In this epoch, it dawns on me that the general population is too easily spooked during a four day tri-state killing spree. Although it is certainly clear that two rights do not make a three point turn, it also does not rule out the average citizen as a suitable candidate for ride alongs with the puppet hoarder from down the way or guest appearances on repeats of the Gong Show.
Typically, calculated acts of treachery have never been a desirable way to spend a gleeful Sunday afternoon in the park with George, however, given the slope of pillow stuffings weighed against the current price of gas…well, the argument becomes all the more compelling to stay home and take a nap…even on a high humidity day. Furthermore…the more heinous the price of oil per cubic liter becomes, the more likely one can expect to face a devout shortage of cheese. Luckily, this sort of unpleasantry can be avoided if coolness of mind prevails and the acquisition of two or more plump dairy cows tending their wares in the basement is successful.
Now…here is where my path crosses with that of a grappling predicament. I have neither a basement nor the inclination to start thinking up clever names for two or more plump dairy cows. No mistake be made here folks…after all, I am fondly aware of and compassionate towards the members of the bovidae trade and their respected unions….but what is my true motivation here? An adequate supply of cheese regardless of global politics or a reasonable excuse to build a basement?
Either way….somewhere down the line things are bound to become overly complicated and most difficult to negotiate in the dim light of a freshly dug basement cluttered with plump dairy cows and their various accoutrements.
Then what?
Eventually I will have to wander from my home…away from the cows and their associated girth to buy more rennet, thereby exposing my tawdry little obsession for the goodliness that only cheese can provide…dragging my name through the press in a ghastly and unashamed fashion…upsetting my mother at Easter brunch.
Needless to say, this is a lot of hub bub. The kind of hub bub that lends itself to staying at home and napping….leaving me both unreasonable and unavailable for comment at said time.
Somewhere in the depths of societal discontent and finger paintings for the fridge we find Gabriella Garofalo. She’s no Navan Johnson, but her sense of entrepreneurship remains largely intact and her number wholly unlisted. Despite recent issues with rusty hinges and forlorn neighborhood watch people, she is currently working on her second Masters degree in Clinical Toxicology. Upon completion, it is likely she will disappear into the depths of the Congo where she will make valid yet vain attempts to introduce the natives to the wonders of solar cooking and the Tupperware air tight food preservation system. Likely, yet doubtful. Meanwhile, she shills away the hours with clever ruminations of life and the molecular sorts it comprises and the relentless quest for the perfect pair of socks. Should you find that these matters disturb or perplex you and you wish to go into greater detail and discover the tribulations that lie within you, please feel free to send her some sort of rant at: chickenofdoompress@gmail.com.
