Seasonal Affective Bear

Seasonal affective bear chomps mindlessly on a fishy fishy as the credits for The Meaning Of Life scroll by. She’s had her fill of navel gazing, and just wants to sleep. Some wanker off in the stand taking pictures thinks she doesn’t know he’s there, but she knows. Oh yes, she does. And when she catches him, it’ll be munchies for the Cubs.

The author takes a drag of his American cigarette, affects a generic Mediterranean accent and thinks, I am bored. The termites have bored into my head again, signaling the need for more medication. Don’t pity the scrunk, for it pities you not. Bear grins at us as if to say, “watch me catch that photographer “. The space at the end is for extra, unbidden thought. Like cohoags.

As the gated community stirs, Bill checks the gates for corrosion and Lapp symbology. Finding none, he hops on his Segway quickly and I parts special meaning to bear.

Kalimbas stir, a berimbau inhabits the center... yes, the center we all hold dear, but don’t hold at all. In fact, I propose the center is in fact the left, and we must do all in our power to reject its principles. Ever notice how some white musicians play “the blues”? I posit that one must live the blues, and Lyle Lovett was right. A white boy lost in the blues is a metaphor of a metaphor. As George Takei said it best, “YOU are a metaphor. You are literally a metaphor”.

Don’t panic, precious reader. As a metaphor, you are allowed to imply anything you like. Eight out of sixteen Paleo diet wonks advocate for stronger lemonades and faster Segways. They want to get there faster and be hammered as they do. At least the potheads stay docile. We have enough problems.

in sum, the point

Retract your landing gear and fly yourself crazy. Or sane, your choice. But, even flying has its currents; oh, and you can run out of fuel. Drop like a rock, you may. Or will, as death tracks you for the final act.

Seasonal affective bear nods wisely, knowing we’re all full or it. Firesign Theater shouts, “what is reality?”. In short, arm the potheads. What, they’re gonna shoot you?