Stop Mocking My Antennae

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Stop Mocking My Antennae

Quit making fun of my antennae. I’m sick and tired of you slurring my heritage. You, the bastard issue of coarse yeomanry. I’m unique. Only the bluest of blood courses through my veins. And that’s not because I drank some Wisk yesterday. Well, it’s part of the reason.

I love Jesus more than anything on this diseased earth. I have decided to build my new church near the E-Z-2 Shop on East De-la-ford. That way, after services, I can stop in there and buy Swishers.

Between beatings, my father would tell us tales of the merchant marines, and of the famed lobster-whore of Singapore. My father was the greatest man I ever knew, and he met a tragic demise shortly after contracting the dreaded pleurisy. Actually, it was a virulent strain of scabies. Nonetheless, I have made the solemn vow to not rest a single moment until I have tracked down and killed the American Medical Association.

As a citizen of the Nation of the United States I demand an audience with Little Debbie. Why are the individually-wrapped Fudgies whole, and the boxed ones scored? How does she sleep nights? I once knew a little girl in a checked dress, just like her. I already apologized to the family—what more do you want of me?

By the way, I didn’t want to mention this before, but you kind of smell. I think you would be wise to consider the use of soap, warm water and clean linens before we proceed any further with our friendship.

I’m tired of Washington, with their Marshall Plan, their gasohol, and their metric system! And I resent the fact that the land assessor’s office no longer returns my calls. Down with the tyranny! I think everyone in the U.S. should be gathered into an enormous pen and fed pellets. Except for me. I’d prefer to live in the Shell filling station on Chess Boulevard, because I like the smell of the air hose. Sometimes I dream at night of the Michelin Man slowly rocking, rocking, rocking me to sleep in his big pneumatic arms.

Bring back Priscilla’s Pop! I miss the comic stylings of Hollyhock. I never learned if Chester ever bounced his ball off the library steps. You do not end an epic novel in the middle of its narrative! Bring that back and the whist column.

Speaking of which, have you seen my ratchet set? I usually kept it in that steamer trunk by the lake. I’ll bet anything those merganser ducks made off with it again. Curse you, merganser ducks! You can’t trust any of your valuables around them.

I just counted all the words I have written so far, and the tally comes to 373 (or 374 if you consider “mention” a word, which I emphatically refuse to do). For the young peo-ple who may be reading this and are considering taking up the essayist mantle, may I offer this tidbit of sagacity: Journalism is a filthy gutter trade fraught with vice and whoredom.

So, as we gaze searchingly into the cerulean sky that shelters us all, we are left to indeed wonder about the meaning, if any, of it all. It is to the Creator that I pose this most humble of queries: Can I go to bed now? I’m both tuckered and nackered and desire sleep.


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