Wilbur by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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#14-Wilbur Later That Day
Wilbur concluded his pleasant snooze, only to have the pleasantness destroyed, when he was immediately greeted upon awakening to once more “hear” the unpleasant silence now rampant in the Cheeseball trophy community. He immediately adjusted his natural inclinations toward “destroyed” to a less malevolent, measured assessment of “impaired,” and left any notions of remediation to a future consideration, which never comes. He briefly entertained, and ultimately rejected the idea of going back to sleep, that being a tactic utilized by those in long term orange jumpsuits.
It seemed to him that as recent as yesterday that the trophies were vibrant, chatty, animated, and all that other upbeat stuff one pays upwards of $1,000 to have temporarily instilled at a Tony Robbins conference. The “effervescence”
might have been longer lasting if Tony’s meth-imitative-ramble did not first induce a sloppy and unfortunate instant replay of the regurgitation of chunks similar to that which had been left by prior attendees which had commenced right after the over-the-hill Aerosmith testimonial. Ostensibly Aerosmith was attempting to find an “alternative” substitute outlet for their sales of retro music in the museum shop, and Tony had some attraction to dreams.
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If Tony had a “real” job, then surely, his performance could have enhanced his position. He would have been viewed as an employee so nauseatingly hyper, that he’d either get a raise from the boss just to get him out of his office, or result in Tony being summarily dismissed and sent back to his “glory” days spent as the leading member of his vomit encouraging high school
“pep” squad, which was collectively headed for a lucrative career in pizza delivery.
Wilbur could detect that Sargento was up, though his eyes were on the floor. He called out; “Hey, Sargento. What’s with the long goopy face? Thinking of running for office and sadly telling the voters that you can’t do anything about whatever it is they want at the moment?”
Sargento actually broke from his floor observation for a second and giggled, then replied; “In my case I’m not faking the theatrics.”
Artisanal said; “No, you only calculated their effect.
....... I believe correctly. ......... Obama was a good role model, but lesser known Mitch McConnell had it nailed. I mean like that old boy can do things with his lips which can put Rosie O’Donnell in a tizzy. ..... Ah, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Billie Jean said; “Pleased do. No harm, no foul.”
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Boursin tried to hold a purported semblance of decorum together as he vocalized; “It might work out soon; and if it doesn’t we won’t be here forever.”
Billie Jean deeply sighed and retorted; “Patience is a virtue.”
Cabot grunted and sounded something like Henry Kissinger on a particularly methodical and consequently toxically pedantic day, if not demonstrating the weariness of one desperately in need of going back to sleep, when intending to convey some degree of amelioration which resulted in a flawed Gallup estimate of an 85% approval rating; that percentage likely overstated through the asking of a misleading, inherently biased question-statement; the result of effective, partisan, and productive training, or abject incompetent stupidity; suitable for MSNBC or Fox News, but not both. He slurred in a heavily bored and studious German accent; “If we’re as cursed as it seems, we no doubt will.” It was unclear whether that was a positive or negative note, whether it had addressed Boursin or Billie Jean, or if it was designed utilizing a contrived intention to register neither a positive or negative note; which was calculated to fully expect to be viewed as “right,” “not wrong,” or incomprehensible in all possible cases.
Wilbur said; “Will what? I think that I’ve lost track.”
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Billie Jean said; “Keep losing it. It’s kind of surreal.
Oh. Oh.”
Wilbur effectively followed the suit of the current wave of the partially positive, which was simultaneously the partially dissident, discordant, depressed, distressed and to complicate a seemingly simple matter further, possibly sarcasmically, as in orgasmically and/or seismologically secreted through screened points-of-view, saying; “Okay. Back where we started, wherever that was.”
Perhaps interrupting, perhaps not, Sargento actually broke from his floor observation for a second and giggled, then replied; “In my case I’m not faking the theatrics.”
Wilbur said; “Funny, I just heard that somewhere. Shut up Sargento. This is serious. It’s not me; you guys always say so.
......... Sort of.”
Brie sounded exasperated and imploring when she plaintively said; “Wilbur, don’t you remember that great room at all. The ceiling was so high. It was wonderful. We were there! You were there too.”
Wilbur
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Wilbur and the trophies as displayed in the Crocker mansion; property of the author.
Wilbur said; “No. I only remember here. You might have dreamt that.”
Artisanal said; “If it was a dream, I happened to have had the same one recurrently.”
Cabot added; “As have I.”
Boursin said; “As have I.”
Sargento said; “As have I.”
