Baney's Predicament

Baney made a personal vow not to be late for class the rest of the school year. His mom and dad had lectured him about accepting maturity and taking responsibility for his choices and actions in high school.  Baney made his goal simple: he just wanted to get to class before the late bell. High school was difficult enough without having to complicate it with maturity and responsibility all the time.

So far, his Sophomore grades were average across the board.  He tried out and made the soccer team -although just second string- and he was pretty sure Jenny Corlis might, sort of, like him- but who could tell what girls like. Everything seemed pretty much teenage normal. His chronic tardiness was a problem that tended to get him into trouble with his teachers, which tended to get him in trouble with his counselor, which tended to get him in trouble with his parents... too complicated.

Baney's tardy issues stemmed from how easily he got distracted. Almost anything going on in the school hallways like Nerf Frisbee challenges, text book hockey, watching the janitor buff the lunchroom floor caused him to be late to class. Running a gauntlet of varsity bullies -showing off for their cheerleader girlfriends- made him late to gym class however was a slightly different problem. His distractions varied from day to day and usually got him into hot water that ended with him being sent to Mr. Hammer the Vice Principal's office. 

Unfortunately, he wasn’t going to achieve any on time goals this day. Sliding quickly up to his locker, between first and second period, he smacked his friend Detrick- the German exchange student- on the back of the head.
"Jah, you gonna be late again Baney." Detrick laughed.
 Ignoring Detrick's banter in an effort to save time, Baney deftly thumbed his combination and flipped open his locker door. Everything was the way he had left it, in alphabetical chaos. A quick grab of his science book, a one-handed mouth-zip of his folder cover and he turned to kick his locker closed. That's when it all happened. Things went sideways like reflections in a carnival fun house mirror. Then flashing light, magnified to solar flare intensity blinded him. Baney heard a loud sucking sound as he was pulled into the narrow opening of his beige school locker.

When he finally regained partial eyesight he tried to stand up and failed. He didn't fail standing, it was the up part he failed. He sort of stood-up sideways, not really standing on anything. The space he occupied reminded him of his mother's famous molded pineapple-lime jello dessert. Everything was all tinted green, wobbly and sideways. Baney stared at what resembled pineapple chunks in his mother's dessert, only these shapes were the size of Volkswagens and had red, neon glowing eye. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered he was on his way to Mr. Jergens science class.

A quick survey of his surroundings revealed a narrow slit far behind one of the pineapple life-forms suspended in front of him. Could that bright slit be the opening to his locker he thought? Not one to think too hard, Baney began to make his way through the jello-like substance. His forward motion was like running-in-a-dream slow. His pace afforded him enough time to contemplate maturity and responsibility his parents had spoke of, but not the inclination. Each move forward attracted more of the pineapple-chunk creatures. They started to converge on him. This bizarre situation resembled a whacked-out video game.

Baney stretched out his arm and miraculously grasped the edge of the slit he believed to be the opening to his locker. With effort only a second-string soccer player could muster, he pulled himself through the opening while noises -similar to air escaping from a stretched balloon mouth- accompanied his efforts. He fell from his locker, flat on his face with wobbling chunks of green jello and pineapple bits splattered around him. During his ‘inter-dimensional’ escapade, Baney had accidentally broken open his brown lunch bag.  He sat and wiped himself off as a hallway packed with students laughed at him. Looking up from the floor, he saw Jenny Corlis sail by mouthing the words, "you're late for class, AGAIN." She giggled and hit him on the head with her thick science book.

That cinched it Baney thought, Jenny did like him. The late bell rang, Mr. Jergens began to salivate outside his classroom door, Detrick stole his sandwich and Baney couldn't find his science folder. It looked like his attempt at maturity and responsibility would have to wait until next period.

Quartet

A quartet of musicians casually gathered in a park at a long, wood-slatted bench constructed around the base of a monument. It was warm for June and the shadow from the granite base of a huge equestrian sculpture provided the performers some cool shade.

The quartet consisted of a violinist, two cellists and a bassoon player. They dressed alike: White long sleeve shirts, white gingham pants, white socks and white canvas shoes, contrasted with black four-in-hand ties. Their appearance was neat and uniform as thought customary of classical musicians.

