The Dinghy

The Dinghy

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Tuesday, June 24, 2003
 
This morning, outside my very window, a loose collective of our Microregion's most insane lorry drivers drove in droves down the drives and up the alleyways, their engines sputtering, their drive belts buckling loudly and their unctuous extremities greased with the malodorous perspiration of a most offal varietal.

YES: the neighborhood "noise factor" was amped beyond all bounds of civility, decorum and beyond even (yes) all bounds of collegiality.

Insane with rage, I began brewing microwavable coffee in an apoplectic frenzy of monotonous activity. My own cacophony of electro-dynamically charged beepings soon made their way into the sonic fray.

The lorries roaring with rage, the microwave beeping its piercingly monotonous song, and my little dog Barfy yipping with impotent acrimony from his customary seat at the head of the kitchen table, my AUDITORY SENSORS began to overload.

Thereupon, I ran to the window; threw open the sash. With furious fists, I pummeled the rotting screen, sending it wafting to the world below.

I then proceeded to hurl (with horrible force) scalding coffee at the illiterate passersby below, making an ostensible effort to direct said assailant materiel toward the offending lorry drivers and their highly offensive lorries.

When physically spent, my rage much dissipated and my rotator cuff raw with pain, I carefully set the remainder of the delicious dark roast on the ledge to cool.

I then combed my hair with an unbreakable comb, put on my finest pair of cordovan shoes and retired to the out of doors to perambulate the local park. Upon exiting the building I was immediately accosted by an angry octogenarian of the Brahmin class. This blue-haired blueblood singed the very air with her highly graphic polemical re: the degeneration of etiquette, the dangers of "micro"-waves and the rising cost of prescription pills.

Sidestepping the demonically possessed doyenne, I came (star-crossed as I am) to pass below the window of one of our high-rise's most disreputable denizens (an illiterate madman who may very well be my Ultimate Progenitor), and was doused with a dose of liquid fire. From above, burning rain came flaming down.

I screamed, pulling off my stained garments and fled. Lost in a sea of madness, most of my memory of events occurring immediately thereafter is lost, though "when I awoke much later in a red upholstered booth at the back of a bar" (nude) one brief recollection collected in my miserable brainpan: the sound of a little dog, high above me, yipping, almost as if in laughter.

I am unable to make sense of this turn of events.

Love yourself.

That is all.

Goodbye forever.

Thank you for your time.


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