Twin tornadoes of insanity. Fraternal twins. As closely related as celery on a stalk, but different. Unique. These tornadoes of insanity careen and collide and crash off everything and one another, spilling syrup and blood, bones and batter.
One is purple, the other blue. One writes his own alphabet. One does it on your face. One was born in the south. One is a child of the deep. One hates lightning. The other eats rain.
Cement slabs are no match for these creatures. Neither is leopard’s salt. You just have to run. Faster and faster. And hope to god you’re welcome at home.
*/eagle cry/*
*/eagle cry/*

I’m finally starting to feel normal again. It’s taken me about three weeks to get over this tomato infection. But it’s gone now. I’m healthy. I’m ready to resume the more physical aspects of my work. The repeated lifting and setting back down of objects that do not belong to me, directly in front of their owner, will start again. And without gloves. Once more I will put on my weighted socks. Once more I will thicken my mustache. Once more I will assume the role of Town Pointer and provide silent assistance to local traffic and merchant signage. “As you can see, citizen, this is a No Passing Zone.” “This water-bubbling establishment welcomes seeing-eye dogs.” Illness is unavoidable. No man is perfect. But I will not let illness define...

America is a land of endless hate. It is here that the Easter holiday is celebrated by filling hundreds of shopping carts with boxes of dried potato mash, lighting them aflame and hurtling them, en masse, off rooftops and piers. All the while, choirs of homeless men – 40 strong in some cases – grunt the theme to Mission Impossible. Here in America, children are taught to explode on cue. And all the cartoon shows are made of Old Men. Even the President must watch them. They are drawn by the blind out near the meat freezers. In America, hope is a mattress factory. There the afternoon foreman breathes on each employee. The breaths make them fatter. Nothing is done about this at the federal level. Here in the counties, though, the man that refuses to inhale his boss’ odor is...

Out there you’re subject to Man’s Law.
In this Living Room — You’re subject to Couch Law.
Now recite your alphabet.

The Elks Club had a sign up all week: “Crazy Hat Party & Rib Dinner – 2pm Sunday.” Well. More like Manic Depressive Hat Party. For every valedictorian with a working Swiss coo-coo clock on their head there were 18 or 19 “Hoof Arted” and “CRS Sufferer” ball caps. One lady was going on and on about “Oh how crazy – I can’t believe – can you believe my hat, my goodness. My stars.” You know what her hat said? “Florida” Some of them weren’t even wearing hats. They just had bad haircuts. And of course, by the time I got there – I had to stop off at the Comcast Store and trade in my Box so I could get my Channels – by the time I got there: No Ribs. Just little cups of Mac and Cheese. I had...

Old Man Kraatz had his two-headed dog out for a walk this fine Holy Saturday. He had it wearing the little boots again. Each boot jingling and jangling, bright red as the devil.
Kraatz drives that two-headed dog over to town and forces it to look at itself in the mirrored storefront windows. That dog doesn’t like that. It starts going wild. Barking and carrying on. Kraatz stands there smiling and nodding at everyone. He’s forced every animal he’s had to confront its existence dead on and none of them enjoy it.
“Kids love this!” Kraatz cries out to everyone and no one. “They’re offa school now and they love a good show! Come on everybody! I’m giving away boots tomorra!”
He never gives away any boots.