He was kitchen drunk again.
Times like these he liked to review his life so far.
I’ve done well. Hell, I’m a millionaire in 1920 dollars.
He had a low coefficient of drag, he quoted Lincoln, looked you square in the eye, had settled down with a female of his species and spawned.
I’m judge, he thought. Drunk, so. If a tree gets drunk in the forest when no one’s there, oh that’s going no place.
He cast his eyes on the television. The quarterback exchanged souls with the wide receiver on 4th down and five.
Let’s see what I remember from school. Disraeli/Gladstone. Math 920 Ring theory. I was always sick then.
A beer can fell off the table like an indian shot through the heart tumbling off a cliff face. Like I told myself all along: DON’T FEEL. LET PRIDE FEED. UNITE IN SEXUAL CONGRESS. Man, I can live by that stuff. I should be President.
He looked over at his wife lying naked on her stomach. She lay flat and still like the symbol for a plateau on a desert map’s legend. She sure looked good in the kitchen light. Minarets over Istanbul, and look at the hot wigwam, but best of all, her butt. It looked like a clever pet pig. Oh how it dances!
She got up and sat on his lap. She started squawking. Her laugh sounded like an amusement park in full
swing, where every ride must be oiled soon. (Gentle reader, take his wife please.) All of a sudden he felt very sick, like back at school. Furniture, paintings, and dust were all orbiting him, while the kitchen itself spun slowly on another axis about five feet to his left. His stomach pulsing like an almost accident, twirling around in his gut. All of a sudden. Yeah, all of a sudden he could see everything. He was gonna get it for everything he had ever done wrong. All the people he had screwed and squashed. One was robbing his bank right at that moment, and his own son was driving the getaway car. Others were down at City Hall calling him a liar, a cheat, Indian giver, dirt, zero, and no-count also. Worm! you will see the rim of the sun before you go to sleep. You will go howling into the morning corridor like a dog shot in the ass.
Need I point out to you very knowing folk that worms are not insects, or members of any known genus or species? That their origin eludes the greatest of scientists? That a worm can dig deep, cannot burn, cannot love, and would kill you and your children if only the Lord had given him hands?
The pluses of being rich
– Better lighting
– Privileged Information
– Expensive vitamins
The funeral was attended by three. The rest of the world could not be bothered. You see it was the ’70s and groovier things were diverging. There was Love TV, Fat government, and a fabulous hot green war to jack our jizz from s
unup to sundown. American humans never felt so good as when 7 was the third digit in the year they were in.