this verse is gonna have you smiling, and no one wants to see your pustular choppers. So lay back in the chair and open that kiss factory and let the good doctor massage them gums with this candied refrain. It’ll have them fangs feeling fresher than a constipated man after a voodoo doodoo, cleansing his bowels with the soothing power of the dark arts. Ooo…ooo…ooo…Prepare for this aria, it’s like a honey wine lotion drippin’ over your skin and makin’ you feel like that time when our boys stormed the beaches of Normandy. Ratatatatatatat! Boomboomboom! You’ve got sand in your eye but that’s not sand, it’s sugar, baby. You’ve got blood on your bayonet but that’s not blood it’s organic molasses, baby, because this song’s so toothsome that even the horrors of war can’t compete. Drape the flag on the coffin and the twenty-one guns go off and let yourself get lost in this syrupy melody. Yeah…yeah…yeah…what a time to be alive, when a tune like this can exist like bacon in the sun on a wagon to the west. Welcome to the frontier. Sure it’s hell but if you’re willing to work hard you can make a life here. Just look out, ’cause the natives are restless and they’re looking to cut your heads off and boil them up and hang them on the wall of their mud and thatch huts. But that’s not mud, it’s chocolate. And that’s not thatch but filo pastry. And those aren’t savages they’re high fructose corn syrup. And this all just a sweet, sweet melody. And we’re all the CEO of a Japanese confection concern. Dwop…dwop…dwop…
Baby, I love you.
You mean the world to me, girl.
Give me my cat back.
In the hyper-loop giga-go-go world where futuristic masters of triumph stand on the bleeding edge of tomorrow, boot-strapping their way one pitch deck at a time up to the peak of Mount Echelon blasting MVP’s out of their unicorn horns like they were Mississippi Hot Dogs at Mudfest, it takes a 100x set of platinum low-hangers to pivot yourself into a hockey stick of growth blazing up the graph like the space shuttle on it’s way to Moonbase 66. Which is what I’m here to tell you we have done. We here at WHAZAPNIN saw our Burn Rate smoking like an Alabama tire fire and our Churn Rate rocking harder than an Amish butter maker on our Personal Daily Activity Sharing app and realized that while our Value Prop was as obvious as a pimple on the Pope’s face, we were hella damn close to dropping way below Ramen Profitable. I mean, the Runway was shorter than Peter Dinklage with his legs chopped off. We had to iterate faster than the Pope pops a pimple on his face. We needed a bushel of Low Hanging Fruit and we needed it bad. It was time to get Johnny Appleseed on our asses and start picking. We had to M.F. the S out of our B-to-C because our digital cottage industry was getting mighty close to the edge of the cliff, I tell you what. Sure we felt we had First Mover Advantage there, but it turned out WHAZAPNIN wasn’t the disruptive technology we though tit was, it just didn’t want to get those lazy farmers off their tractors and sharing their happy go lucky lives with the world. Why the hell not? Your guess is as good as mine. And mine’s as good as Martin Scorsese at Fat’s Pub’s cinema trivia night. So we went ahead and pivoted. Big time. And we activated what I can only say is the greatest innovation in societal interaction technology the universe has ever seen.
Let me introduce to you, our newest and greatest innovation: BRKN WND. The world’s first and foremost fart sniffing app. Utilizing our exclusive IP to hack your smartphone’s camera which then enables it to detect stank particles in the air as low as 1-2 ppm and finally and definitively tell one and all WHO DEALT IT! Gamifying the sniffing and blaming of farts with our responsive design will be supremely scaleable and allow for 100% penetration of the flatus market. This isn’t just vaporware, people, this is the real stinky deal!
First, who needs ice cream on a caper?