The violinist placed his foot next to his open violin case on the bench. He fussed with some grass and leaves stuck to his shoe. Seated about two feet away, cello out and bow rosined, the next musician sat legs surrounding his instrument, preparing to tune it's strings. About six feet further down the long bench sat the other cellist, slowly drawing his horse hair bow across his instrument’s wire strings, sounding long, sorrowful notes. Then sitting very close to him was the bassoonist, fumbling with wetting and shaping his double reed. He tried repeatedly to bring the long cylindrical instrument to life but only succeeded in honking like a barnyard goose, much to his frustration.

There they were, getting ready, positioning their feet, straightening their ties, brushing their shoes, turning pegs and tuning strings while the bassoonist kept honking now and then.
"What shall we play today?" asked the first cellist.
"What ever everybody else wants to play, I don't mind." replied the violinist now rosining his bow.
"Well, I think we should start with Brahms today." offered the first cellist.
HONK "Damn." cursed the bassoonist.
"Really. Can't you get those reeds working?"
HONK
"Well, now after thinking about it, I think we should begin with a little Mozart. He’s so fitting for June” re-suggested the first cellist.

The second cellist continued to drawn out sorrowful pitches on his instrument, ignoring the suggestions of the first cellist. With head bowed to the neck of his cello, directing his comment to the cement walk surrounding the monument, the second cellist spoke, "No, I think Schubert better befits the month of June." 
"Oh really?" asked the first cellist with a slight tone of distain.
HONK
A flock of sparrows barnstormed the equestrian statue overhead. A passing senior couple holding hands momentarily lingered near a landscaped bed of tulips in hopes of maybe hearing a private concert.

The first cellist shifted his feet, putting his right foot forward and drawing his left one back, then pulling at the crotch of his gingham trousers behind his cello.
"Maybe, but on second thought, I don't think we should play either Brahms or Schubert now. I think for the park at this time of day in front of this monument we should play Mendelssohn. That's what I think we should start with." He ended his suggestion by bouncing his bow staccato against his strings.
The violinist tugged at the ironed crease in his pants.
"I think Mendelssohn is fine, I really don't mind, whatever anyone else feels like playing is perfectly fine with me."
HONK "Damn it." cursed the bassoonist.
"Really could you stop that embarrassing honking, really." exclaimed the first cellist.

The second cellist bent his head closer to the scroll of his instrument and scratched his head with the top right key peg.
"I think your thinking about this all the wrong way you know. I think the first expression should be a Saint-Saens or Taneyev, that's what I think."
The senior couple shrugged and continued their leisurely stroll, only to be replaced by a group of strutting pigeons bobbing un-rhythmically in search of errant bread crumbs or sod grubs.

"WHoosh, such high-brow tastes you have. Don't you have any consideration for the common public that just wants to hear some serene music? I think I'll stick with my original suggestion, Brahms." concluded the first cellist.
"Whatever everyone else wants to play." said the violinist in support.
HONK
"If you can't adjust that hollow log to play with some modicum of sonority, I'm afraid I can't contribute my part." complained the first cellist.
"In that case," said the second cellist, "maybe we should begin with a trio, a Sibelius perchance?"
"If that's what everyone wants." stated the violinist adjusting his necktie.
"I don't know how I've put up with you gaggle of prima-donnas this long." huffed the first cellist.
HONK
"That's it. I'm leaving. I'm tired of working with amateurs."

With that declaration, the first cellist packed up his instrument, pulled off his tie and threw it on the ground before leaving the group.
"I'm sorry fellas, this reed is shot. It was the last one I had too damn it. The music store is only twenty blocks away, I could purchase a new one and be back here in about an hour or so." said the bassoonist apologetically.
“No, it’s alright, I guess we could just do a few impromptu duets. Some Dvorak perhaps?” The remaining cellist asked the violinist.
"Well," began the violinist flipping his comb-over hair bang with his bow, "do you happen to know any Welsh Mining songs?"
A choir of squirrels chattered in harmony as the sun lowered a curtain on the musicians as they packed up their instruments and headed back to their homes.

