Frank Flâneur leaned on his walking stick just outside the saloon. Some might say he was lollygagging, but to the trained eye he was clearly dilly dallying. The few damp crumpled bills in his vest pocket would not get him through the night so a new enterprise was clearly needed in the quest for the elusive spondulix.
As luck would have it she just happened to be hustling her bustle down the boulevard at this precise moment. Standard Moxie was tightly contained in her serious whalebone corset which caused her bosoms to well up over her marginally proper neckline. Frank was captured by the approaching silhouette, enticed by the sideshow cameo, and ensnared into the jetstream of her bustle as it bounced and bobbled down the planked sidewalk.
Standard’s hourglass figure put many exertions into this confirmed flâneur’s beady brain. Exertions that he hoped would extract enough shekels and sumptuous diversions to pass this day and perhaps trail into a weekend of surreptitious and languid luxuries. Standard Moxie’s brief over the shoulder glance upon her stiff passage was all the encouragement this feral cur required. He twirled his waxed mustache, smoothed his gabardine trousers, checked his reflection in the tavern window, and gave himself a wink.
Aster la vista plant life. I hopped on my astral plane and headed for the animal kingdom. From spore to sprout was an interminable boarding process from hell. The gate agents seemed engulfed by a morass of myopic malaise. But as sure as mayonnaise is yummy enough to let us enjoy vegetables on their lonesome, I knew the opportunity would turnip soon to release my inner animal. It seemed like forever. Eons and epochs blended together before my mitotic formed the longed for aster. Or do you say meiotic. TomAto, Tamahto. But I never called the whole thing off. Even though it took further eternities before I was able to make an aster of myself; I did it. So now as I soar along on my own private astral plain I shall continue reaching for the stars.
Once upon a time it would have been impossible to imagine an ambling ramble through the woods without my favorite nicotine delivery system. That was back when it was simple paper tubes stuffed with leaves, often with a fiber filter used as a false sense of safety feature on this system. But inhaling smoke from burning leaves is what it is. Now the price and complexity of nicotine delivery systems has escalated to truly systemic proportions. But my monkey, lizard, and concept to be identified later brain speaks as one with a resounding “No thank you.”
So I take my peaceful easy feeling delivery system of shimmering prurient phantasms from people and places that always have been, will be, and still are in their given moment; no matter what subterfuge my perception delivers to them.
Meanwhile, smoke em if ya got em and deliver us from systemic temptations.
Now will someone please show me the diagram for this delivery system.
Bury, burn or blast off. Thinking back to our earliest days I have to wonder which came first. Some hominid tripping over the bones of the dead said we have to do something about this. Hmmm. Should we dig a hole and bury it or should we have a bonfire (really a bone fire) and make ashes of our ancestors.
Conditions at the time dictated and facilitated the choice.
Fast forward many years to when technology gave us another option. Lets just shoot our earthly remains into space. After all there is a lot of space up there in space. We are just the species to fill it. After all who wants to have their leavings hanging around in perpetuity in the…
Well pluck the duck. What do I have to lose. I guess I will go live in the future even if it is inhabited with people that have boomer expectations in a millennial economy. Sure it’s like having bees live in your head, but there you are.
Everything I know I learned from Firesign Theater.