An Ode to Tom Robbins
by Me
J Maniscalco calls. every day. he calls about computers and listings and sweet young fleshy things. he tells the girls where he lives. but the guys find out too. 'second house before you hit hockessin falls on brackenville road.' (bracken leads to water, water leads to falls, falls leads back to water. there is no fucking water on that road. no falls. no bracken.)
I drive by his house every day...home from work. not to work. it doesn't make any sense to do it that way. but i do it anyway, because the order and monotony would kill me. (like it hasn't already.) so i pass his house. 'the one with the green jeep out front.' it's not green. it is turquoise. disgusting. rusty. reminds me of a big rusting dolphin screaming for help (no water) in his driveway (why do they call it a driveway if you park in it? and why is a parkway called so if you drive on it?).
His house is a brick rancher, filled with disgusting trinkets, no doubt. the shell lamp his mother bought him from the bahamas, the shepherdess with one arm from the dollar store, sitting there staring at him accusatory...telling him to put them out of their misery. because misery loves the bahamas, you know.
Every time i drive by, i beep the horn of my (sheep, buffalo, cow, lizard) car. 'look for the green (turqoise) jeep (dolphin), then you'll know i'm home.' joy. i look anyway. and i beep. so does everyone else i know from work that passes that way. the ones he's told and the ones he hasn't.
I'm under the impression, or dent...if you will, that J Maniscalco steals these beeps. he thrives on them like people thrive on couches and nacho cheesier chips. he opens up a bag (not made of seashells or missing one arm) and collects these beeps for future use. to what use? i don't know. i am humbly confuckled on that question. ask me something else. i know the answer to eternal life!
alright, i lied. i do know why J Maniscalco steals those beeps. he will one day let them out. one day when he is old and crotchety and has nothing better to do. when his mother has died, his wife has given up on him and left, when his pet poodle, Noofer, bites the shit out of him and J has to put her down, he'll open up the bag and listen to the cacophany of noise. the beeps from all the cars (dolphins?) that have gone by. and connecting the beeps with the drivers' lives, J Maniscalco will steal souls. til one day he'll become just as young as you or i. or maybe not.
"I BELIEVE IN NOTHING; EVERYTHING IS SACRED."
"I BELIEVE IN EVERYTHING; NOTHING IS SACRED."
by Me
J Maniscalco calls. every day. he calls about computers and listings and sweet young fleshy things. he tells the girls where he lives. but the guys find out too. 'second house before you hit hockessin falls on brackenville road.' (bracken leads to water, water leads to falls, falls leads back to water. there is no fucking water on that road. no falls. no bracken.)
I drive by his house every day...home from work. not to work. it doesn't make any sense to do it that way. but i do it anyway, because the order and monotony would kill me. (like it hasn't already.) so i pass his house. 'the one with the green jeep out front.' it's not green. it is turquoise. disgusting. rusty. reminds me of a big rusting dolphin screaming for help (no water) in his driveway (why do they call it a driveway if you park in it? and why is a parkway called so if you drive on it?).
His house is a brick rancher, filled with disgusting trinkets, no doubt. the shell lamp his mother bought him from the bahamas, the shepherdess with one arm from the dollar store, sitting there staring at him accusatory...telling him to put them out of their misery. because misery loves the bahamas, you know.
Every time i drive by, i beep the horn of my (sheep, buffalo, cow, lizard) car. 'look for the green (turqoise) jeep (dolphin), then you'll know i'm home.' joy. i look anyway. and i beep. so does everyone else i know from work that passes that way. the ones he's told and the ones he hasn't.
I'm under the impression, or dent...if you will, that J Maniscalco steals these beeps. he thrives on them like people thrive on couches and nacho cheesier chips. he opens up a bag (not made of seashells or missing one arm) and collects these beeps for future use. to what use? i don't know. i am humbly confuckled on that question. ask me something else. i know the answer to eternal life!
alright, i lied. i do know why J Maniscalco steals those beeps. he will one day let them out. one day when he is old and crotchety and has nothing better to do. when his mother has died, his wife has given up on him and left, when his pet poodle, Noofer, bites the shit out of him and J has to put her down, he'll open up the bag and listen to the cacophany of noise. the beeps from all the cars (dolphins?) that have gone by. and connecting the beeps with the drivers' lives, J Maniscalco will steal souls. til one day he'll become just as young as you or i. or maybe not.
"I BELIEVE IN NOTHING; EVERYTHING IS SACRED."
"I BELIEVE IN EVERYTHING; NOTHING IS SACRED."
demigauge:
superscott:
thats long. and i'll read it tomarrow but i'm sure it's really good as of right now. and i probley agree with everything you said.