Wilbur became the silent one now. It was difficult for him to continue thinking that this room had been his only home.
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Well, he couldn’t help thinking precisely that, but he also recognized that the odds of him being right had dropped 83.33%, the threes to infinity. He was sometimes infuriatingly proficient in elementary math.
Brie said; “Yes, and the people used to come in to clean and care for us every day.” She giggled, then added; “And they’d always take us off the mantel and shelves, so that they could clean them too. And they’d always forget exactly where we were before, and put us back in different places. We’d get new views
.........” Brie’s voice trailed off as she unsuccessfully tried to hide that she had started to cry.
Wilbur wanted to hold her and say reassuring things like;
“It will be all right,” just like females generally want to hear in full recognition of the lie, but like her he was immobile, which may have prevented his mutually desired lie, as Wilbur knew that they worked better when combined with an embrace.
Wilbur again got quiet, and thought that maybe he should not have initiated this conversation. He then could not remember if it was he who had done so. Wilbur then concluded that was irrelevant at this point or any other point.
He focussed on the fact that two people came from elsewhere right into this room. It was Cable and Barb doing their dusting chores, though Wilbur didn’t know their names and thought that their intents were to tickle him and the Cheeseball trophies.
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So, he realized that there were other places and stuff. He did previously note the sounds he heard through the window, but had never given them the thought he was giving to Cable and Barb now. “Hmmmnnn,” he thought. “If there are other places, why can’t they be the ones that the Cheeseball trophies have dreamt?”
The Cheeseball trophies complemented Wilbur’s posture through their own return to dreamy silence. They either napped, were too disgusted to do any more grousing, were too saddened by the resurrected memories, or anxiously awaited their next imaginary Zoloft dose.
Some of the trophies still illogically tried to recall their first memories. They were at the bottom of a hill which held some fallen humans and one immobile Double Gloucester ball.
The other humans on the flat land were hoopin’and hollerin’ as if something wonderful had happened. And something wonderful must have, as I (the trophy) was held high in the air, as I (the prize) was generously conveyed to another human, who must have just won some battle, as it apparently was inadequately defined to accommodate the loose rules required by games. Despite being sweaty, disheveled, and the dirty center of attention, the human seemed inordinately proud and the required falsely humble and
“humorously” self- effacing tone, betrayed only to the
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possibilities considered by the most perceptive, nonsensically-prone-to-un-scientific-conclusion-jumping, and those sufficiently privileged to have the luxury to think about and research things other than the competitive and relative price levels of mayonnaise available at the occupied immediate subject, whatever that might be, to the always conveniently
“error” prone Walmart, Amazon, more “upscale” discounter Target, that tripartite brevity, in the compelling self-interest to be thorough, necessarily inclusive of an infinite supply of less reliable lesser-statures, adjusted for the miles-per-gallon abilities of one’s auto and periodically adjusted for the current price of gas. It might be temporarily construed as quite
“cavalier” to ignore the pennies. But in the long run, who cares?
Billie Jean said; “Like the mayonnaise? Oh. Oh.”
Wilbur said; “Mnnnn. Mnnnn. Mnnnn.”
Things once again seemed to be impromptu.
MAYONAISSE.
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#15-An AM Trip to the Business District A/K/A Mission Before the sweet blindness of the pre-dawn past had the
“opportunity” to be afforded the multi-sided option which included the much desired ambivalence, more or less consistent with the ramifications attendant to the repertoire of the repetitive tepidity of defaulted mid-morning, the gray sky not solely a function of its unwillingness to make a choice; Tom, Desmond, and Caligari began their somewhat shared journeys by making their ways through the quiet streets of Lower Darby. The only other sound of ersatz “life;” flesh, electronic, and/or algorithmically (Some substitute AI, and some substitute meta.
Feel free to choose, mix, or match as inclined.) based conjecture was that buzz made by the malfunctioning street lamps, during the trio’s weird, déjà vu-like schlep through a sleeping community which offered them less resistance than that conveyed by any of the aimless death wishing serial shooters armed with a combination of an assault weapon and one of the increasingly common sad-ass stories milked by Dr. Phil, lucky Phil-programmed-friendly right after Oprah’s popular spot.
Vaguely reminiscent of a tertiary land bound version of the fable were there one, most ala singular “Aguirre, the Wrath of God,” the 2018 version of the Pinta, the Nina, and the Santa Marie trio left early and walked through the darkness of Lower
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Darby without the blessing or largesse of the Queen of Spain, the Queen of Europe, the Queen of the Homeless, or the Queen of the Dry.
