Shovels misplaced, he took a dive for the worst of wares seen since the sporting agents came down hard on him -- and I mean, real hard -- what all, with their deals and promises of auto emission-flavored hashish and early morning blog portents, I mean, what a promise, just imagine him, imagine you, yourself, you again, all shapely and victorious, like Bruce Jenner or someone, all glistening in tracksuit mightiness, resembling a cereal commercial in those starched, crisp slacks that you, he, (one of you) used to wear, circa '74. It was all on a holiday, though, really, actually, all of it, memories ensconced and shit, the gnome garden, the beaten details that welled up sensational tears of memory and servility, the mortar advertisements that grimaced back at you (or me, remember?) in full-page spreads, giving you an erection back along (when you could still have one) in the monthly issues of Future Asshole Chagrin -- a steady supply of earmarks that would invariably follow each reading as you'd tab that page, line post-it notes on the real boner-popping articles, and then sneak off during office after hours to do mimeographs of the especially "uber" stories -- mostly those consisting of lurid & grotesquely forearmed guys wielding pikes and halberds in lieu of plowshares and other peacenik allegories involving more of those fucking bohemians and their beards and their vice-ankled trousers. Still, a snow could fall any minute and add a layer to the misery of brown grass and the vacuum of impatience. Looking around, he, you, whoever it was, could or probably would line the butt up against the window and place the scope in a manner that would ensure delivery. Just a second, that's all it would take to wrinkle the fold of all preconceived notions -- that'd send the message, plus it'd save time, and so, with a waddle, he'd belly up to the edge. Combing back his hair, parting it perfectly, left-to-right and leaving an unremarkable line of exposed skin resembling the yellow and shape of a pencil, he sat and waited. Preachers, televised teach-in's, pants-less ninjas … they'd all creep by as would-be targets, but really, truthfully, it was a mirror he was gunning for. Or perhaps you remember? That ostrich character, the one with billfolds of Greek tragedies and supple pores on the back of its neck, pockmarks; the type who buried its head in the sledge of conspiracies and denials, untested convictions, wild cultish mantras, at any rate, a yammer, loud enough, that would shelter one's thoughts, especially during the height of battle. Yeah man, he was the one, or you were, or maybe it was even me? Hard to say. With a cock of the hammer, he readied the mortar, loading in one butt cheek after the other. At the right moment and with the precarious swat of a yardstick, he/you/me released the trigger mechanism, launching himself over the wall and onto the busy interstate. It was noted later that day in a side footnote on someone's social netbook network feed; no one really that important , well, no, certainly not an official someone of noteworthy praise for whatever deeds that person did or didn't do, save for the occasional not-very noteworthy habit of recycling. Well, the note gave some clue as to a sudden instance of passing fluid and smear that, rather out of nowhere, washed over his windshield. It was enough to merit turning down the radio when a chunk of tailbone briefly caught itself in one of the wipers, releasing a shrill high-timbre shriek. But really? Not enough of a distraction to prevent his diving back into the deep trance-inducing bars of Seventies Gold. For a headline, said-driver simply regurgitated the title (above).
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