Blueberry Leftovers

Chapter 1: The Meteorite

Two weeks ago I went out onto my back porch to smoke up all my cigarettes in a fit of unsolicited rage when I noticed a large meteorite had smacked hard into my back yard. Being a man of questionable taste in science fiction motorboats, I decided to convert all of my bananas into exit bags. But due to the controversy that has been surrounding exit bags (especially those that were bought and sold like rice at an asylum of the blind, deaf, mute, and dumb) I was constantly being raided by downcast police officers and junkies looking to make it big by pawning all of their flophouse sweat. All much to my dislike, you understand? You dig solid? No, you don’t. No one can understand what it was, how it entered my life, now it implanted itself into my psyche. It was terrible. It haunted me night and day. It consumed me. I became an empty shell of the man I once was.

Chapter 2: The Fallout

Due to the radioactive fallout of the meteorite I have grown extra limbs, extra organs, extra souls. This is all very bad and it deeply concerns me. Concerning me even more is the fact that my wife ended up leaving me for the local undertaker. She told me his wigs looked more convincing than mine and she couldn’t put up with my ignorant opinions on Whitman’s poetry anymore. I feel as sad as John Berryman on his bridge, as sad as Sylvia Plath kneeling before the oven. I am now without love, hope, or a decent future. All of my clothes has been reduced to rags, my hair is too long, my nails need a good cutting. I look a mess. When I go strolling through the streets children start to cry and run away, women gasp and hold their purses tight, men simply shake their heads in disgust. I have become a social pariah.

Chapter 3: The Recovery

After five days of eating rotten bananas, moldy oranges, and toothpaste mixed with magical bacon, I was rescued by a ragtag band of unicorns riding cowboys naked from the waist up. They were great. They dressed me, fed me, taught me how to read and write. And when I was ready they carried me into the cabin and dropped me down next to the furnace. The hot burning coals caused me to melt off all my excess ice and when it was all over I made my body twist and turn like a roller coaster. It felt so good to finally be free of that lethal ice block, but my skin had turned a hopelessly complete shade of pearly blue. I was depressed about it, but the unicorns tried to cheer me up, reminding me that blueberries were blue and that blueberries were my favorite food in the world, so in a strange way it was like the perfect match. It took me several days before I was able to see it that way. In the beginning it just felt like they were making fun of me. I was ashamed of being blue. But as time passed I eventually came to terms with my physical body forever being blue. Thus began my long road to recovery.

Chapter 4: The Rebuilding

When April (which has always been the cruelest month) blesses us all with warm showers and delicate flowers rotting their way out of the dry, dead dirt, we started to rebuild the town back to its former glory, complete with all the bells and whistles that once made our little town great. A group of pilgrims on the way to Canterbury stopped in our little village to paint my pumpkin purple. Such an act is highly uncalled for in the better brothels and cheese factories of New Numbleton, but here in my little watery town it was considered an act of pure bliss and balderdash. The people passed the hat and together with our headaches and diet soda waters we managed to scrape together money to buy them blueberry leftovers for years to come. And when my head eventually becomes too heavy with fluid for me to support it upon my uneven shoulders (God willing) and my bones all turn to jelly from all the years of pressure I have endured from laboring away as the bone collector (Saints be praised) and when my organs melt like a wax candle being brutally kissed by the ember flame (Namo Amida Butsu) and then and only then will all our religions be reduced to rubble.

Chapter 5: The Epilogue

And now that the clocks have been set and adjusted to made time for the zones, let us bow our heads in somber silence as we remember the events that have been hurled at us from the tops of banana trees. Please, please, remember the children. Take them off to the factories, the slaughterhouses, to the jails and orphanages, to all the various isolated moments that plague the world and the world beyond. For that is what flesh is for, heaped upon flesh, used to make books, gauntlets, yellow derelict milkshakes hoisted with my own petard. And since it has taken place it shall also be written down into the books and told in the streets like dirty jokes at elderly death panels submitted and financed by corrupt government officials overlooking crippled barn burnings. To preserve all that has been done. Amen and to all things amen, moreover.