Refundable Time
Imagine you could do it all again, but worse this time.
Hi there, friends!
I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too short, because there’s nothing I love more than prolonging an entrance. Give ‘em just the nubbin’ of a pinky toe for a half hour before you reveal the whole foot, I say. Then make ‘em wait another full hour before you get out the other puppy.
That’s my performance motto.
But as the purveyor of Mental Flexicon, I find that, in my work, I have to wear many different hats. There’s the hat for writing the newsletter. There’s the hat for recording and editing the podcast.
There’s the hat throwing it in the trash, lighting it all on fire, and cackling as I watch it all crumble and burn… only for it to slowly dawn on me what I’ve done as I realize that I have to do everything over.
All over… And there isn’t enough time…
There’s never enough time. And you bet there’s a hat for that too.
Unable to banish it, they instead devised an occult method for keeping it contained within the citadel…
Which reminds me, early in my preteens I wrote a philosophical treatise and satire titled Time Should Be Refundable and Other Complaints I Levied at God. I handed it out to some of my fellow classmates, but I don’t think any of them finished reading it. Most didn’t seem to make it past the introduction.
I know of at least one kid whose parents caught him with it, and they promptly shipped him off to bible camp for reprogramming. I think he’s a U.S. senator now. But whether he was the only victim of this particular brand of anti-intellectual injustice, I’ll never know. Since several of the other children I never saw or heard from again.
Which really makes me wonder, where are they now…? I’m still waiting on them to return those manuscripts.
Today’s locutions
young fossils
flaccid ego
illegible dramatist
idle quest
destruction organ
satisfrustration
heavenly perdition
phallus palace
ruinous chord
gleeful executioner
kremlin gremlin
royal copulator
(the) Deathbreed
wounded god
(the) ol’ Ben Franklin
world-ending fantasia
Well, well, well. What goodies have we here?
I’d say it’s pretty difficult not to crack a smile at rhyming pairs like kremlin gremlin and phallus palace, for instance. Don’t believe me? Just try it.
Go on. I dare you.
Put on a straight face. Take your time. Make sure it’s fixed on your skull nice and snug. And then try to hold it like that, without twitching or smirking, as you think the words phallus palace and kremlin gremlin to yourself repeatedly.
I won’t even make you say them aloud. I know you can’t do it.
If the first doesn’t jive with your sensibilities, the second certainly will. And if neither floats your boat, then what the hell is wrong with you? You really need to lighten up. I mean how in the hell am I supposed to entertain you if you make it so goddamn difficult?
Have you considered lowering your standards?
Never mind. Don’t answer that.
Today’s vignettes
Returned from her idle quest, for which she never departed, Aisling marveled at the empty lake spread before her. A crater of young fossils embedded in fresh mud. Remnants of a mass extermination no longer submerged.
Varnika wrote an entire script, but decided not to share any part of it with the stage director and cast. Instead the illegible dramatist challenged them to deduce the entire play through their own self-guided methods. No one expected it to work, but after the show opened to rave reviews, many involved felt overcome with feelings of satisfrustration.
Rick compensated for his flaccid ego by transforming his home into what could only be described as a phallus palace, complete with royal copulator ready to slip Rick the ol’ Ben Franklin anytime he blew the whistle.
Francheska spread her fingers wide and curled them one-by-one onto the keys of her destruction organ, anticipating the first ruinous chords of her world-ending fantasia.
President Sokolov hadn’t slept since his inauguration, when he’d been briefed on the shocking existence of the Kremlin Gremlin, a supernatural being accidentally summoned by the NKVD during Operation Barbarossa. Unable to banish it, they devised an occult method for keeping it contained within the citadel. But over the years, it developed a penchant for tormenting sitting presidents with baffling riddles and dastardly tricks.
The Deathbreed were the offspring of a wounded god, whose body still lies bleeding in heavenly perdition at the feet of its gleeful executioners.
Well, there’s a weird mix. But I like it?
I phrased my opinion in the form of a question because I’m so cool and confident, like Alex Trebek. And you know who else is a lot like Alex Trebek?
Friedrich Nietzsche. Because they both never should have lost their mustaches. I hope they find them.
Tune in next week for more of what you never asked for and didn’t know you needed. Until then, take it easy peasy lemon squeezy if you pleasey.
And take it back to the shop for a refund if you don’t.
Hungry for more? Of course you are. You’re a hungry, hungry bunny.
Try this…