rewriting the myth

It was a lot of "This" and a whole lot of "That" but very little of "This Here."

That's when most folks were awakened by the sight of a cloudburst  (because the starburst had called in sick that day). The poets and the preachers (who were all hung over from speculating and consecrating)  were busy contemplating the massacre of the masses and the massaging of Methuselah  (whose plastic surgeon had gone face-down on Rodeo Drive)  and infiltrating the filtration system with gallons of overheated water around the Galapagos Islands while simultaneously cleansing their wounds with wounded soldiers.

Now, you might think the story would end there. Still, it doesn't because no congressman is around to pass legislation, and all the lawyers have been disemboweled by birdshot. The president is limping comfortably through his third scotch and soda, awaiting his tribunal, his escape hatch, his flask, his gasmask of red death, so he can stay on task; if he's not too busy testing us, molesting us, arresting us, investing in somebody else's future  (other than our own).

Who's to blame?  He's to blame?  You're to blame?  I'm not to blame. I'm never to blame.

The news reporters, those trod down upon troglodytes, smoking their microphones and breathing in Mexican gas fumes from a pipeline in Alaska, made the story about themselves rather than the Pope, who was busying Herself with such Popely matters as separating the zealots from the hermits and the saints from the forty-niners. Then the Prime Minister showed up with her unstoppable rusty iron teeth and blue goodness in her veins, the kind that glowed whenever you showed her a picture of Medusa; she played me like a toy piano, boy, as I was tickling her ovaries, then walked away, without even glimpsing at my collection of collect phone calls and piano wire.

If she was a Democrat, I might have invested in her ad campaign. Still, she was an amateur objectivist  (and pro-Ayn Rand)  and quite inclined to recline next to her feline, which would have created a rift between her and my tweety bird, who sometimes sings in tune, sometimes performs the concerto for fellatio in c-minor on my piano wire, and sometimes watches me relaxing into the evening with a ruthless, toothless beauty queen from Wasilla, Alaska, who's just seventeen and could not abstain, it was easier to sustain the pregnancy instead of being clean as a thistle, with eyes not unlike misguided missiles.

Which is when I met Cactus Johnny.  We were once pals. Till we had a falling apart at the seamstress. And because I had no formal training in the wholesale clothing and apparel industry, we pleaded with our pleated pants not to bunch up around our crotches, even though it was painfully obvious no one would ever mistake those bunches for erections.