Breathing your Karma, Eating your Carmex

I bought an air conditioner today- parishing now would be the only other way out... parish... now... can't move my arms. So, truthfully there's lots to talk about, but I think some readers still have some catching up to do. I have some rather courageous, but delightful ideas I would like to expand on into your head. We'll do this sometime, but for now take in this (paragraphed to your liking):



I arrived at McClancy’s Cavern at about 8 p.m. I was just in time to witness certain groups wearing extra large black t-shirts playing Bionic Commando and choice fantasy role playing games. I was once a great dungeon master, which I may feel like discussing later. Classic Nintendo was always on the agenda out here at McClancy’s. This pleased me.

McClancy must have been an amazing man in his time, I thought to myself as I nodded my head at Chalmers, the current leader. He held to me his best leaden orc figurine and asked if I had any interest in joining his quest in the Jurlassin Meadows of Kornath as a dwarf with high attack power but low agility. I declined. He licked his ice cream cone and let out a sigh of disappointment, which seemed like the thing to do at the time. Dark Throne was playing in the lodge area where Satan was being praised just as the mayor had predicted.

This location also housed a previous love interest of my own. Set to be attached at the hip three weeks and two days from this exact day six years ago. My operations management gig was in full swing at the time, and my climb up the company ladder was nothing short of hasty and it looked promising. My life was filled at the time with daily occurring sitcom-type hilarious dramatic events and pauses on my stairs for a still frame each morning with my knapsack. During that momentous week in my life, as I recall, we were setting up for Grandma Willard’s annual summer action auction where canned goods, above all, would be sold at outrageously high prices to the starving masses of townsfolk. In this supply and demand market, Grandma sent us out to do her bidding prior to the auction. Her bidding primarily consisted of destroying all food items in town while wearing Richard Nixon masks and Richard Marx t-shirts. The commodities sold by Grandma could then approach gouge prices. Grass clippings were also sold in “grab bags.” Everyone knew there was a chance to get grass clippings, on the other hand, we advertised that there was also a chance to get gold billets or a key to Grandma’s house or a gumball.

This particular year, strangely and mysteriously, Robert Stack was at the homestead, narrating as he does best. Only weeks away from the procedure, I was preparing the totem pole to receive all the glorious sanctities that I would soon receive. Ah, and yes, Robert Stack was there to attempt to unsolve a previous mystery that had been solved via Unsolved Mysteries. Robert Stack is a good-for-nothing red cockroach. Simply by falsely narrating previous events he completely re-raveled the mystery and ruined Grandma’s auction by signing autographs on T-shirts and hats and holding an auction of his own. Just like all other mysteries Stack brings us, this one leaves us disappointed and grasping at severed fingers. By exploring old historical records and church cookbooks, one can see the significance of this event. I don’t have time for that now.

The mystery, well, I guess the mystery that was, has been erased from my mind. However, the totem that I worshipped as my own that summer is now in the forest with the outcasts. I knew that after taking a class at the local community college entitled, “Places and Things,” as if it were a vague category in Trivial Pursuit or Jeopardy. The only thing at this point that would make the effects of this plague more poignant would be the addition of Trebek himself.

Two vicious dogs were presently eating two small bags of partially decayed grease cuts. Pan left: a rusted out atrophied man stands next to a rusted out shed. His leathery brown face is stricken with sting welts and meat tenderizer used as treatment. I wondered as to the treatment's effectiveness. He opens his hand to me to reveal a twenty-dollar bill and a photo. The photo appears to be of him. He nods his head and begins to walk towards me, kicking old tires away in his wake. I retreat slowly as not to startle him. I needed no more trouble this day. Old sting face would have none of that. Jumping over an axle and grabbing my left index finger, he pulls me towards him and shoved me in the shed. Usually for me, this is how various violations of my body occur. In this case, however, it turned out that I was in for the treat of the week. In the shed lay the master plan. The plan for the outcast, devil worshipping club that is. The twenty dollars, as it turns out, relates to the plan. It is a charity based plan, as well as a general application of chanting techniques to root people from their usual areas of rest. Soon the country music fad folks would replace these outcasts, which would in turn make this place inhabitable to man-children like me. The country boys would drink Budweiser, slap each other around, argue about trucks, and then argue about the possibilities of obtaining pants that are even tighter. Crushing my non-country face would take place, as they don’t take kindly to my types with their particular agenda. A map on the wall stained with chili sauces and food oils. Leathery prosthetic hand blackened with what appeared to be charcoal, dried blood, and again, chili sauce. No guesses were made as to why this boy liked chili sauce so much (with other things), or where he obtained such a realistic prosthesis. The dim humid shed was no place for a good map. Unlaminated map, a spider nest increased my paranoia as hundreds of small fiends crawled around my lower neck region. I increased the pace of the conversation by pointing at the map and making suggestions about the plan. Options should have been explored before chant #3 was developed. This particular chant was used when the flu hit back in grandma's day. Old rubber eye pressed the issue and began explaining how charity would increase profits as well as put a lower bound on the success of the conformists in a shallow victory attempt. Pinwheel generators and other supposed perpetual-motion machines would later be implemented to destroy the monetary controlling energy systems. I demanded that I be forced into the corner cage so that I could contemplate the obvious discrepancies of my own plan in a vile and disgusting place, where I belonged after all. At least for the moment, I would settle for this place, still with the thought of the totem lingering. Computer generated laughter poured out of the PA system signifying the momentary access to the semi-rotted fruit pantry. This prevented rickets I was told by Ignition Bruce, as this man was called. He opened the local tiny fridge and removed one cold packet of Taco Bell medium level (spiciness) hot sauce and enjoyed its sodium richness. Then he hurriedly pressured me by way of leaden wheel weight tipped club into the cage vicinity even though I was a volunteer. I quickly got the last word by reminding him of the charity revolt’s front-end loaded nature and how this is a treatment rather than a prevention. Recently, after a much-needed walk about the forest, I had felt a great wave of logical thought sweep over me. In the cage, now with my own self-labeled elaborate thoughts, I would make general considerations regarding my next move. As I now realize, with the movement of the bourgeoisie (as was evident at the fertilization plant) and the Melcko clan, we would all be suffering similar fates wasting away in cages; symbolic if nothing else.