We've all been there

It was a typical Thursday at noon.

I was at home going through celebrity gossip magazines, cutting the faces off celebrities, all while wailing 'oh you think you're better than me do you, with your fancy lives, glamorous lifestyles and creams made out of placenta and foreskin so you look more alive than most, well you're not better than me, cause you don't even have a face!'

We've all been there.

Suddenly a ghost appeared. 

The ghost of an earthworm. 

It was angelical, bathed in a light that seemed to have been delivered by a higher deity and yet simultaneously being emitted from within, and it was slimy and moist, I guess from doing sit-ups or something, I don't know, are worms always like that? Are ghosts? You see enough and you stop paying attention really. 

We've all been there. 

'Avvvvennnnggggee my deeeeaaathhhh' said the ghost worm, in a deep other worldly baritone. 

'Ah man' I replied, in a whiny shrill 'Not this again, can't you see I'm busy?'

'You look like you're wallowing in jealously and self-pity?' It said, with level of judgment even I could decipher, and I'm not usually good at deciphering judgement. I once thought I was dating a girl for three months before I realized she was just a street bum who thought my pants were too saggy. 

'Okaaaaay' I replied, with a moan that would make a teenager told to do his homework seem like someone who'd instead just been given free pie! The best type of pie. Except for of course way better pie that you paid for. You're never going to get good stuff for free you stupid brainless teenager, it's just not going to happen, but the good stuff is good! Suck it up and pay for it, you cheap bastards, 'how did you die?' I asked.

'Natural causes' it replied. 

'Natural causes? NATURAL CAUSES? Natural fucking causes?' I screamed with breaking voice and complaint so thick that it made the internet seem like a place where people talk about the things they LIKE about the world, 'WELL I CANT AVENGE FRICKIN' NATURE'

'You can TRY!!' Said the worm, disgusted at my can-not-do attitude, 'I'm a worm we only live six days (maybe?), you can't tell my head from my ass, and we're all hermaphrodites so there IS no PUSSY, Mother Nature fucked me'.

'Well I can't fuck Mother Nature, wait unless she's hot...' I said, with a wink, going for a laugh. And failing miserably. Fuck the dead and their lack of sense of humors.

'Well I can't do anything about that, I said', it was tough cause I normally like to help ghost worms, but this one was being a needy bitch, so I asked it 'is there anything else I can do?

'You could give me a proper burial?' It requested.

'Ha ha funny, now you have a sense of humor, when I say I joke I get nothing, but now it's ok for you to joke? You're  a ghost you dick, how do I bury you?'

And it said replied, get this 'mur mur MUR, MUR, MUR, MUR' I HATE when ghost worms say that to me. 

We've all been there. 

'Bury my body you dick' it finally said, after a long awkward pause while I was giving it my typical 'I can't believe you said "MUR" at me' face.

'Ok, fine, where is it?' I asked, surrendering. 

And it said 'where I died you idiot'.

And I said 'like I know where you died'.

And it said 'in my home'. 

And I said 'where's that? I didn't know you when you were alive, specifics for fuck sake!'

And it said, 'you know in the dirt, I'm a worm, we don't have addresses'.

And I said, 'hang on, hang on, are you fucking kidding me???? Your body is in the dirt, and you want me to bury you, you DIED buried!!!'

And it said 'so you're telling me, if you die underground in a coffin you don't want to be dug up and recoffined and reburied?' 

He had me there. That's exactly how I plan to die, and I DO want to be reburied. 

For the next six weeks I did little but look for the worms body. Digging holes, putting my ear to the ground listening for the well known tell-tale sounds of decomposing worm carcass, and asking everyone I met 'have you seen an under the dirt but not yet buried worm corpse anywhere?' 

It was a treacherous, and at times lonely search. Tragedy struck too, as during my digging three ants and a weird centipede looking thing were killed by the mighty blade of the soup spoon I was using to dig. 

But finally, finally, in the last place any sane person would look, in the pile of dirt down by the shed, I found it. I looked at it closely, dry, shriveled, none of the light and moisture of its ghost like self, and I realized the whole time I had been talking to the ghost I had never really looked right at it, and now that I looked at its corpse something that should always have been obvious seemed to spit right in my face, and I had to scream the scream of screaming screamer  'oh, you think your better than me, you don't even have a face!!!'

