President Salix Diabolus

Caution: This post was processed on equipment that also processes nuts.

After a night of reflection, my eyes hurt from shining the LED directly through the pupils. When my curls dried out for the second time I was surprised to find myself thinking. These were no ordinary thoughts; I was consumed by an intense hunger and found relief and satiety in passages of cheddar and pages of summer sausage. The cheddar was melted and easily scooped up with morsels of bread. Toasted.

The ensemble was sublime in ways that would be best imagined if my brain were made entirely of taste buds. No time to think; gotta taste.

At times like these, when it's late at night and I's gots the hunger, I watch old movies. So I was watching Tron, starring The Dude, neon, and papier mâché. If you haven't seen it, don't worry, it's unnecessary. Perhaps you've seen Tron 2: Master Control Program's Got Guns and Raybans, Bitch. I think it was released under an alternative title, The Matrix, and I guess it made some coin.

Idea for a movie of my own: A man discovers that 'Miller Fisher' is actually one person, not two. Measured conviviality abounds (within reason) and he is hailed as a man of great usualness and superhuman averageness. In the ensuing sequence, we follow the protagonist's journey far beyond ticket booths and turnstiles to the very edge of mass transit on a banal (but typical) commute to an ok part of the Upper West Side from deep, deep inside Queens' sooty heart. Along the way he becomes disillusioned with the promises of rhythm during a breakdancing spectacle by the pregnant b-girl troupe The Water Breakers at 42nd Street. He arrives at his office, on time, and nothing about his demeanor says that he's going to put in any less than eight hours today. He begins to do typical 'work' things such as moving papers about and spanking the secretary with a stapler tucked between his ear and his shoulder [will consult employed people for more details]. This goes on for one hundred twenty eight minutes before we cut to a group of adorable babies playing amid a litter of kittens batting at balls of yarn on the 89th floor girders of a construction site for two minutes. In the background, we hear gay* flute arpeggios and tambourines. Fade out gradually to black and silence.

Did you feel it?

Alright, you guys like politics? I don't know much about all this high falutin' political what have you except that I think we should start voting for trees. They make oxygen and fruit and they're not weak on terrorism or immigration. They've got strong morals, except for that satanic willow Salix diabolus. He's a bad seed. And his sap tastes like high fructose corn syrup, because it is.

* The intended connotation here is 'merry'. (Yes, this is part of my effort to wrest the English language from those who would seek to stick it up their bums.)