Friday, March 26, 2010

I Am All Over The Oblique Ascensions Required for the Process of Achieving Aphesis

Untroubled by history, religion or research, I am passed out in this here alley, halfway between the smell of stale piss and rat droppings, naked and Pepto/Caucasian-titty-pink in the cold dim dawn, and it’s Wednesday.

Wednesday is considered either the third or fourth day of the week, depending on whether you start your week on Sunday or Monday. That’s why the Dutch call it something I can’t pronounce. Here in the U.S. we call it “hump day.” Which is what French people call every day, when they’re not using the term “le weekend.”

There’s lonely weekends and there’s lost weekends. Some weekends you’re the dog, other weekends you’re the hydrant. “The Lost Weekend” won the Academy Award in 1945. But Freddy Fender had a hit with “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights” in 1975. In the words of the husband of the woman who wrote Frankenstein: “The barely articulate Jack White never found weekends particularly sad.”

I’ve never met Jack White, but I am passed out in an alley and also not particularly sad, but definitely deciding to abandon this heedless delusory sleep of a unicorn Tom Cruise. Where does my “American Idol” cell phone end and my hangover begin? Answer: between the sharp smell of stale piss and the rat droppings which contain bits of Sister Rosetta Tharpe’s beef stroganoff that she made with hundreds of petals from the famous Julia Child Rose during the days when fishes walked and forests flew.

I never once saw a Toronto Maple Leaf hockey game, but I have eaten a beef stroganoff, though maybe not the one made by Sister Rosetta Tharpe from the petals of the famous Julia Child Rose. On the other hand, the reason I’m passed out in this here alley in the first place is because I just experienced a foursome with the fetching Olson Twins and rounded out by Penn Jillette.

Penn Jillette displayed a glorious beauty like that of a fat valley, and we know this from the Bible, the part in Ezechiel about the ritual orgies of the Serbo-Croatian beard-pullers, from whom Penn Jillette is descended: “And the glorious beauty of Penn Jillette, which is as a fat valley, as the hasty fruit before the summer, which is what the beard-pullers seeth, and with their walrus teeth eateth.”

These Serbo-Croation beard-pullers were ithyphallic, concupiscent men, whose modern-day descendants continue to luxuriate lewdly in the dandruffy sacristies of academia, visible from every vista, like Tiny Tim marrying Miss Vicki on “The Tonight Show.”

At some point during his life, Tiny Tim emptied a can of spaghetti into a frying pan, in imitation of a crude turnip parody of the woman whose bulbous and squat na-na is the only thing required for the process of achieving aphesis.

Scientists succeeded in cloning a Giant Tiny Tim Squid when Tiny Tim was stranded on a desert island off the coast of Taiwan and the Olson Twins were spotted rearing chicks on jagged reef nearby and in desperate need of a good puppy name. Therefore, a clone was made as a way of getting a chance to start over again with a more creative interpretation of Tiny Tim: Michael Jackson.

The Olson Twins never once saw a Toronto Maple Leafs hockey game, either, but they did cook and eat squid with Julia Child on her long ago cooking show, “Staten Island: Friend or Foe”? And at some point someone will come to in an alley and rediscover the squid / Tiny Tim clone wearing white sweater socks and singing “Red Leather Forever” at the Pythian Temple. But it won’t be me. I came to this here alley straight from the Midwest in a four-door Impala like a cross between a honky-tonk fiddler and a pretty ballerina, and I gotta get home now, and anoint my azaleas. Why I am always saying I’m anointing when what I’m really doing is abluting?


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