Porcelain Dimension

In some obscure circles a discussion about meeting strangers in public washrooms invariably leads to the hypothesis that the strangers are from alternate dimensions.  Some astute members of these circles go so far as to insist that portals to other dimensions are prompted by the abundant accumulation of porcelain in these locations. The laid back, open minded members squeeze their chins and nod in possibility. But that’s not sufficient evidence enough for the more aggressive debaters who gesticulate absurdity in the ceramic hypothesis. Those overbearing individuals, and individual they are, seem to regard strangers from other dimensions, who lurk in public washrooms are there for the same reasons as the strangers in their own dimension- that being, an obvious urgent need to use the facilities.

This popular discussion can go on for hours. Temporary conclusions that chemical analysis of the room’s tile grout need be taken. Assertions that the chrome plumbing be tested for radio activity and Ph reading of the urinal flush water be measured. The chin squeezing, open minded of the group will vigorously nod their heads. A uniquely persistant member will remind everyone of the effect of the sheer weight of porcelain involved, at which point much face-palming ensues. Another well read member of the group will quote that, “The devil is in the details.” And a respectful pause is observed.

It’s a while before the discussion turns it’s focus on the strangers themselves. A new member of the group suddenly gets an epiphany, “What makes these strangers from another dimension strange?”… Several lower lips are extended and heads slowly move up and down. The definition of strange needs to be defined. Where are these other dimensional strangers from? What truly is their purpose there? When are they most likely to appear in the public washrooms? Who can positively identify them? “Why are they here?” Someone from the back of the group pipes in. He is tersely informed that the why of the matter was long ago agreed upon, because ‘they too need to use the facilities’. “Why don’t they use the washrooms in their own dimension?” asks the same discontented speaker. Eyes roll, arms are folded and heavy air is exhaled through multiple sets of nostrils. Another mandatory pause is observed.

An interlude of childhood memories about public washroom experiences is shared.An open minded participant remembers going into a washroom in the basement floor of an old department store, the washroom also happened to be connected to the subway by a dark, tile-lined tunnel shaped stairway. He remembered a strange man who wore a thick wool suit and a large hat who stood back from a stain etched, vertical floor urinal, pulled one panel of his jacket aside and without touching his male genitalia, urinated into the receptacle and then spit a loogey in after. That definitely in the speaker’s opinion was a stranger from another dimension.

Not to be left out of the lively discussion, another group member recalled how during his tenure in reform school, he and a group of his fellow juvees were loitering in a school lavatory when they heard the most grotesque sounds and smelled the most offensive odors coming out of the last toilet stall. The noises and smells were so horrific they had to wait and see who occupied the stall so they could later torment and forever embarrass and the kid. They waited for over half an hour and endured the most disgusting bodily excretions until they agreed not to wait any longer and kick the door of the stall in to find out. Much to their surprise, just before kicking the door, they all heard a gushing flush. But no one opened the stall door. The fellow telling the story had jumped up on the seat of the neighboring stall toilet and peeked over the metal divider. He swore he was never so surprised in his entire time at the reform school. When he told what he saw, his mates didn’t believe him and kicked the door open anyway. They discovered the stall empty.
Eyebrows raised at this point of the story. Then in the back of the group, someone suggested, “Maybe the guy flushed himself into the next dimension.”… A smattering of repressed chuckles jiggled the group.

“It’s all about the porcelain.” repeated a member tired of the stroll down memory lane. Yes they all agreed. All the porcelain fixtures and tiled walls and floors seemed to form a sort of crucible for electro-magnetic waves to transfer matter from one dimension to the other. All elements conjoined played some role in the frequent appearance of strangers from other dimensions appearing in public washrooms, but none of the group could conclusively come up with a solid explanation why.  With the discussion winding down, the group finished up by washing their hands and drying them under hot air blowers- then one by one, they all left the confines of the washroom via a paranormal method of their choosing.

