Redemption out of nowhere

It gnawed through the inner casing like strawberry flavored Twizzlers, exposing raw, hot wire.

Instinct said to let it go as nothing good ever comes from live electricity except an obvious painful jolt. So homilies aside, imagine the shock or lack thereof when the expected fireworks never materialized. Save for a last minute reminder as a courtesy out of curiosity or maybe in spite really to recoup a lost vestige of dignity did another chance resuscitate previously dashed hopes, a primaveral spud ready to spout.

Who could predict such a change of heart then to befall the sanctioned pomp and circumstance, to be cut off without reprieve, a persona non grata of your own free will.

"Silly rabbit, pink is for kids! 

Or at least dumb chinchillas clueless about how to color me beautiful...," yelled the giant leprechaun into the realm of the senses before disrobing to eat his annual bowl of sugary cereal. 

His warning went unheeded, though as a barely audible peep momentarily broke the imposed radio silence, forcing time to move on possibly. But fools do dive in headfirst.

And again, once... twice... three times the sucker, a hard-candied outer shell easily and irresistibly crunched to reach the fractured soft caramel core. Thus the mortar-boarded and bespectacled owl who actually gave a hoot said to no one in particular.

Why not just continue to let the saliva melt down the reactor because even Joe Q. Public knows shopping cures all.

Notes from booze and bacon

A bad see-through pun loops while suspended in the corner on a black arm adjacent a few onlookers slowly peering at the commotion two so-called chefs pretend to stir up. No one can really hear what both are jabbering about since the porcine tributes hung in salon style on surrounding walls deflect and scatter their empty banter before it could gain any momentum.

Yesterday permitted to roam freely about, opens the front door to escape the hot air which ironically blasts in past the guarded porthole on a three-hour tour to rescue the seven passengers stranded on the kitchen isle. As usual, Elijah Craig is standing blindly by his former professor serving a homemade dandelion concoction the younger Gilligan winces at in distaste, proclaiming how "I hate huckleberries" though, four out of our beloved five millionaires believed contrary.

The only thing missing now, it seems, is pink sauce.

So to sweeten the boiling but not melting pot, our gracious host summons his ninja princess who descends commando, forsaking all modesty for a lighter airiness from the blueless clouds, an Amazonian decision apparently premeditated toward disenthrallment rather than fashion. The gauzy tunic she wears then billows like a seven year itch, an accidental parachute slowing her down enough to stick the three-point crash landing atop a broken concrete slab.

Those outside where cooler bodies prevail feel a glow beginning to glimmer from underneath her loosely fit robe, growing warmer then suddenly hot enough to spontaneously combust the thin fabric. She now stands nude but softly mouths a secret incantation that stirs an invisible fluttering enough to stiffen the crowd. Even so, it is hard for them not to stare lustfully.

Her tightly bound top knot becomes edited later, lost history scrubbed from public record.

Last Days of Pompeii

Another long day's journey into the night and the Northwest Dallas Forty Express, usually a long-winding, nonstop caravan, sat still, hemmed in by inchoate rush hour en route home from the cement pond while the traffic of her dizzying conversation sped along at one hundred twenty miles an hour, too fast for any highway patrol radar gun to clock, pull over and appropriately ticket.

Along the way, the weak chose seppuku rather than endure such protracted torture but not him, not our stone-faced Roman, for centurions never ever give in that easily.

Eyes forward behind mirrored sunglasses as his wont, Del Piombo's descendent seven times removed was trapped as well, himself engaged in a stereophonic debate with Ennio Morricone about which glittery fedora one ought to wear when in the company of cornhuskers as she rattled forth.

Kao Sifu should beat all of them there but not if he could help it, they knew, exhorting his lookalike below deck for full steam ahead.

Besides according to his brand new shiny watch, a bejeweled sundial of a family heirloom from his buddies Martini and Rossi, all signs pointed toward little Britain where grilled marsupial stuffed with roasted kangaroo testicles and crushed garlic awaited as apt reward for listening to her verbally demonstrate endless quick moves in combination to solve consecutive Rubrik's Cubes conjured in mid-air.

Nothing save an eight year old Hapkido white belt breaking his toe or a fever of stingrays or getting thrown under the Greyhound could break his concentration. Then faster than a rerun of Cannonball Run II, our mecca the Anatole appeared on the golden horizon. 

Later at the gossip bar, all found it hard to believe that just the week before, the three would-be amigos stood under a huge sign advertising a Gentlemen's Club with membership cards proudly displayed and actually passed the time discussing the finer points of toilet etiquette.

"Make sure to sit down when you take a piss..." 

Such was inscribed, lest we forgot, in the ladie's room above the urinal.