By: Brandon Schlong
Written:
10/12-15, 2006
Fucked and Formatted: April/2013
rEUBENICKENOBICKLe
The
gentle crackle of the smoldering logs
That
lie deep in the fire-pit before me
Composes a faltering, off-beat melody
That
I cannot seem to recall.
Under
the influence of a steady wind
(And a tropical storm that has darkened the Earth)
The
Netherworld Musicians quicken their pace.
Ritualistic Jungle-Barbarians ward off all sources of Evil
By unleashing their frenzied, systematic incantations
To
the God of Energy.
To
pronounce this amoral God’s name
One
would have to remove one’s own colon
And
squeeze the organ from one end to the opposite.
The
slobbery, phlegmy noise that is spat
Out of the dripping, human bung-holder
Is the actual name.
It is a name reserved for Immortals
With
all-enlightening powers.
A guttural chant that suddenly
And
with absolute-focus-devotion to this Mutant-Mind-Voyeur
Molecule-Vertigo-Dissipation...
I
am brought back into the physical world
With
the story of how I met Barbara McMillin.
‘Twas
1987 and ashamed we both were…
Existing together, however briefly, in the waiting room
Outside
Principal Kundert’s office during 4th period.
10:52
A.M.
Barbara: age nine, grade 4 (as I later discovered)
Seemed
to have had a bit of an accident that
I can’t really describe in normal literary structures.
A series of sentence fragments will have to be the basis
For any mental images related to this story.
So
it was told:
Bike-Riding-Barbara-Speeding-Out-of-Control…
Bike-Riding-Barbara’s-Bike-Hits-The-Curb…
Next-to-the-Side-Walk-by-the-Monkey-Bars-Front-Tire-Intact…
Causes-Barbara’s-Seat-to-Come-Loose-Unceremoniously…
Into-the-Welcoming-Outstretched-Arms…
Of-Pillow-Soft-Vitamin-Enriched-Wisconsin-Grass…
The
grass blanketed the surrounding areas
Like
an army of Cashmere fingers extending from
The aboriginal hands of a silk-skinned, fur-faced species
Known as Plesiousaur-Homo-Biped
In and around a 16th-century South American colony
Frequented and subsequently governed by the White Man.
Bike-Hits-Curb…
Seat-Flips-Off…
Unbeknownst-To-Barbara-the-Bouncing-Around-in-the-Air…
But-Still-Evidently-Gripping-the-Hand-Grips-Girl…
Under-the-Deceptive-Ignorant-Delusion…
That-A-Violent-Jolt-to-Her-Bike-Frame…
(Such as the aforementioned “Bike-Fucker-Upper”)
Would-leave-the-hand-tightened-nut-and-bolt-"tune-up"
For-Barbara’s-new-bike-by-lazy-ol’-Lenny-McMillin-completely-intact.
The beet-faced girl shrieked without inhibition
After Gary
Gravity
Entered
this anti-climatic punch-line.
Lil' Barbara
McMillin sat there next to me…
She seemingly hovered over the two, feather pillows
That were snuggled under her bottom.
She was holding
back tears as I stood motionless.
The all-consuming itchiness was making me sweat.
I was anxious for the moment I could get out of my gym clothes.
Indeed, Lil’ Barbie McMillin landed on the
Autumn-cooled-point-of-an-exposed-and-recently-liberated
Of-its-banana-shaped-helmet-adorned-leader-and-master:
The Bike Seat.
Beholder
of a near-flawless reputation for posterior comfort
And
prepubescent anus protection.
She
landed on that bike-seat-stem
Like
some mythical, born-without-a-cerebellum-Mongoloid-dum-dum.
But that's as far as her story goes.
Lil’
Brandon however, our fat, little, over-eating story-teller
I
guess, likes to poop his pants in the presence of other students
During gym class when
he tries to do a pull-up.
Lil’
Brandon decides not to tell Gym Teacher Montgomery
(Or anybody else, for that matter)
And allows class to proceed without interruption.
It seems
Gym Teacher Randy Montgomery
Was thinking that sit-ups were in order for the next exercise.
After
five, perspiration-soaked-human-Play-Doh-Factory-imitations
The wheezing, confused, wild-eyed boy
Stands
up without a word.
Randy, the clever, fucking gym teacher
Asks
casually with a smile reaching his heavy-lidded, crimson eyes
“Whatta-ya
think yer doin'?
Ya
got poop in yer pants or
what?”
I
can still feel that heavy, bouncing poop-ball
Slap against my butt-crack as I ran to the office call my Mom…
The End
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