They took their chances and took their places in the back alley of the Mission district’s empty Commerce Street, and waited for their Crocker-prey-seeking-prey. They took their places on top of the garbage cans. It was the perfect locale, as the back alley service area had required no service in the years since the businesses in front had become victims of efficient, on-line shopping. The privacy level was ideal in its totality.
Even, the resident rats co-operated by scattering toward the entrances they had gnawed where the foundations met the wood framings; their abandonment a testimony to their wise “choice”
to abandon, rather than defend when confronted with outsized forces.
Tom felt encouraged and optimistic when he heard the engine roar, and then saw the bikes turn into his alley. The Crocker
“nose” had once more intuitively smelled out its intended prey, but this time may have olfactorially confused that with the scent of a predator, if not three. Tom’s doubts surfaced when he saw only two antique Harleys and two antique Crockers. Various scenarios of a complication to his plan ran through his mind.
Was the third Crocker now going to be difficult through the
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presentation of a detached and isolated target? “Uh oh,” Tom thought. “Should have had a plan B.”
There was no time to improvise any alternative modus operandi, as with a speed which exceeded that displayed by the rat winner of the fifty yard dash, Major and Spike “bravely”
roared up and cut their engines, wheels a precarious six inches from the feet of Tom, Desmond, and Caligari.
The brothers dismounted from the converse starboard side, circled, and Major said; “Good morning. We’re looking for some help.”
Tom could have shot them right there, but held back in fear of Mad Monty roaring down the road any second. He said; “Good morning. Always glad to help out a friend. Shoot.”
Major said; “Right neighborly. We’re looking for our Cheeseball trophies.”
Tom said; “Sorry, pal. Ain’t nobody down here in the Mission got near any kind of trophies since about three-quarters the way into the twentieth century.”
Spike said; “Appreciate that. But, maybe you know some information which can help us out. Even a rumor.” He fondled the chainsaw on the side of his old Harley.
Tom concluded that if Crocker brother #3 was going to show up, he’d have done so by now. Sometimes people do call in sick, while his absence reduced Tom’s potential prize by a third,
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obliterating any prior risk-reward calculations. Regardless, and devoid of adjustment, Tom instantly decided to proceed with his plan. He might have been a bit rash, as his judgement was undoubtedly prompted by the anxious proximity of Spike’s chainsaw. Resolute, Tom calmly reached into his pocket, retrieved his sten gun, and proceeded to put two shots into both Major and Spike, first the chests and second the heads.
Resolute, Tom calmly returned the exterminating sprayer to its place of origin.
With the bodies at rest with their backs on the ground, completely still, if one did not consider the erratic, rather riveting, rosy red geyser gushes, Tom said; “Pretty good shooting, if I do say so myself.”
Caligari said; “The stuff coming out of the heads is kind of punky so far. Don’t get me wrong. It’s very good for a first effort and I look forward to seeing the second.”
Desmond shrugged and from a different point of view, said;
“Admirable, though some of the bullets sprayed between the two targets took off a poor rat’s tail. Frankly, the degree of fine execution may have been increased a tad with more precision.”
Exasperated, Tom said; “I only had a sten. Jeez. It accomplished the main thing. ....... and it certainly accomplished as much as a ‘sophisticated’ mid-level oulipo constraint allows, and I daresay in a much more entertaining
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manner. I mean the others never got geysers of any color.
Friggin’ critics.”
Desmond said; “Ostensibly a shooter’s shooter, I take it.”
Two fingers over each mouth, he and Caligari shared a sedate girlish giggle, prior to his continuing with a more routine;
“Have you ever considered taking part in a marksmanship seminar?
....... Not that it’s necessary of course. But, a good slaughtering effort often includes growth, change, and improvement.”
Caligari added; “In defense of Tom’s effort, I’m certain that it satisfies the plebian norms endemic to popular genre shooting. I’d say that it erratically hovers somewhere above a three on a scale of five, at times even approaching an inconsistent four.”
Desmond said; “I guess I can go with that under the unfortunate and un-credentialed circumstances, if I am permitted to round up to there from a three point three weighted average.
These forms make some things easy while imposing some constraints.” He immediately wrinkled his lips, as he realized that he was being trite.
