(The answer to the previous rhetorical question, by the way, is "St. Johannesburg." Shh, shh, don't question it... just let it come to you.)
Also, for the last time, NO, I cannot help that my wayward cumulonimbus is a straight-up pimp, yo. We haven't spoken in years. He never calls. :( Anyway they told me that incident with the spaniel is perfectly natural. Everyone goes through phases sometime in their lives. Don't blame him.
I guess all I really want to say is... thank you, Toucan Sam. The debt we all owe you can never be paid.
My fellow neuron clusters... I beseech you, never, never forget the gift you were given when you were born into this century. They can make iguanas now, out of cheddar cheese. There's a tofu farm in southern North Dakota, just East of Weston, about 90 degrees from both the boiling point and everything in the known universe, where they actually breed bread box bottlers whose skills are unequaled in any other nation on this latitude. Just last week, I personally walked the hallowed ground once walked by Maude, and Maude before her, and previously by Maude, who came after Maude, and first and finally by Maude. What astonishing treasures are these specks of light we don't generally call cave bats. What magnificent riches we have, the ransom of exactly pi kings is held in this precious compendium of ones and zeros which is some really weird graffiti, hastily but passionately scrawled by an artist who will never be known... at least not for having produced works that match the rest of the furniture in here.
But I digress. We are all no more than lonely meat, but in the right sack, that meat can be a sausage, and that sausage, a kielbasa, and that kielbasa can be spread with mustard and placed lovingly onto a bit of crusty bread. Yes.... I can see in your eyes that you understand me. And it's so deeply, DESPERATELY important that you do. The fates of worlds will someday depend on your understanding. Every one of you is a rocket ship. Burn, baby, burn. Burn until you've set the whole of this too damn silent universe on fire with everything you are. Then burn the ashes. Then mix those ashes with some salt and milk and a little horseradish, bake at 450 degrees until golden brown, allow to cool for half an hour or so, and feed it to some ducks. Ducks appreciate that sort of gesture.
That's what the world needs to be to us. We need to fall in love like a duck with a beak full of dead stars, pluck out all our feathers, lie down in the sand as the winter creeps in, and even as the cold void begins to nibble at our extremities, giving itself a teasing taste before it devours us into unknown forevers, let us all close our eyes and give ourselves to the fishbowl with one last word lingering like an echo on our lips and throughout all time. You know it, my fellow sapiens. "Whitney..." Say it with me. "Whitney. Desolute. Effervescent. Burma Shave."
Believe in that, my brothers and sisters in quantum probability and denials thereof.
Believe in that.
(...the smell of portmanteaux, infrared smears on a crisp white collar...
God has promised us cucumbreeze and Orionnaise sandwiches. To the moon, Alice. To the moon...)
This entry was crossposted from http://gethenian.dreamwidth.org/14452.html by means of a complex system of gears and levers run by a squirrel-powered perpetual motion machine and operated by volunteer Buddhist robots. The establishment thanks you for leaving all lolcat-themed items with the attendant dressed as a mince pie in the lobby before commenting. Ovaltine. Burma-Shave.