Fancy Dinner
I
She’s chewing up a petite bite of something that once flew. I ask if she understands why I am angry. There are ancient paintings of martyrs and saints screaming agony from the tired golden walls. She says that plastic plants just make more sense when daily schedules and religious preferences are taken into consideration. I keep scanning the wall, but I can’t find Jesus. My mom always says that’s the impetus for my general malaise. “No Jesus. No happiness,” I can hear her say.
II
I’ve looked at her for at least an hour, and I finally understand what’s made me so angry. Just as I open my mouth to spew a venomous tirade about that gaudy thing around her neck, a panda is born on the TV hanging in the corner. Everyone stands and cheers like small dogs barking at an elephant dancing in the front yard. I reluctantly stand and yap along even though I’m sure my a*s looks flat in this suit.
III
I suppose I should wait until after this sudden holiday to drop the F-bomb. Somewhere, right now, people are being killed because of their beliefs, and I am planning a war over shiny trinkets and a plagiarized ficus. I sort of envy those oily old martyrs, their deaths were too magnificent to ever have the reasons for their existences questioned.