“I'll mask my knowledge with an upside-down dumpster,”
the beggar thinks. “That way, CIA hackers won't get jack off me.”
“At the sewing machine,” my grandma said, “it's advisable to
put on your auxiliary visor.”
It was grandfather's wont to always cockily state: “In my day, lasers
attached to farm animals aided in the harvesting.”
Knowledge A: Cremated panties are bubbles.
Knowledge B: Each person is splashy when they die.
My grandmother said that, sitting at her old Singer, she was in close proximity
to the earth's fuel. She was creating, after all – though
nothing was really real, anyway, as our Alien overlords would've had
us think – they graciously put my grandfather's wig on the toilet seat
to simulate a seat warmer – “everything's a simulation,” my
grandmother liked to scarily hiss – and when I was little I noticed that
sitting on the wig, crapping, the same ozone was released as by an Ewok
in the electric chair.
The alien DNA with which I've been injected has to a small extent
resulted in deafness, but also turned my speech, particularly my
cries for help in the nighttime when I'm having bad dreams, into this
weird squawking which, after fifty meters, breaks into tinny clusters of
sound frozen in midair like noticeboard pins. I dream about the ghosts of
mites; they're clamoring for attention on the gothic tundra of
my pillow. I'm frequently very old in these dreams. And solar flares
erupt from my crutches – which I guess I'm OK with.