We had another burning today.

They finally got Old Boxcar Henry.

This town’s never had a tolerance for a man who’s good with apples.

Of course the state doesn’t step in. It’s unofficial policy at this point. We keep sending them buckets of these fancy stones and they leave us alone.

He screamed like a goddamned pie being baked. One of them pies that bursts open with snakes streaming forth, each one blind and unable to taste.

This is what is called justice here. Here on the shores of the greatest of lakes.

That’s not what we’re here to talk about.

It’s time we reevaluated our goals as a people. A good third of us is hell bent on using science to breed men with zebras. To bring forth a generation of folks invisible to conventional radar but still docile and demur.

Another third have devoted themselves to numbers and mathematics and coldly abandon their children on street corners so as to not slow their finger counting. This group is no friend of the mailman as they regularly renumber the houses at night, carrying the addresses out to the 4th or 5th decimal place. The Postmaster General even flew in and gave a speech during which he broke his hand slapping a leather strap into his palm to emphasize his “disappointment” with us. His guards fired warning shots into the air to calm the crowd as he shrieked. It was best attended civic event in 18 years.

And the rest of you are ninnies. ¬†Spending your days kneeling in prayer at major intersections, begging God to eliminate the blinking yellow turn light. Don’t worry: Your cages are almost ready.

Looking at all of you. Seeing your prominent head veins. I call for all resources to be devoted to weekend stomach-punching sessions. Start slow. The pain will shake off the night sands. Bring alertness.

After that, we’ll get serious about oil painting.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

View all posts

Add comment

Your email address will not be published.