Brad Rose

School Picnic

The ants brought their own lunch. And who can blame them? We should give them the benefit of

the doubt, at least until the poison takes effect. Meanwhile, the birds, those feathered heathens,

cut down the trees. No, just the tall ones. Evidently, the sky is the limit. Mr. Jackson, our 8th grade

English teacher, says, Subject, object, verb. And don’t you ever forget it. Sure, it feels like linguistic

punishment, but it’s a lot less stentorian than his usual didactic yodeling. All I can say is, thank

goodness for my secret powers. In my wicked chili-red wingtips, I’m twisting and shouting faster

than a Saturday night church fire. Fortunately, it’s never too late for dissociation. In fact, the World

Economic Forum says you can still make globalization work for you. Evidently, there’s a thriving

market for human remains. Say, do your prefer cherry, or apple, pie with that?

Poison Darts

I love the zoo. Especially the paper tigers and the ghost of a chance. It’s a big old world out there,

isn’t it? Let’s fence it in. People tend to think I’m just a carpenter having his nails done, but I’m a

real tough guy, see? Take that. And that. And that. By the way, what color is your pedicure? No, I

never would have guessed Orange Evanescent Death Wish ---not in 60 million years, Ms.

Triceratops. What do you say we settle down and have some vintage air conditioning, to

celebrate?  Lately, I’ve been multitasking faster than an overwrought octopus at a hyperactive

windmill farm, but who’s counting? I’ve come to realize that my body is my wardrobe and my

clothes, the theater of the absurd. Even if I don’t know the names of many shark species, I’ve

nevertheless learned to enjoy a variety of hands-free fishing events. In fact, if you’re nice to the

cannibal robots, you, too, can learn to love their creature comforts. Don’t worry, the poison darts

should be a cinch. 

Hat Store Window

Thanks to my invisibility cloak, I’m enjoying the darkness. You know me, if I could, I’d dance the

night away. In fact, because I’m no longer afraid of the devil’s cartoons, I’m planning a quick trip

to the real Disneyland. In merely three short weeks, anyone on the internet can learn to speak a

new language. It’s a small world, after all. Just imagine your internal organs—of course, not your

appendix, that useless little finger buried deep in your slippery belly. That’s much too ugly,

although like extraterrestrial intelligence, there’s got to be a logical explanation. You probably

think you know exactly where this is going. Appearances can be deceiving. In my opinion, your

dainty head belongs in a hat store window, so come on in. Have a seat. Any seat. No, not that

seat.

Have a Heart

Monkey researchers claim there’s a shortage of experimental subjects. Humans, they report,

adapt poorly to cages and refuse injections. The future of humanity may be at stake, but nobody

enjoys human sacrifice. Tuesday, I was washing a few items at the Money Laundry, when big Jake

pointed out that whenever he’s stuck on the horns of trilemma, he chooses the middle path

because it’s so much easier to deny any wrong doing, unless of course, he’s hopelessly

outnumbered, then he finds it’s best to count up all the incidental learnings and promise not to

break any promises. He’s in law school, you know. Whether he’s a vertebrate or an invertebrate, is

still much debated. Sooner or later, I hope to pay off my credit card debt and live long enough to

take all the drugs advertised on TV. Sure, that may take a little belt-tightening and a couple of

rounds of hyper vigilance, but like other animals, I’ve evolved to unconsciously assess the risks

and rewards in my environment. Of course, no matter how well you’ve memorized your memory

garden, you’ve still got to have a heart, although like a loaded pistol, it’s best to point it away from

yourself. If you’re not careful, a thing like that could really hurt somebody.