Coffee Rant

I had to give up the one thing, the first thing I looked forward to each morning. A cup of coffee. It seems my over-stimulated, urban-abused body just won't tolerate the cup of joe anymore. Well I thought, maybe now things will slow down, go at a more recognizably human pace. Not even close. Without coffee, I feel like I'm in a time warp as seconds drag like hours and I stumble around in an opiate state. The old television commercial that said, "Coffee, it picks you up and calms you down." like hell. I've always known the effects of coffee, one cup leads to two, leads to a coveted pot that you won't share with anyone. The addictive affection for roasted beans and home grinding and french steeping. But it's so much more than that. Everyone silently claiming allegiance to the coffee club by aimlessly stumbling through their morning commutes while mallet-clutching a paper Venti. Young office hipsters slouching a anonymously in the back of meeting rooms acting like totally "in" while they barely keep a grasp on their personalized mugs. Yeah, coffee, the syrup that fills the cracks of virtual reality to make it all seem real in geophysical reality. The stealth speedball. The ubiquitous heroin. None of this comes as any surprise to me, I've cold turkey-ed the caffeine tar three times, so I figure, once more into the maw of oblivion is no problem, right? It's not so much the actual abstinence, but the timing. It's like being in the high-speed-car-chase-of-life and suddenly just opening the door and getting out. Folger's doesn't come with skid leathers. It's not a matter of red pill or blue pill, that's just Hollywood psychosis. You just make a choice between brown liquid or clear liquid. It’s all a matter of perspective. I thought maybe I'd lose my razor edge, that I wouldn't have that anime katana like mental prowess. Then I imagined how brutal and Caligula-like trying to cleave a winter squash with a dull butter knife is, and my caffeine deprived ego was marginally eased. Coffee doesn't make you see goddesses or machine elves, you're moving too fast, way out front, standing on the accelerator. Funny car, formula drag racing is like nursing home bingo compared to a java jag. "But it's all for the best" the tea totaling suffragettes sing-song and we all know what happened to prohibition. Remember the ad campaign against drugs, with the egg, "this is your brain on drugs" hook line? The one for coffee would be a nice juicy bug splat on the windshield of a Bonneville Flats speed record vehicle, THAT's yer freaking brain on caffeine dude. 

It's ok though, I'll just do a Miss America beauty pageant white-gloved hand wave as life now blurs by me, the rat race is more over-rated hype than pay-off anyway. Yeah, you guessed it, CHEESE is the next thing I'll have to give up. 

Corporeal

     Worldly events are bending and warping like a "Rubber Man" sideshow contortionist. Even an unbiased observer with 20/20 vision can't manage to focus the abstracting images into anything recognizable. A matter of mass hallucination. Hysterical, manic, machinations. That's what reality actually looks like. The only way to make it behave as something different is through aggressive application of mass hypnosis. The use of somnambulistic phrases and shiny objects to pendulum-swing before rose tinted eyes. Contact lens blinders superimposed upon self-hobbled victims. An easy enough feat exercised upon victims that want to be entertained, not held to the grail-light of truth. Looking behind the curtain wasn't part of their front row ticket price, and yet, jumping off cliffs is free of charge. 

Our planet still hangs suspended in a revolving universe, stable as a pizza box hiding a molten mozzarella core. Oceans of soda and forests of garlic breadsticks compose the flat-earth geography. Self-imposed celebrities perpetually chase themselves ‘round ninety-degree corners. All is as should be in the abyss of Dis-reality Complication. 

One way to simplify life is to stop looking under pillows every night expecting gifted currency from fictitious entities acting out enamel fetishes. 

"Now what?" is a question more people should ask themselves in lieu of sentimental, self-indulgent ramblings about what they used to do, or who they used to be, or worse, bragging about how they haven't changed. Gets old fast. The often overlooked secret is- it's never too late to start something new, even if it's only switching your morning breakfast beverage from frozen orange juice concentrate to artificial vegetable flavored puree. That one minute change could domino-tilt the entire universe on a different course. 

Observe and absorb. Rhetoric is meaningless. Your arsenal of senses are your best conduits for learning. See, hear, smell, taste, feel, then THINK. Search for answers to questions. ASK questions you’ve never thought of before. Questions are the catalyst for growth. 

It's folly trying to “teach”. The best hope, is to plant a seed that will germinate into action at the most opportune time. It's not about rote, but about comprehension that begets epiphany.

