shipmates

Irony is an old man with pepperoni nipples living in the passenger seat of a nameless silver sedan. This is listener-supported NPR …cautionary tales about the wrath of Mother Nature—that wicked queen and her plans to spank us all, to bake us in her vengeful oven—was muffled but distinguishable even with the windows rolled up and the engine on. Goodmorning, he thought, it’s 2:13 pm and Starbucks will be giving away yesterday’s burnt and moldy – now where is my shirt? Life: oh you jagged edge, rusty razor, when did my tipsy tip toe-ing knock me off your crooked ridge? Turbines turning, CO2 cranking out the back, sending the vipor vapor back to its mean origins – he knew he had to return the favor. Hair brush? Was it lost in the gray wizardly grizzardly beard? Had the handle broken off, had he forgotten to retrieve it from the trunk after last Saturday’s mishap? No matter, Bed Bath and Beyond was the emporium of possibility, of hygienic reminiscence.

Routine is the key to a sane and productive life, he knew that much. First, the men’s room to shine a light on the monsters and keep the haunted woods organized, patrolled— no room or time for intruders. Then on to PetsMart to inform the albino mice – eyes as poppable as pomegranate seeds —that they were on thin fucking ice, as far as he was concerned. Visiting hour with the rotten-finned betas, the overgrown and missed-his-bus ferret, the apathetic newt, the under-stimulated Rose tarantula, was just the shot of Wild Turkey he needed to wash down the day’s metaphorical peas.

Shopping for roommates (he preferred shipmates, since the living space was mobile and practically sailed when steered correctly) wasn’t easy. The others would have to approve – he knew that much. If what they said was true, and the earth really was melting—that useless shitty gumball of a planet—he might consider something a little more expedient than stuffing them in pockets and smuggling them one by one.

No one was looking, the moment was ripe. Now, which one of you brown beauties would like to trade the tank and pellet life for a cozy mobile home and all-you-can-eat Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes?