Bad news for the anthrax on the striped sockbottom
of the amputee bat. The myth about the dust it
kicks up in its one-legged dance is truly a distortion –
the dance is cute and it’s heartrending seeing an
animal go at it with such heart and vigor. But the dust
is dust: i.e. really deadly dust. How many an audience member has
had some kicked in their face and frothingly croaked?
There are a gazillion deadly atoms in a pixel of
his dance routine but only one billion in a grain
of sand – how much egregious vertigo is in a
grain of anthrax? And when it comes to fighting crime
how is a concerned citizen who is too fat to fly
supposed to fight the lovable bat’s incidental dust-
spray when he does his one-legged can-can up there
in his striped sock? Can you really kill such a thing?
The performer is made of math and in a jacket
stained with blood imbues show business; it is not
necessarily religion it cleaves with a butcher knife
and the design of its leathery wing-jacket – despite evidence of
unorthodox physics and weird aeronautical integers –
doesn’t zip-reveal the interior of a troll.
The bat cracks me up, on my couch over here: as a
comic book solicitor, and a saver of slack, lace-fly sweaters –
occasionally with black fingernails talking up some ladies –
watching his routine and getting dust kicked in my face
is like chemo given to my bologna sandwich. One has to be
a little cruel sometimes, one has to have an opinion, one has
to say something – and not just sit back and grow fat and grow
hairy eyes – so here it goes: I think the bat’s little top hat
is a little gratuitous.