Let me clarify, I didn’t want the old jugger on the caper. I mean sure, we needed a peterman because how the heck else were we going to get into the vault but I’m a pretty fair judge of character, and nothing about this guy told me he was going to work out (ie. his jailhouse toilet ice cream recipe). Meanwhile, his breath was telling me in no uncertain and stinking terms that not only did this fellow refuse to brush his teeth, but that he ate three solid squares of garbage daily. It literally slapped me around like my face was a Dublin schoolboy and his windy mouth was a half-cut Catholic priest on a Good Friday bender. From his oily sideburns that were greasy enough to lube a Studebaker to a pallor so sallow it made ash feel like Hawaiian Tropic, I knew I shouldn’t have had this guy on my string, but we were in a tight spot, our window was closing, I needed the score, and I thought that just because the guy was far from healthy who am I to judge. So. We brought him in.
“Hot damn, Johnny, we got ourselves a race here!” He hawked out the squawk box.
VRRROOOOOMM!!!! The car thundered around the corner like a lady-beast in heat and an engorged man-beast raging behind her looking for love on the savage plains. The vehicle was just begging the aluminium frame to give up and let go like a divorce lawyer showing compromising photos to a client’s wealthy husband. Yet it said no like a stern mama to a whiny child.
“Goddamnit, Rick, I’m right in the middle of it. STOP HAWKIN’ THE OBVIOUS AT ME AND TELL ME SOEMTHIN’ I DONT KNOW!” It came out wet and sticky as spit and sweat mixed in his helmet and poured down his chin like some kind of salty waterfall.
“That bastard Manoosh is on yer six, lookin like he’s ready to mount that hot tail o’ yers.”
CRRRRAAAMMMMM—VRRRAAMAMAMAM!!!! He throttled down, sent his revs into the stratosphere and hung his ass out swinging round the tight curve like a burlesque dancer headlining Naughtyfest. Dust blew up off the road like someone had put too much gas on the bbq and lit it up.
“Kee-rhist, Rip! That tanned greaser knows my tailpipe is exit only!”
“Well then get ‘im offa there!”
Johnny put the hammer down harder than mighty, mighty Thor, the car shot forward like a coked up thoroughbred that’d been bit by a tick.
“Jeez, Rip, ain’t you the sharpest lightbulb in the fish tank. What the hell you think I’m doin’? Piddlin’ Dixie?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I caught y’all out back o’ the shed.”
ZRRRROOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!! The racer slammed down to the road, piling gravity on it like a squad of leatherheads at some cow college making a goal line stand.
“Sweet mama Jean, Rip, my hearts strokin faster than a teen boy in the bathroom with Uncle Jim’s Hustler.”
“Y’all gotta calm down, Johnny, or yer libel to bust loose like a sack of nails on Uncl Jim’s waterbed!”
RRAAAMAMAMMAMMAMAMMAMARAMAMAMAM!!! The engine screamed blood murder like it had just found Colonel Mustard in the Conservatory with the candlestick. It forced Johnny to grip the wheel like it was a wang at a eunuch convention.
“I know I gotta calm down, damnit, sing me that song then—”
“Race l’il racer, do you racer best, race l’il racer, race the racing rest. Chase your l’il drrrreeeeeaaaamms! Don’t you worry, l’il racer, don’t you even fret, cause you’re a l’il racer, racing better than the rest. You’re racing to the moooooooonnnn! Race l’il racer, don’t you worry. Don’t worry your racing heart. Don’t worry l’il racer, race you racing heart out. Your tears are gasoline, your heart is the engine, your spirit is the turboooooooooo! And don’t stop raaaacccccccinnng! L’il racer, l’il racer, l’il racer.”
Johnny felt a tear tickle his cheek like the wings of a butterfly on a baby’s bottom. He bore down like a diamond bit in an oil well in the land of the wildcatters. Before him, the checkered flag waved like a million wives and mothers watching the ship with their soldier boys slip slowly back into port after years of war.
“I love you, Rip,” he whispered as he crossed the finish line like an English teacher crosses a tee. Sweetly.
Race l’il racer. Race. Race. Race.