Physical world, physical reality.... gravity plays a big part. Imagination isn't affected by gravity. Freedom from that ankle-yank pull is what sets imagination to FLY....Quantum Theory is pedestrian compared to imagination. It's bogged down by numbers and formulas, never ending equations.... chalk scratchings on dull slate, a poor substitute for the velvet sheen behind the cosmos.... 

Time is a rudimentary construct of man to aid him in keeping events organized, categorized and hypothesized. Time is merely a measurement, and not a very accurate one. There is no such thing as time fueling thought or imagination. But there is pulse. Fast, anticipated pulse, slow bemused pulse, a brush swish on a snare drum, a pluck of a bass string, the flutter of a heart in love. Pulse drives everything. Incremented time only cheapens the phenomenon of moment. Each heartbeat is an infinite moment. 

Distraction is a terminal path. Pillar of salt stuff. Mind to ash. But moments filled with imagination, discourage  distraction-rot. 

The night sky used to be filled with rainbows and strings of pulsing color spooling across the naked universe. 

MeLos the Memory Loss Drug

Zombies? There aren't any zombies. It's a word that got used over and over again until... 

There was this experiment done decades ago with monkeys and cocaine. A lab monkey could press a bar in his cage and get a dose of cocaine. Eventually the monkey pressed the bar so often he forgot to have sex, forgot to eat, or drink and eventually pressed that bar until he died of an overdose. 

Decades later, science in concert with large corporate pharmaceutical financing, invented a memory erasing drug. It’s original intention was to relieve the patient's chronic stress caused by irreconcilable memories. War vets were some of the first test subjects, looking for relief from post traumatic stress. Desperate to forget the horrors of war. It seemed to work as expected. For a while. The government gag order kept a lid on details behind a sudden increase in violence and homicide on military bases and in vetren hospitals.

Then the drug began showing up on street corners, eventually ending up in suburban living-rooms of middle America. People became obsessed with forgetting. Black market demand for the drug even outstripped the demand for marijuana. Then things really started to change...

Once some manmade synthetic is released into the natural environment, there’s no control over it. Genetically modified crops first proved migratory data on this scientific short-sight. Then came mutating viruses from animal to human, another overlooked aberration. When the pharmaceutical companies started pushing gene modification injections, they frantically attempted to cover up the monstrous, unexpected genetic outcomes. Think tank committees, quickly hired by the companies, were coerced into a consensus that the Memory Loss pill was the only way to return things to normal. They called the pill MeLos and advertised it on television and over the internet. Misguided visions of profits and absolution danced in their heads.  

When people began taking MeLos the memory erasing drug, it blended with a battery of pharmaceuticals they were already codependent on. These people lapsed into semi-functional, vegetative states. Already at the time, the word zombies had been over-used and adopted by pop culture and infiltrated it’s way into the lexicons of municipal departments and social institutions. The advent of Melos usage just cemented the label Zombie into reality. Only the few people who didn't take the memory loss drug-  didn’t buy into marketing hype, were able to fully realize the drug’s hideous result.

MeLos zombies proliferated every niche of society. Service sectors, even governments became useless. Before Melos, people who took drugs -over the counter medication or illegal controlled substances- could hide their addictions for a period of time, still function at their jobs or with their families to a minimal degree. But when people started taking Melos, they couldn't hide it’s effects. They couldn’t remember how to do their jobs, care for their families, be responsible for their actions. MeLos made them forget everything- and people felt good about that. They felt so good, they didn't feel a need to interact in any functional way with their communities. They simply didn’t remember anything. 

After a month, the person's mind and body started to organically self-produce the drug. This was a big shock to the pharmaceutical companies that held patents to profit from the  drug’s manufacture. The scientists, micro-biologists, developers- no one saw the memory drug high-jacking the patients genetic codes and begin to internally manufacture the insidious chemical on it’s own. 

There's an old saying, "it's never just one thing." When people fixed on an agenda of profit to invent that magic bullet, they often overlook the other "things" that might contribute to wrecking the outcome of their greedily imagined agendas. GMO pesticides, antibiotic over-use, polluted water supplies, microwave radiation, designer gene manipulation and yes, the copious production and use of more and more pills. When you combined MeLos with this already festering chemical- cocktail, somebody should have seen it coming. Nobody's run of blind luck is THAT good. 

