54. Experimental Narrative--A post-Apocalyptic Period after Salsa-Fest 2016

An aged Mr. Elsewhere stands at his front door, banging a newspaper against the screen, trying to discard a growing mass of flies that flee his assassination attempts, circle around his head, land in his ears, which causes him to swat himself with the newspaper, a newspaper that he has not yet read, a newspaper with a headline proclaiming that the sun is hot, the soil is dry, the crops are stressed, and the overall economy teeters on the brink, the brink of what the headline does not say. Headlines. His head is lined and creased and mottled. And smeared with one of the flies not quite clever enough to escape this self-flagellating newspaper. He doesn't feel the dead fly remains, and won't notice until later in the day when a neighbor finds difficulty to maintain eye contact with him, a problem that until now that particular neighbor has never seemed to possess. But people do change. Possibly. Mr. Elsewhere tosses the newspaper into the sun-dried yard, where the sections promptly come apart and go their separate ways . . .

The paperboy stops by, his sack full of undelivered newspapers. Mr. Elsewhere is not one of his customers. He considers scooping up the loose sections for free-lance sale as Mr. Elsewhere withdraws into the cooler shadows of his house, where a cart of selected liquors stands askew in a hallway. The paperboy rolls off down the street, ringing his bell three times as per the paperboy's bicycle safety manual he received for free along with his canvas newspaper sack. His next stop is Cliff's house, a small bungalow at the end of the street, a house that has aged poorly and cannot be adequately rehabilitated with fresh paint, new driveway cement, or new shingles on the roof. Such improvements would only highlight the decrepit nature of the house, itself seemingly sinking like a gravestone into the unmowed grass and neglected shrubs clotted with decayed branches, perfumed by the corpses of dead songbirds, left behind by a well-fed cat whose nature silenced their songs and left them for the maggots of buzzing flies, massed on the cooler underside of leaves.

A newspaper takes flight, a high arc, a thing of beauty, and bounces on Cliff's front step. A woman waves for the paperboy to come in, have some lemonade. Cliff sits out of view with the TV turned up too loud. Hosted by one of the many Kardashian grandchildren, Jeopardy ends as no one successfully answers the Final Jeopardy question about agrarian puns in Medieval England. Cliff mocks the contestants, spilling his Aquavit in the process. Flies gather at the wet spots on the carpet.

"Come and say hi to the paperboy," the woman says.

"No," Cliff snarls.

"That's okay," says the paperboy, standing on the front step, trying to rub sweaty ink stains from his fingers. He doesn't hand the paper to the woman, Cliff's caregiver. "I've gotta finish my route before it gets too hot."

"Nonsense," says the woman. "I've got lemonade."

As she disappears into the back kitchen and pours tall glasses of lemonade, the paperboy is already pedaling up the block and into a back alley. Flies follow him, then give up the chase.  Cliff's fingers slip on the perspiring Aquavit, and he drops the bottle onto the floor. He falls to sleep and dreams of a cemetery where he once tripped over a hidden marker. Cicadas buzz in his head. He continues to sleep. Next to it is a gravestone engraved with the image of a beautiful young woman--her eyes full of the expectations she has for a stillborn life ahead. Fluttering in a dream-state, Cliff's eyes follow an unfocused figure clad in a hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants as he wanders into the cemetery and stands dripping in front of the young woman. His hands are jammed in his front pockets, and he remains motionless for a few moments, hunched and guarded, eyes on her eyes, on her body, his reflection a ghastly shadow pressed against her polished granite, his eyes flashing for intruders, and reaching, clumsily rocking back and forth, quivering, pulsating, his waistband at her eye level, an unbalanced mountain of obscene flesh, finally turning away and disappearing into a sweltering twilight.

53. Straying away from the blog's central mission yet again . . .

Research Study Leads to Discovery of Earlier Studies with Equally Valid Conclusions on Human Behavior

In the following study just published, Study Finds Cat People Are More Intelligent Than Dog People, a researcher with scads of evidence and down-to-earth reasoning argues that indeed the claim of the title is true--despite the obvious controversy inherent in a study of this nature, with the results naturally leading to hostility and more than a little resentment.

Yet further research has demonstrated that generations of similar research studies on the relative intelligence of one kind of pet owner versus another kind of pet owner has spiraled into both related and unrelated studies. The results have been unusual, shocking, confusing, inexplicable, questionable, and sometimes entirely predictable.

To date, here are the claims of studies uncovered from several archives:

1.       (2016) Puppy people are slightly more intelligent than multiple-cat people but grow less intelligent as their puppies get older.

2.       (1973) Golden retriever people are seventeen times more intelligent than Rottweiler people and three times less likely to get arrested for drunk driving and domestic abuse.

3.       (2015) Multiple-dog people who let their dogs bark all night are 798% less intelligent than their petless neighbors and 14 times more likely to have the cops called on them, even when their dogs are quiet.

4.       (2007) Guinea pig people are slightly more intelligent than hamster people although both are equal in their inability to get a date.

5.       (1927) Turtle people are among the luckiest people on the planet.

Red-eared Turtle--friendly without being demanding

6.       (1999) Bear people and lion people are equally at risk for a shortened life from high blood pressure and misuse of prescription drugs.

7.       (2009) Poisonous spider people and poisonous snake people have equally low intelligence and tend to live in neighborhoods that don’t welcome them.

8.       (1957—a good year for studies) Duck people consistently score higher on personality inventories than just about any parakeet owner, although you'd never know it by talking to them.

9.       (1955) Fish people are five times more likely to have teenagers who have beer parties at their house when they’re not at home than all the other subgroups combined.

