Rick and Mary

Rick eats an entire bag of popcorn each afternoon. On vacations, a soda before dinner is to him like a birthday cake to a six year old. He loves fishing, has fired a rifle and calls his three children every five or six days.

Mary loves good food. She reads all the time always carries her smell with her. She sweats when she sleeps but there is doubt as to whether or not she has ever perspired in public after she stopped having children at age 42. She is liberal-minded, has a foot fetish and loves her three children equally.

Rick's chest hangs down to his waist.

Mary's chest hangs down to her waist.

A few years after they first met, they figured out they were special. As their friends talked about getting married, they nodded and smiled joyously, sharing their secret. As their friends talked about getting divorced, they nodded and smiled simpathetically, hiding their secret.

Rick and Mary were born over seventeen thousand years ago. Rick was a tree and Mary was a gust of wind. Since they've been together so long, it's no suprise that their hair is so thin and their asses so big!

One morning, a week from now, Rick will die. It's a bit unfortunate that it'll take Mary another twelve hours to follow suit. In those twelve hours, she will tidy the house, call her children to tell them she loves them, and play the piano. She is annoyed at Rick for always walking slightly ahead of her. Huhbrrrr! What an ass.

Invincible, pt 2 of 2: the dark of grey

I had a great plan to write about death in two parts but now I don't feel like writing the serious angle. Instead, here's an email that I sent to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I have not yet heard back from them.

Dear marble Roman penis,

Seeing you on Sunday was awkward for both of us. Had I known you were there, in between the Great Hall and Oceania, I would’ve walked through European Sculpture and Decorative Arts instead. The fact is, although I will always love you, there are so many of your kind in every museum I’ve ever been to. The only thing that outnumbers you is terra cotta pots from Greece. And possibly 20th century African shit (which isn’t really digging into the history of the continent, now is it?). Anyway, I'm sorry little kids always point up at you and laugh. Don't take it too personally - they laugh at everything.

Be well and I'll see you next Sunday,

James

Three from London

Push and hold down the plastic button.  Watch as the screen goes blank.  A few hiccups, a bit of pain.  Reset.

History is funniest when you read it in a bathroom.  Kings and men and dogs all with inextinguishable pride and hypocrisy.  Silly guidebooks and crumbling walls and buildings full of artwork.

My Tree will save the world.  I pray that I can hold her hand as she burns bright.  I dream of carrying her in my arms when she wilts.  My Tree has saved me.