Wednesday, May 25, 2011

I HATE MY NEIGHBOR'S HAT I HATE MY NEIGHBOR'S HAT

Birds, angels – what a bizarre mass of … of stuff circling above
the Hobbit's yard. It's almost impossible to find the narrowed part of
the crust. Because this is an impossible-to-bite-through pie...
Hobbit I love you, you, you. Party harmlessly, babe.
For these are the new apps you've downloaded to your iPhone:
laughing gas conniptions; rumors that reached the camel toe via a ping;
wholly or partly raked measles; chewed epithelium; and an
appetite-masking capsule.

My neighbor is junk.
The submarine in his garage is rubbish.
His idiot son and his Lego set is crap.
His John Deer hat is stupid.
He believes the Guinness Book of Records is still relevant.
In today's mail, he discovers and flaunts (waving the flyer over
the fence) this offensive spiel about hope as something worth
paying for.

'$25, 000!!!'

The flyer in the post is chock full of stories of hope.
Hope is the notion that, of all the UFOs built out of
a paperweight, a big nose, and a deformed internal organ, only
one could defy both gravity and inertia.

He leans on the fence and tells me this disturbing story about how
the Muppets sell all their towels online – no blood, just the towels.
The two separated. Like the soda machine and its
emissions. The one here, the other there. But next to
each other. Like the paparazzi and their assassination attempts
on bikes. Like relaxing and heroin. Like pork and its leak.
Like masturbation and a cotton candy pentagram.

'Hope, you see – the hope I'm willing to buy for 25,000 bucks? -
it's all about division.' The Hobbit literally shocks me with this
news. 'Does the flyer say that? Really?' He sighs, then shouts -
'I can't take it anymore, this feeling of a carrot with a gnarly birth defect!'
A goat stomps around in the leaves littering his yard;
it pisses in its own beard. Mending the division.

'I'm gonna disown my idiot son and eBay his moronic Lego set,'
the Hobbit says resolutely – and there's something strange about
him when he raises a fried chicken drumstick to his mouth and
bites into it. 'When I divorced my wife, ten years ago, it felt like a
caterpillar drawing a head trauma through its little caterpillar jersey.'

'It felt like shit. Disowning my son and selling his Lego will feel like shit.
Never taking my submarine out for a spin felt, and continues
to feel, like shit.' 
 
The Hobbit walks away leaving a string of unspoken expletives like a
telegraph message of splayed amphibian water prints on the leaves in
his yard. I return indoors thinking the rest of the day about the
forays and exploits of transcendental KFC.

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