Zombies? There aren't any zombies. Don't you remember? 

Time Spheres

Palm-sized spheres with deep grooves purposefully incised around the circumference and strange, spongy material insides. A warm tarnished bronze hued ball bearing errant reticulated scabs. The most unlikely of time travel devices, yet... the story is now dead. The spheres have lost their energy. The technology is light years ahead, yet millions of years old. A quick wonder about the choice of such distant antiquity to have arrived and maybe, possibly not returned from. It's frivolous speculation. A dreamer's folly. Folly that stems from belief in physically existing objects. 

There's an object, and an unknown origin, function and intent. This unknown outweighs physical evidence. Time was traveled, then forgotten. Eventually, measuring with increments of time was rediscovered, reinvented. But the applications of manipulating time, traveling the winds between then- now and beyond hide, still denied. Maybe that was the intent, to bury the secrets of time travel, prevent a dark and dour eventuality from millions of years in the future. But that only raises more speculative and unanswerable questions. The dull voice of distant drums echo more dreamer folly.  

Apocalypse Thanksgiving

After the apocalypse, renegade hordes of fake-tan polo players rode their ponies through the streets using their polo mallets to whack decapitated heads with. They rode through the avenues, the by-ways and out around through the countryside. Their long-legged ponies trampled seedlings and sod like buffalo herds grinding grassy plains. The men kept their chins tucked and their white and red helmets securely strapped. Post apocalyptic polo was a serious game. They gave no quarter and took no prisoners. Who ever fell behind, got left behind and no residuals were given to the families of the fallen. 

The mounted gamesmen swung their mallets with acuity, striking any orphaned skull with gusto. Little boys in white undershirts and sun lighten hair watched the cavalier polo riders from behind elm trees that lined matured boulevards. Visions of envy danced in their young, sky-tinted eyes as their hearts beat faster and they unconsciously scratched at their belly buttons. 

The hard ridden ponies frothed around their bits and their manes tangled in the reins. The polo players kicked their mount’s bellies with rich leather boots polished to a high shine. Abruptly, at the end of an unkept park pasture, the players rode up upon an old cemetery. A battered head with it's esophagus trailing was cracked high into the air, over the iron fence, landing with a dull thud in the middle of the cemetery. 

The players pursued, goading their mounts around tombstones and ricocheting the head off marble and granite monuments like a snooker ball. This play occupied their focus for a long time. Long enough for a scant number of spectators to spontaneously gather. Their eyes grew wide at the garish spectacle. If any of the onlookers took sides, they didn't outwardly show it. The game of head polo continued into the early evening, splattering almost every gravestone with stains of blood. No one saw it happen directly, but a player and his horse collided with a tombstone and went down followed by another. 

The still mounted players viciously began attacking the dismounted ones, striking them with their grim mallets. They continued to mindlessly attack each other as more riders went down. The cemetery seemed bent on claiming it's own victory. The post apocalyptic polo player's soon dwindled in number. The sick cracking sounds from their mallets became fewer.  Soon all the polo players lay dead amongst the stone markers, the cemetery lawn awash with fresh, ebbing blood. 

The loosely gathered spectators stood mute. Their boney hands grasped the iron rods of the cemetery’s fence. Then almost as if acting as one hive mind, they entered the hallowed grounds and began dressing out the bodies of the fallen polo players, removing their entrails and dismembering their arms and legs, leaving the heads where they lay.  The spectators then took the spoils back to their hovels and basements and cooked the delicacies in a feast of thanksgiving. 

Ape Astrophysics

Everything organic or inorganic degrades. It's inevitable. Well, maybe a package of Twinkies and a couple of cockroaches will shelf-date into the future. But this planet was originally a slick, tiger-eye glass marble and then all these panspermia organic things started crapping and trashing and stuff. Eventually over billions of years that shiny marble is now covered with mile thick layers of crap, detritus, MANURE. Dead stuff, rotting stuff, excreted stuff, fossilized and petrified stuff. We beings at the supposed top of the food chain tend to forget stuff like that. Memory lapse is in our genetic nature. Where else is all this decaying baggage gonna go anyway? So it piles up in more and more tectonic plate strata of putrified complexity and Voila! A planet is born, genesis. Yeah, man wasn't exactly made from a lump of clay, probably more like a loaf of dinosaur turd. Then someone invented lip stick. 

