they exit the saloon doors one after another like a fashion show, or open functions on an AS400
or ants, out of woodwork marching vertically along split trenches of bark, their petite outlines shadowed by the street lights of the car park. i don’t know how much time has passed. i wasn’t keeping track, and i’m almost hooting ash.
when do i have to go back? so it looks more like i’m smoking
and less like a jackass? it’s a great excuse, to be so old-fashioned you’d rather you lived in an era you were able than every five minutes having to excuse yourself from the table.
it’s 11:59 on my Saturday night and His phone is already on silent. i wish i could afford the same capacity to ignore knowing omnipresently that everything was alright.
back to life. back to reality. however do you want me? i’m watching a twenty-something YouTube partner from Australia demonstrate a twenty-dollar iPod rip-off from China while i dig into another box of Extra Toasty Cheez-It’s – courtesy of Kellanova – cronch-cronch-cronch lip-smacking-sounds amok
and at the back of my mind, i can’t help to wander why i still haven’t taken my two scoops of smooth, orange-flavoured fibre, of which consideration is by Procter & Gamble and the cold enamel of the toilet bowl i’ve yet to spackle.
the jester takes comparison pics between the knock-off, his iPhone, and his Pixel of his dog, his mouser, his fenced-in yard – and i know how much pet food costs: while i personally have none, i have family who does and it occurs to me that’s probably where this was
and then the camera flips to face his quaff, looking like i could have fifteen years younger had i kept the same locks, and avoided whatever life conundrum concocted the lump what is the foreign organ from my father in my tum, and the fat it collected as it settled upstream and the broken record’s excuse for skipping is that some things in life are just worth repeating
theory of a daskeman 