Judging by the awful smell, we knew that it was shark bait
some waggish family member had sent us via FedEx.
It was as if an incredible stench had suddenly dropped through
a hole in the air. The sense of it never left. On our anniversary,
it fell gruesomely from the party planner's bloody Ziploc.
I was gravitationally attracted by its filth's mass.
My newborn child delighted more in the chronic vibes
coming from the cockroach that had caught fire and was
running around on the tarpaulin, the earth's poles navigating
its instincts. All the while emitting really strange, not altogether
bad vibes. Only the innocent could see the magnetic fields
around its tiny mouth, like a goatee of metal shavings.
One guest forgot his submersible facial butt probe in our
bedroom, a device for detecting designs flaws – you could almost
hear the one, masked end of the tubular device ask the other,
spouty end: “What are the chances of a whole chess set in there?”
Dinosaurs died out and their world was subsequently
overgrown with weeds, like when the tribe of headhunters left
the play park and their faded skulls and gewgaws conveyed
a depressing solitude. The bad father lies. Everything he offers
his newborn child is a knock-off. He says that Angry Birds
are merely projectile, tinsel-crowned black heads – and that is how they
play the game, for hours. Dressed smart and speaking really posh,
he hopes the infant would mistake him for an actual light saber.
The bad lover considers it really kinky to draw a map of their
own entrails. Aromatherapy makes the bad terrorist's pipe bomb
curl up like a cat. Of all the people we invited to our anniversary
party, only the zoophiliac hit upon the idea of standing
by the salad bar to cheer himself up. In a stroke of genius,
the party planner had dragged a troll along; reportedly, looking
at one reduced anxiety and a sense of failure. Not surprisingly,
by the fifth hour our troll was already looking terribly self-conscious.