Tom said; “You critics are fortunate that I forgot to bring a sten re-load.” When Tom saw Desmond and Caligari’s faux terrified faces, he added; “I don’t care. I really don’t. Bottom line, this is going to get me more money than Bin Laden’s daddy
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had to lay out for the funeral.” He did a double take, not sure if that was the best possible way of phrasing the thought. In fact, considerations were given to it having possibly been antithetical. He didn’t feel like changing it or doing the tedious research necessary to say it correctly, so he dismissively said; “Whatever.”
Caligari said; “Two bikes? Somebody miscalculated easy math and somebody is taking it on the arches.”
Tom said; “Au contraire, mons ami. I have your best interests at heart. .... Yes.” Lying, he continued; “I have thought of this. You two can double up, while I take the other.”
Caligari said; “I’m not sitting with Desmond. .... I mean like he’s all right and all that, but the dude’s got leprosy or something.”
Desmond actually raised his voice to vehemently exclaim; “I have no leprosy. If you’re making that an issue, you’re the one who does.” .......... He proudly added; ”Without even trying, I made a tautology.”
Caligari shook his head and said; “Nope. ......... Look, I’ll trust you if you trust me. ........ Umnnn. Wait a minute, Tom. How come you aren’t in consideration for a joint project?”
Tom said; “Cause I was the one who pulled the trigger, stupid.”
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After they figured out how to start the Harleys, the drove back to the bridge, weaving more than the drunken Crockers.
Early morning non-rushed hour now well ensconced in the type of
“history” which boring towns market in an attempt to entice cheap, boring tourists, the Lower Darby window watching brigade viewed the Crockers as they brashly and deafeningly whirred through their town, on their way back to the safe amenities of borderline Upper Darby Manor. Though some were appalled, and some thought that they were the Crocker brothers, just as many considered them to be heroic Americans.
Most of all, the “observant” majority of Lower Darby wondered why two of them had chosen to become so friendly.
Later that day, Mad Monty was informed through a personal visit from the authorities. His first reaction was disbelief.
His next one was guilt for not having been there, as he might have been able to avert the tragedy. After the two minute duration of that, he more or less settled into a mindset which married a philosophical notion of randomness, chance, and fate with an appreciation for now being in possession of the entirety of the family fortune. He did the necessaries. He even displayed an excellent imitation of the Obama goopy face at the funerals and burials; that lippy contortion interpreted as a heartfelt stoicism which held back the sad tears of failure.
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In private, he did a lot of jumping around to Pink Floyd’s
“Money,” while shouting; “Yippee!” and quiet time web “research”
of various sites, anxious to see when he would be recognized as one of the ten richest people in the world.
Long winded considerations of whether the “good” result was motivated by personal gain or societal benefit were mercifully held in abeyance by the hoi polloi; the swampy territory graciously reserved for those seeking election to public office.
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#16-A “Friendly” Snake Imparts Supposedly Useful Information to Its Desperate Constituency Like most people, Cable and Barb whiled away many more wasted hours than they were aware of through looking at “free”
information and other spurious, feral “entertainment” with questionable degrees of accuracy, which took up space on the web at an exponentially increasing rate. Politically oriented “news”
was generally an automatic avoid, though an occasional source of unintended humor. Unlike most people, they became aware that they might possess something which may be of great value; the trophies acquired from the apparently substance issued person who they transitorily encountered in front of the bar; the person to whom they would soon be referring to as “the bag man.”
Barb guffawed, barely able to keep her nasal ablution from hitting the space bar. She said; “Look at this, Cable. I got a good one.”
Cable ambled over and stood behind her. His eyes followed her finger to the indicated spot on the E-Bay page. He chuckled and said; “Good one. The post-truth fake news has gone commercial.”
What they were viewing was much too good to be true; especially after having unsuccessfully tried to sell the
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trophies for five to ten bucks through word of mouth. It just couldn’t be; asking prices at or near $160,000. Subject to severe, plausible doubts on an individual basis, each was mutually fortified, in their possibly undetected errors of wishful thinking, through what they thought they had seen because the other confirmed having seen precisely the same thing. That satisfied the visual aspect; substantive and fakery concerns yet to be assuaged.
With the amusement waning, Barb took the simplest approach and said; “There’s no downside in giving it a try.”
More oriented toward an aversion to being fooled again, Cable shrugged and said; “Only another dashed expectation.” He was a fan of The Who.
Barb said; “We’re well experienced in that and we’re still here.”
Cable said; “Yes. ....... Home, sweet home. Thirteenth Street in evolving Lower Darby. .... Half joking. Let’s do it.”