Stellar Cherry Pie

Six unidentified flying objects descended upon a sparsely populated mountain town. Twelve diminutive aliens disembarked from their ships and combed between the buildings and properties for traces of cherry pie. Cherries were aphrodisiacs to the space travelers, who hadn't had any physical concourse in several light years. Strictly by coincidence the town was having it's annual cherry festival and homemade pie contest.

Spurred on by the pheromones the tiny red fruit exuded, the extraterrestrials zeroed in on the festival held at the river front park. As they neared the area of the homemade pie contest, their shiny silver spandex spacesuits began to display various throbbing bulges and juicy wet spots. An emerald green river ran through town. The residents of the town hunted and fished along it’s banks all year round then celebrated year’s end with the cherry festival. It was in the center of this park that the cherry pie contest was taking place and a mass of people had gathered and brought their appetites. 

The small aliens assembled into a flying wedge formation and used their advanced laser weapons to cauterize an open path through the humanoid crowd. The pie contestants and pie judges scattered away from the long tables displaying the juicy red and sugary brown cherry pies. All twelve aliens jumped upon the tables and gorged themselves with pies, letting the glossy red syrup run down their chins and arms as they ate. Their shiny spacesuits became a sticky, syrupy mess. An orgasmic frenzy began as the aliens performed an orgy of wild sexual positions and acts across red-checkered tablecloth. They ripped their spandex spacesuits off and squealed in high-pitched gibberish as their thin-limbed bodies wiggled and rhythmically flopped atop broken pieces of flaky pie crust and gushing geysers of cherry syrup filling.  

The festival crowd stood back, shocked and aghast. Almost breathless as they stared at the tiny creatures from another galaxy. Mother's shielded their young offspring's eyes while snickering teenagers used their cellphone camera's to record the bizarre sight. Paunch bellied men in camo vests began fantasizing about oozing slices of pie and looked wanton at their wives. The event lasted no more than a few minutes, after which the aliens lay motionless atop long tables dripping with violated pie filling. 

The small aliens purred in a state of orgasmic fulfillment. The shocked onlookers began to shake off their surprise and initial fear. They momentarily looked back and forth at each other forming a mute resolution then all rushed the pie tables. Angered and maddened for the unprovoked laser attack the aliens perpetrated upon them, the townsfolk took advantage of the aliens’ lapse in awareness and wrecked upon the creatures, earthly revenge.

The cherry festival’s homemade pie contestants later made pies filled with alien entrails and held a new pie contest. The residents of the town never touched another cherry again as long as the vision of the mad alien orgy lingered in their memories. 

Final Frontier

While taking the dogs out for a walk in the forest one last time before bed, I looked up into the clear night sky and enjoy all the stars I didn't see while wandering through my many years of urban life. Amongst the scent of pine and deer droppings, I casually wondered if all the ancients that ever looked up into the same night sky, up into space, -those that obsessed with it's mysteries and vastness- I wondered if they ever entertained thoughts about escaping this planet. 

So far we can't escape our planet, like taking a Disney vacation to the moon or colonizing mars on the lay-a-way plan. And if you adhere to the concept of the earth as center of the universe, then you’re instantly at your destination. The place every other sentient entity in the universe strived to come to; but didn't. 

Today I don't think we wonder about the mysteries and vastness of space, I think we selfishly want to leave this planet and go somewhere else, screw the mysteries, we're bored, discontent and lack unselfish thought. 

Not until Uranus has cable and wifi will we even consider venturing into the final frontier. Not even if Capt'n Kirk has expanded a Trekkie hamburger franchise in the middle of the milk-shake way. 

We've lost our eloquence. We've shed our pioneering spirit. We've abandoned our golden age, all for a super sized, Kali Yuga happy meal.....