With Gusto

Braggenroot and Hot Pot Canister

CRAP

Moon shoots veins into the clouds
brings a baby on a vine
until Meredith reaches
out, touches the Moon’s hair and
whisps the bible with garnish: cilantro
I think.

Jebodiah closes the door to the fridge
No, he cannot eat today. He could gain weight
he could get shot. That is, after all, why there is so much
cheese and whipped cream in everybody’s refridgerator
it is used to fatten us up. We’ve signed a contract, declaring that we all maintain
a minimum weight. Two-hundred and ten pounds for men, and one hundred and sixty-five for women.

Jebodiah has broken the contract, and people are starting to talk. The Davidson’s have disbarred Jebodiah from their weekly powwow. They blame him for the frequent pickings of their youngsters. It was known that Delores Munfield, a billionaire's eight-year old daughter was having her hayday in the neighborhood. She felt like she could spend as much time as she wanted in Vice-Kill. Eventually she tired of killing, and moved on. This was when Jebodiah had decided to starve himself. After all, who wants a skinny trophy? He might be shot out of spite, but his carcass would make a horrible trophy. There is nothing fat or offensive about his lankyness. As a trophy, he would stand poorly. It won’t be long before somebody sends over the Squads to check him out. See if he’s eating his quota of cheese and whipped cream. He could have his house downsized for this. He hasn’t thought of that until now. Maybe when he returns, the third story and two of the washrooms will be gone. Maybe they’ll deliver pizza and watch him eat it.

Living here was all expenses paid, but nobody had control over their expenses at all. There were ways of restricting and molesting individuals who wished to walk on the line. Two months ago, somebody was shot in the middle of the night. Most believed it was some night-time hunter, getting his rocks off over his surprise, but some thought that it was the Squads who did it. The man was found with his testicles in his eyesockets. It was a message, some said. I’m going home to eat my cheese, said another. I need to watch more television and beat off onto the carpet and use an empty chip bag as a cumrag. Whoo whoo. I’m a train. Whooo whooo, said Mr. Davidson, who had taken to wearing a flak jacket, which was also a violation.

Maybe I should go home and make a couple of phone calls to the right places, Jebodiah thought. I’ll have to gain some weight, or else I’ll look more conspicuous. I need to gain at least 35 pounds before I can make any phone calls.

So that night Jebodiah went home to his refridgerator and two weeks later had Mr. Davidson shot. Jebodiah hosted his own powwow after that, and it was rather popular amongst the community. He did not allow Mrs. Davidson over to his powwows though. The end.

Posted by matty-b at January 7, 2004 10:01 PM