25 September 2009 ?
Everyone told me Friendzo had done it, but I didn’t believe a one of them. Because if I had believed a one of them, why wouldn’t I just believe a two of them? Or a three of them? Or all of them, for that matter? They were, after all, telling me the same thing — that Friendzo had done it. But I didn’t believe that could be true.
The evidence was there, I suppose. The top hat. The cane. The musket. The train.
The bratwurst. The egg.
The cornmeal. The peg
But I couldn’t wrap my head around it. This wasn’t Friendzo. This wasn’t right. I held my breath for a couple of minutes to clear my head, exhaled, and realized that I was stepping on my cat’s tail, and had been for the past few hours. Sorry, Jakob Dylan.
I went into my study for some quiet reflection. Could the Friendzo I have known ever done it? Was his heart so cold? Was his conscience so deficient? Was his garage even big enough for such a mass suicide? I thought about all the times I’d been to Friendzo’s house — for drinks, for barbeques, for weekly cult meetings. I don’t remember once thinking to myself, “Hey, you know, that garage Friendzo’s got would be just the right size for a gathering of 412 people, a gathering that would turn into a mass suicide once Friendzo stood upon the high altar and announced that it was time for everyone present to take his or her cyanide capsule, the one Friendzo and I had given to each person (attached to a keychain, so there’d be no excuse to be without it) upon his or her entry into the cult.” That thought just never occurred to me. And I was on the lookout for those things! Hell, it was my job to find the perfect “mass suicide spot.” We thought about renting out a hotel ballroom, but then how would we sneak the altar in? It’s a huge altar, you know.
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Posted by hornblower
6 August 2009 ?
I spoke to Friendzo today about his drug test. He told me that the masking agent was something that’s in his hair-loss product. I told him that he shouldn’t be using any hair-loss product — he was losing his hair fast enough already. No need to rush Nature.
He gave me kind of a funny look. I asked if I could borrow a pair of pliers. He said he could do me one better, and bought me a house. But what am I going to do with a house? I can’t afford the taxes, or the upkeep. I sold it and used the money to buy some straws for the wet bar in my basement. Purple squiggly ones. They’ll be a big hit at the next bridge tournament. Hopefully this time Winslow Homer shows.
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Posted by hornblower
7 July 2009 ?
Friendzo and I went to the mill last week, for a tour. We’ve been thinking of getting into the bread business, and we wanted to reaffirm our love for the old-fashioned mill.
The wind blew the mill’s blades only slightly, and they moved like the very second hands of the clock that would tell some true time well outside man’s erudition. And we watched it for a minute as we rode up. A minute of true time, reckoned by no Babylonian calculus. The millkeeper spoke to us from his throat and hoarse.
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Posted by hornblower
24 June 2009 ?
How do we count when the trees are many? We ride above them in a helicopter, and shoot them. Count your bullets, and divide by thirty, ’cause you’re a lousy shot, and that’s the ticket right there. And take off that hat, you look like a goddamn fool.
My great-uncle taught me that there were no stars, only silver buttons in the carpet up above. I killed my great-uncle, with a spoon.
If you thought there was more to this, you were off the mark, my friend. Real bad. Real gone.
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Posted by hornblower
7 June 2009 ?
I’ve been training for the grub championship this week. My regimen is intense, but I’ve got a great new greengrocer I’ve been seeing, and he’s a whiz. He has me on a three-carrots-every-meal plan, to optimize the transference of gluten and sodium to strategic optical nerves and gastroenterological abscesses. People tell me it’s in bad taste to enter grub contests in times such as these, but I say, No, sir. Except I don’t say sir. I don’t even say anything, actually. I just kill.
With my newfound grub abilities, I think I’ll be running for Congress this year. I have found that the most important part of being a good friend is letting people know that you are a grub champion. This is what I aim to accomplish for all of my great friends. I want the world to be a happy land, and let’s be careful where we step, now, because there are worms coming through the cracks in the pavement. Don’t worry, though — there is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.
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Posted by hornblower
4 June 2009 ?
The pudding I would try to make would be a rather complex little figgy pudding, with small bits of bone, for texture. There would be an intricate garnish of liquid coconut, dyed red. The coconut would spell out, in a highly stylized calligraphy, the Croatian alphabet. Maybe the pudding would come with a toy, for the little ones. This is after the mass-production part of the pudding-making happens. I would try very hard to make this pudding delicious, but I mean come on, it’s my first pudding, so cut me some slack, all right? This is a big step for me. I can’t wait to hear from you.
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Posted by hornblower
24 May 2009 ?
Load up the car, Ma. It’s fixin’ to rain. We bought some new tires today, and they are dope. I wrestled a black bear for them, and guess who won? I did. I defeated the black bear. Went to the greengrocer for some hot tamales but all he had was a can of potato sticks. I ate ‘em, sure, but still. I’m thinking I might need to find a new greengrocer. It hurts to say it, but I’ve got to be frank. A good greengrocer is something every man needs, just like a dark suit, golf clubs, and a rhubarb garden. I feel like these past few weeks have just been one long trip to a greengrocer who’s just past his prime. Makes me think about all the greengrocers I’ve known, and what a strange majestic succession it has been. And so it shall continue, I’m sure, greengrocer after greengrocer, onward through my lifetime like so many silhouettes of lost loves and lost dreams, stretched lengthwise before me.
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Posted by hornblower