10.   (1937) Horse people are less patient than llama people while llama people are less forgiving than donkey people, although all are prone to excessive gambling.

11.   (2014) People with both horses and barns have been found less stable than multiple-cat people who live in trailer houses, as long as the number of cats remain under 27 (more than that and the statistics fall apart).

12.   (2003) People with barns without horses are just slightly more intelligent than condo dwellers who’ve just recently upgraded from apartment living. Both tend to have shoplifting convictions.

13.   (1991) Apartment dwellers are slightly less well-adjusted than homeless people who are experienced at using cardboard and runaway grocery carts while both are equally bad at investing.

14.   (1985—a good year for fashion) Homeless people with pets tend to be more gregarious than donkey people but less patient than llama people—although donkey people have a better fashion sense.

15.   (Ongoing) Ford people are less likely to be satisfied with their jobs while Chevy people like to keep Ford people from getting promoted into better jobs and make fun of them behind their backs.

16.   (1985) Mercedes people are off the charts more intelligent than most other pet people but slightly less well-adjusted than old ladies who take in stray cats . . . a lot of stray cats.

Not these stray cats . . .

These studies have been carefully examined, and the results are worth discussing. Please discuss them with your neighbor, assuming he doesn’t have a yard full of barking dogs. Then call the cops instead.

52. Let's relieve the tension with a new joke

No Editorial Warnings: We're just too tired. So here's another one from Hawkinson. Don't say we didn't warn--oh, never mind.


A terribly bad man robs a guy having soup.

He says, "Give me all your money and your credit cards and your ATM pin number and your watch if it's not a Timex."

The soup eater complies, then shows the terribly bad man his watch.

"Never mind, then," says the terribly bad man.

Before he leaves, the terribly bad man says, "Don't even think about calling the cops. You understand?"

The soup eater nods.

Unconvinced, the terribly bad man threatens, "If you do, then I'll kill you, and I'll kill your wife."

The soup eater nods again, continues eating his soup.

"I'll kill your family, and their friends, and their friends' friends," the terribly bad man says, adding to his list, "and I'll kill your boss and your secretary and everyone else in your company . . . and anyone who does business with your company!"

The soup eater nods at the growing body count.

Still unconvinced, the terribly bad man is winded and frustrated. Finally, he gasps, "I'll kill your dog!"

The soup eater drops his spoon, "Not my dog!"

51. Convergence at Salsa-Fest 2016

While it is much too early to detail with any degree of certainty the tragic, chaotic, yet murky events of Salsa-Fest 2016, this much can be said with a modicum of certainty:

Freida S. (check previous postings for her full last name--if that's what you're about) and her graduate assistant showed up twenty minutes early, her graduate assistant brimming with millennial confidence and carrying a briefcase full of what she would later claim to be "very damning documents, very damning indeed."*

The cranky retiree and his wife did make a short return appearance, despite the unimpeachable accuracy of Post #50, and demanded fresh fennel to show to the authorities because, as he claimed, "there's something fishy going on 'round here." When told the fennel had suffered from a poor growing season and was plowed under as a soil enhancer, the retiree let loose a tirade of expletives (which won't be printed here due to the sensitivity of some readers, but there was no doubt it was an extensive and cleverly arranged bunch of bad words, despite his wife's swatting him on the mouth in a failed attempt to get him to stop).

The neighbor and his wife showed up briefly with court documents and a wide assortment of weaponry. Additionally, the neighbor's wife had an extra shower towel slung over her right shoulder and a container of Prell shampoo in her left hand (those details may be relevant at some point, so it's probably wise to take notes).

Mr. Elsewhere surveilled the proceedings from the eastern most edge of the property. The former Head of Security was surveilling Mr. Elsewhere from just south of the lilac bush. And Kristina Von Matisse, new Head of Security, was surveilling the former Head of Security from a limb in a maple tree about ten yards away.

Lilac flowers--very common in this neck of the woods.
They also smell like friendly neighbors (but not too friendly;
nobody cares for that in these parts; we're Scandinavians,
for God's sakes!).

Vladimir Putin had not shown up as of yet.

Anise and Kookie arrived expecting a free jar of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, clearly not understanding the distribution strategies of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa business model (as explained in an earlier post, if you'd taken the time to read it).

The little dog showed up to lick Freida S.'s toes, but was distracted by traces of Poopsie's fading scent.

The three Canadians brought three more Canadians. All six were spoiling for a fight.

The newspaper reporter/head of the biker gang and her biker gang showed up with mufflers rumbling, tires squealing, and horns blaring (okay, that last part was made up).

Absinthe and Cliff were uncharacteristically secretive and plotting. What did they know? (And why has this blog not picked up where it left off on their parallel yet diverging narratives?)

Grace and Audrey were so unnerved by the unfolding events that they accidentally and unselfconsciously (yes, it's a word) held hands for seven straight (so to speak) minutes.

Still, the head of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa was nowhere to be found. The Eds, in fact, were at a loss to explain his whereabouts (even the Ed whose choppers had so consistently failed on him that management thought it wise to have a translator by his side at all times (see sample post illustrating the need for someone to translate Ed's comments--if you haven't already, that is (and you should have))).

Things weren't looking good.



*Though it would become apparent to everyone around the graduate assistant when her briefcase accidentally fell open and a peanut butter sandwich spilled out and nothing else, except for assorted seasonal napkins, there were no documents at all, much less "very damning documents, very damning indeed." Nevertheless, the graduate assistant did go on to receive her graduate degree before entering the highly prestigious Walmart midnight to eight freight unloading assignment, replete with differential pay for the less than optimal hours.