It was a drum rattling somewhere. They were launching missiles and threats. Maybe a prayer drum, riding fates in the wind. A terrible ruckus simmering in the background about proliferation, bullshit word for Mine's bigger than Yours.
Sort of familiar, that rhythm. Planets orbit the sun. But supercilious. On Facebook a selfie of this kid wearing an Icarus T-shirt, red flames with orange licks lighting the sky. Just imagine! And pointing with mock seriousness, in all good faith one presumes, at so many true efforts. More importantly, there were comments saying it mocked the media, ignored ads, was slinging history into a dumpster and refused to pay tribute. Or taxes. Totally useless.
Rain and allergens in the forecast. A cell phone journalist sharing mountain lion images with the network narrator droning on about how these cats aren't dangerous if not threatened. But you've got to show that you're not a deer, not prey. Cautiously of course.
Tabitha tries to snuggle even as I try to make the bed with her still on it and I tell her, it's just one thing at a time. She's easily distracted by quantum jiggles. And here we are, not all that far from Venus and Pluto. There are crumbs closer in that trail off to other dimensions and no use trying to say which or what. It's a conundrum. Her intellect is on a par with CNN's newsroom.
So what I mean I guess is, push that Launch button. Up go the missiles to rattle brains, and probably bridges and cities, whole countries. Seas boiling and such.
Not to make light of it but, the pun is irresistible and if I have to plow through all that crap just to get to the shaky weather forecast at the end, then I demand satisfaction. And remember the Budweiser frogs, the usual croaking in and out, with Tabitha curled up asleep. Redeep!
In another habitable zone, somewhere way past Venus, et.al., hay fever might be a sneeze in the breeze. Or in this cup, for instance. Look at it and see – just a cup – what is that? And if I sneeze, what happens to the tea?
This won't sell a self-driving car.