A week later, in the big, empty feeling house in Upper Darby Manor, Mad Monty chanced upon the Cheeseball trophy listed on E-Bay. He had been searching all over the web, in hope of finding something to buy which would restore his former way of life. He considered it an inconsequential risk to offer $150,000
for one; after all E-Bay warrantied receipt or refund.
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His offer was accepted and the brown shirted, United Parcel Service driver brought the good news and delivered it the next day! So, Less Mad Monty checked E-Bay, and found another for sale. He offered another $150,000 which was also accepted. This became a consistent pattern for the enthused trio.
Wilbur
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#17-Wilbur’s Friends are Taken Away Cable and Barb’s ticket out of Lower Darby was in the possession of their hot little hands and minds. Almost. It was actually in their back storage room. Initially, they thought that it was too good to be true. While they had expected the sales of the trophies to bring them enough to help keep the bills current, it was quite a shock to now be getting $150,000
apiece. It was like finding out that the old neglected monstrosity someone let go unattended as a storage bin for antiquated tools in the old barn was actually a Chippendale highboy with the block and shell motif made exclusively by the Townsend-Goddard family in the late 18th century. Some mistakes which in retrospect seem much too obvious to have happened, happen.
Chippendale highboy; property of the author.
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They had listed them for sale, one at a time through E-bay, and after a week’s wait on the first one, found a buyer each succeeding day for the rest.
Cable and Barb were elated, and had been bombarding each other with plans for a wonderful future; the precise details most often inadvertently ignored in their restless joy.
Wilbur saw Cable and Barb cleaning the trophies more than he could recall them ever doing previously. He also saw them removing one daily, never to be returned. He wondered what was going on and was sure that he didn’t like whatever it was.
His rapidly diminishing number of trophy friends had a different take on the matter. From their point of view, the shared and overriding feeling was that what had been going on was that these strange and previously minimally attentive humans called Cable and Barb were slowly, but consistently becoming more attentive to them, and also bringing those taken to a place which just had to be better than their dingy room.
Rodney said; “They fixed my broken pillar, and honestly, I wouldn’t mind going on an adventure to a potentially better place.” The murmur from the remaining trophies suggested agreement.
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Not wanting to negatively affect the trophies’ optimism, yet compelled to say something which unfortunately could have done precisely that, Wilbur indecipherably mumbled; “It’s a five minute glue job and a family breakup not even legally inflicted upon boundary-crossing, undocumented aliens. I’ll stand right here. Thank you very much.” He knew that it was possible that Cable and Barb were after the trophies and not him, simultaneously knowing that the math involved was highly suggestive of trophy rather than toucan deletions at any given point, until end game commencement, too late, made the odds less and less suggestive of benign and indifferent randomness. More importantly, he didn’t relish the thought of being left without them.
Though not hearing his words, the trophies used not only his dour tone to accurately guess Wilbur’s gist without having to suffer through all the irrelevant detail.
Wilbur anticipated as such. The discrepancy in what Wilbur thought as opposed to the thoughts of the trophies originated, centered, and culminated in that unlike them, Wilbur had always been content in his shared room, no matter how “dingy.” He could not help seeing this as a clear cut assault, much akin to the pre-slaughter fattening of the cattle. The subsequent, sure head aimed smash of the humanly wielded sledgehammer held no attraction for the flippy wooden bird. The trophies sometimes
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held a similar view, but they had always been discontented in this particular room, and at other times consequently thought that their old companions were going to a better place where they would soon meet each other again, when they were able to use their logic-faith-taste to fight off the thought that they might be going to a worse one. Which of the three produced this mindset was not clear, and ultimately of no relevance whatsoever.
At the most bottom of lines, these often articulated thoughts went nowhere and demonstrated no inclination to do otherwise. But, that was obviously no deterrent from their having arisen; and for Wilbur, subsequent to his having gone through his fair share of verbalized bull, they were at least a slight improvement over the Trump-No Trump stuff.
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#18-Monty Tries to Manifest Memories Still alone and still needy of something capable of filling his empty time, Monty went over and over the details of the morning his brothers were killed. He always came to the conclusion that whatever he had done didn’t matter, as if he was there, all other things equal, the result would merely have been three dead Crockers, rather than two. “I’d have just happened to have been there; that’s all,” settled into his mind, a minor re-arrangement of a Dylan line.
$500,000,000. Now all his. “I still have lots of money, a large house, and am still young enough to get more Cheeseball trophies.” He had purchased 58 of them through E-Bay, the number the brothers previously shared in something which approached financial and philosophical contentment; both a majority, but the former registering a higher degree. Nonetheless, whether the vote went blue by one vote or 99% of the total had no effect upon the results.
But Monty was still somehow as unfulfilled as a Gatsby in that lucrative, copyrighted, yet still obscenely copied, window reflection and thesis. Actually, the part Monty found to be the hardest to deal with was his inability to fully attribute the necessarily, hard-assed business decisions to some sort of
“common denominator” based group think, as displayed in old
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cowboy movies, in which thirty seconds of self-absolving reconsideration always follows the vigilante lynching. “Oh well.
Sorry, partner. Really. Next time we’ll consider other options.
The Cheeseball trophies were elated to be back together in a nice place. Their only downside was a worry that Wilbur might have gotten lost. Their conversations temporarily abandoned the detailed intricacies of their emotionally based, Trump-No Trump passions, expressed as arcaneries only Alan Dershowitz was capable of explaining in terms of US Constitutional law. Instead their communications circled around and away from Wilbur, with the same trophy spouting different words, as moods raced the entirety of the trophy’s spectrums, before shifting into un-necessary reverse over and over.
“Maybe he got lost.”
“He’s probably in a nice place.”
“Maybe he’s just going to be late.”
“That bird brain is so stupid that he thinks everywhere is a nice place.”
“I’m sure that he’s happy.”
“Then he can’t be lost.”
“Huh?”
Then voices with different tones chimed in. “Maybe he got lost.”
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“He’s probably in a nice place.”
“Maybe he’s just going to be late.”
“That bird brain is so stupid that he thinks everywhere is a nice place.”
“I’m sure that he’s happy.”
“Then he can’t be lost.”
“Huh?”
Then voices with different tones chimed in. “Maybe he got lost.”
“He’s probably in a nice place.”
“Maybe he’s just going to be late.”
“That bird brain is so stupid that he thinks everywhere is a nice place.”
“I’m sure that he’s happy.”
“Then he can’t be lost.”
“Huh?”
The minor deviations were not worth mentioning; merely an overstated nuance or posture which accidentally suggested a needy “difference” in hopes of not appearing the dolt through engaging in repetitive, conforming rhetoric.
Both Monty and his dearly departed siblings had a few girlfriends over the years; the end always the Crocker discovery that the girl liked their greenbacks much more than their
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diminutive, concentrated personalities. It was truly disconcerting, yet they did not want to risk pulling an embarrassing, public Paul McCartney. $50,000,000 for a week’s
“togetherness” was just too much. In an attempt to get the best of both worlds, Monty got an idea.
He put an ad on EliteSingles.com which said; “Unemployed, indigent, thirty-ish male seeks fabulously wealthy, thirty-ish, slim, yet outrageously curvy female into uncommitted, prolonged oral, vaginal, and anal sex, willing to be cash generous.”
This got the attention of Maggie McGill, who didn’t live on any hill, with her loaded parents in another part of Upper Darby Manor. A local, romantic malcontent, she had acquired a lifetime’s supply of experience with guys who were ultimately more interested in the purse than the puss. She was disinterested in the disinterest, and thinking of trying a girlfriend, probably one of the older, chubby mama-types, but thought; “This one cannot be serious. If I was a male with my reversed female experience, it’s what I might have written while inebriated. ......... That’s perfect. It makes no sense at all
....... except to me. .... us.”
She wrote back saying; “Almost got my interest. However, your subservient acquiescence to hard core feminist preferences portends perfunctorily prompt pee pee pursuits while perpetuity is personally preferred.”
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Intrigued, yet still wary, Monty responded with; “Slovenly, out-of-fit, and terminally overweight, aged male, confined to bed for years, with a miniscule, once-in-a-while functional dinghy, severely in unemployed debt and an in possession of the second Notice of Eviction legally contested on grounds of health, deigns to seek a $100,000,000+ net worth female who resembles Brigitte Bardot at age 22 and talks even less. Object
– maximum orgasmic experience through intense and unlimited female degradation, including the transfer of all female assets into my name.”
Maggie wrote; “Forty year old fatty with eight brats under fifteen would like to share the beauty of terminal cellulite, chlamydia and natural scents right in a rich, marrying man’s face; pee predilection a plus.”
Shortly after a bathroom break, Monty persisted with;
“Homeless, un-educated, drug dependent male with no aspirations toward gainful employment seeks rich female of any age and appearance, who has been plagued with a mothering instinct which compels her to be anyone’s sucker.”
Maggie wrote; “Bi with an alternating preference female weight lifting, buff freak, with pecs like Mount Everest, and extensive whoring experience, seeks a whore into pec and nipple worship, specific characteristics of genitalia details optional
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if accompanied by a bulging pocket of Franklins; other founding fathers case specific and negotiable.”
Monty wrote; “Fantastically wealthy male seeks young and extremely gullible female who, despite vast experience to the contrary, continues to enjoy cum dumps only for their momentary joy, popularly misrepresented. Candidate should like it hard, fast, callous, covering, and transactional.”
Maggie wrote; “Decrepit, hideous, old married woman with a continued ability to weekly dribble out something which very liberally calls itself an orgasm seeks a Goodreads experienced, 40+ male virgin and meta slut who desperately doesn’t know any better. Come on. Let’s share beautiful Wednesday mornings with edited “Vampira” re-runs.”
Monty wrote; “Sensitive, considerate, attentive, New Age male without a tickling beard on face or head, and only blessed with a compelling desire leading to partner contentment, would like to spend double feature, movie length time trying to please an aromatic “Y” any time of the month at her discretion, seeks a young female, race irrelevant, sufficiently stupid to believe overly obvious lies like those inevitably said prior to predictable seduction and abandonment. A hirsute center and mutuality is a seemingly irrelevant plus, when one ignores all other points of view.”
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Maggie wrote; “Now I know that you’re just trying to get me hot.”
Monty wrote; “Never. Young, attractive, affluent, sensitive, bookish, hurt, crying, and lonely male currently into the fast pace of “Wind-up Bird,” and also otherwise turning Japanese, seeks a female of any age, appearance, gender, or species, financial condition negotiable, who is hopelessly attracted to or amused by wimpy, bald-headed, self-centered, anti-Trump males, commonly spouting their MSNBC copied witticisms which pass for conversation ending jokes on viewless literary blogs, and even the Goodreads site, amongst the plethora of wimpy, bald-headed, self-centered, anti-Trump males confined thereto and therein, would like to share a ‘buddy-read’
of an LGB&T book, M-M romance okay, if not sweaty and locker room centric. Come on fag hags; find your Prince.”
Maggie wrote; “Right. Never.”
Monty wrote; “Do I detect an unattractive note of seriousness? Okay, try this. Simple, humble, and un-talented Midwestern male seeks a horny female with low expectations and a kind desire to complement and cheer on incompetence; and is in possession of long tedious experience in the faking of orgasms and/or the faking of the faking. No questions asked. Where are you, Joelle?”
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Maggie wrote; “Middle aged, middling, and humble, female-ish acne malingerant with three cyber friends, counting the sock puppets, seeks similar Goodreads based reader; gender, age, and race optional, who is totally appalled by the ugliness of sex, love, and money. Poetry publishers with deep pockets and a lack of taste extremely welcome.”
Monty wrote; “Young, attractive, considerate, and hopeful male seeks a young, attractive, considerate, and hopeful female who would never dream of answering an ad on this pathetic, lying website.”
Maggie wrote; “You have gone too far. Goodbye forever.”
Monty was not sure if Maggie meant that. But, he had been too exhausted by the badinage marathon to continue. He could think of nothing more to say.
Alone in the 22 room house, Monty did a lot of sitting, fidgeting, and thinking of the past. When his brothers were there they often were annoying to him, but he concluded that was what brothers were for. He recalled the things they had done together and had fond memories of the planned skullduggery hotly imagined at home and executed on the Cheese Rolling fields.
He got to E-Bay and saw that another trophy was for sale and without negotiating, offered a final ten dollars, just to annoy the $160,000 asking seller. Monty already had the original Crocker 58 back in his possession. It was a comforting thought
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which 59 would hopelessly complicate. He went back to EliteSingles.com and added; “We are destined to meet again.”
And, of course, they did. Later that week they were both cackling at the books in the Lower Darby Walmart’s Harlequin section. They broke away from their “funny” books, and simultaneously said; “Baby, it’s you.”
Using baseball outlawed, underhanded, windmill style deliveries they simultaneously threw their books at the punky, dirty, washed-out-light-green-yellow painted steel rafters, and embraced in a number of manners, each of which made the whole
“Fifty Shades” series seem PG in comparison; that apples-oranges comparison only made by bookish nerds.
The books touched down in the self-service checkout section. The “greeter” greeted them saying; “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Maggie said; “Please no. We were really drunk at the time.”
The greeter said; “Then I can’t allow you to leave.”
Maggie laughed and said; “You’ve confused me. Out or in or both?”
The gender duplicitous greeter with a center parted half a head of red and half a head of blue said; “I’ll have to ask the manager.” He-she took out its “smart” phone and proceeded to stare at it.
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Monty smirked and held Maggie’s right elbow, slightly suggesting a direction which led to the parking lot. He looked into her eyes and said; “Time to ride. Your car or mine?”
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#19-Sanctuary By Way of Trophies? - Day Plus – Isn’t
“Ostensibly” a Smart, Super-Cool Word?
Over a period of two personally upbeat months, Cable and Barb had very lucratively disposed of all their Cheeseball trophies, being left only with the lonesome Wilbur bird. Though they only slightly in excess of cursorily searched the web, they found no meaningful market for cranky, balsa wood toucans.
Besides, he was kind of cute.
They spent more time perusing on-line real estate listings, looking for some safe and pretty place, with a few private acres they could cultivate and call their own. They were surprised to find that not very much met those seemingly minimal requirements in the US. The “forty acres and a mule” promise of 1930’s FDR
times had evolved into a promise of “a quarter acre and an annoyingly-ever-present ‘garage sitter’ next door” in the early 21st century, with a Toll-Brothers-type-McMansion available to
“winners” blessed by a an aesthetically challenged condition.
Without doubt, this was an improvement over sharing communal walls and occupied laundry rooms with objectionable criminals.
And then there was previously ignored Upper Darby Manor, geographically and very conveniently right next door.
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The very name had previously repulsed Cable and Barb. To them it was a manifestation of all the things which made Lower Darby inhospitable at the least and dangerous at the worst. Upon further reflection, they drew straws as to precisely what Upper Darby Manor residents did to make the lives of Lower Darby inhabitants as they were. Basically, they concluded that it was nothing other than a Sartre-DeBouvier approved benign neglect.
Taking somewhat of a leap of faith, one could question the effects of taxation policies through assuming that the Upper Darbians had any effect upon that. They could question the
“exclusionary” house prices, and then realize that the prices were set by no individual, party, or political ideology; that it was a collective dynamic which merely indicated that many people wanted to live there as compared to the number of houses available.
Cable said; “The mansion is warm at the top of the hill.
Rich are the rooms and the comforts there. Red are the arms of luxuriant chairs, and you won’t know a thing ‘til you get inside.”
Barb said; “I think that Jim may have been talking about something else.”
Cable said; “Yes and no. A good phrase has a number of valid interpretations.”
Barb said; “Paragraphs too.”
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Cable said; “Gets difficult at novel length, no matter the conflicting definitions, primarily because every idiot is compelled to register their very limited, though long-winded opinion of the author’s ‘true message.’”
Barb said; “You have familiarity with a novel? Which one?”
Cable said; “Well .... well .... well .... ‘ Tanuki Tango Overdrive’ by Arthur Graham.”
Barb said; “Figures. Lots of pictures?”
Cable said; “I ....... we wish.”
Perhaps as a result of having some money in the bank and its attendant options they saw no reason as to why they should be denied the right to live in a “safe and pretty place, with a few private acres they could cultivate.” That desire was in no way evil. As to why Lower Darby had become what it had become was a matter of continual conjecture; the majority of the
“liberal” conjecturers seeing the residents as victims with limited or no control over their own lives; while it was also readily apparent to “conservatives” that anyone not wearing blinders could easily see that the residents of Lower Darby, with a home or not, were engaged in behavior which tended to historically result in a life more hellacious than it would have been otherwise. Neither “side” was in possession of a theory which easily fit people without high paying jobs, like Cable and
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Barb. Through chance, time, or/or stealth, using minimal effort, they had taken care of that themselves.
Back in another time when it had become standard operating procedure to go into dramatics after scoring, one college football coach was quoted as saying; “I don’t want to see any spikes or dances. When you score a touchdown, I want you to walk over to the referee, give him the ball, and act as if you’ve been there before.”
Cable and Barb had no intellectual interest whatsoever in entering the seemingly, eternally insoluble debate; and periodically used the dynamic as a source of “objectionable”
humor. Besides, myopic and Cyclopic zealots always got un-civilly adamant about their current position, in its ostensibly personally unseen purposelessness, as well as the boring redundancy of its ostensibly unseen “classical” regurgitation, which was absolutely no fun at all for anyone other than unpaying, physical activity challenged, liberally oriented social media observers, as ostensibly characterized early on in Sam Shepard’s “True West.” Un-ostensibly, Cable and Barb simply moved.
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