We've all been there.

Ps. It also took three tubs of foreskin cream to repair the skin damage from all that digging. Fuck you ghost worm. 

Screws and earthworms

It was a teddy bear party. 

The most awesome teddy bear party any of these eight close friends from way back had ever been to.

And they were real friends.

From way, way back.

Almost as far back as the part of the parking lot where the dumpsters would be.

Had they not been stolen by a gang needing a new clubhouse, despite membership being so down that a club house that could only hold two was both ample and sufficient. 

And there were no cars parked the the day they all met there that day.

So spatially speaking it seemed even further way back.

Clutter being a space minimizer.

And that's an area where even interior decorators with an amazing eye for ornate detail fuck up. 

And they'd been to a lot of teddy bear parties.

It was their thing.

Carefully developed over many years.

Until they were ready to spread their own rumors.

Rumors that were true.

That they played with teddy bears.

And these rumors spread like ants in an empty car park covered with bread crumbs after dumpster full of two day old bread was stolen spreading bread crumbs like solar energy discussion on a really bright, super hot, sunny day when the power is out, so air-conditioners aren't working, and someone has already raised the idea that it would be sweet to have an independent, self-sufficient, source of electricity so that one didn't have to rely on the often unreliable reliability of the normal power grid. 

Yet despite this being the best teddy bear party any of these close eight friends had been to, something was very different. 

Gimpy was sitting inhaling steam from a bowl of lemon and honey.

Merga was cutting out eyes from pictures in magazines.

Burps was eating antacids by the fistful and washing them down with ice-cream sodas.

Hails was sitting cross legged on the grass trying to summon out an earthworm. 

Jerf was fructifying a jar of old screws and nails.

Funt was writing down everything he knew about places named Arlington so he could remember later exactly what it was he needed to erase from his memory. 

Pog was working the grill, pleading for it to suck it up and just give him two more.

And 

Slitle was stuck in a spiral of barbwire.

So that was all a normal. Everyone was up to their usual teddy bear party activities.

So why did everyone feel something was off?

Then Funt noticed something.

And it landed upon him like a huge bucket of bricks, dropped from a crane, that was supposed to be grabbing and returning the clubhouse dumpster from the McGunner gang, but had fallen for the decoy barbecue pit and grabbed that instead. 

Merga was holding his teddy bear just like everyone else. 

But his was upside down.

He must have been an imposter all along.

And had now gotten comfortable enough to be complacent. 

Once the others had been nudged to look in his direction all hell broke loose.

They grabbed Merga by the collar and dragged him down to the parking lot where they had all met. 

Eyes from celebrities from magazines scattered into the wind. 

And Merga was left there.

Naked.

Crying.

And with his teddy bear forcibly sewed to his body.

The RIGHT was up. 

Dairy and Injections

'Milks, milks plural, not milk, did I say milk? DID I??? No I fucking did NOT I said MILKS' Roger screamed at the farmer. 

Apparently there been a slight disagreement. 

You see, from what I can gather, Roger had asked a question involving milks but he'd been given an answer only involving milk.

Roger was now turning over chairs. 

Which, despite his tantrum inspired brute strength, was a decent effort, because those were heavy iron chairs, and they were covered in rust, and I am no doctor, but my instincts tell me that rust may increase the risk of tetanus.

By the way, I'm guessing it was easier to talk kids into getting their tetanus injections during the heart of the Tetris craze. 

'Hey Sammy, we're going to fit something small into a space that on the surface may seem unlikely to fit, but in the end turns out to be a snug and satisfactory hold, want to come?' 

'Oh my god, Tetris, Tetris, Tetris? Yes PLEASEEE MOMMY'.

'It's actually pronounced tetanus Sammy.'

'Stop fucking correcting my pronunciations, I'm friggin' six, I haven't developed full control and command over my tongue and soft-palate yet you dick, it's not polite, now are we going to go play Tetris, sorry TEEETANUS, or am I taking a shit in your hand bag and pretending I thought it was potty again?' 

'Oh we're playing tetanus Sammy, in fact, I might even tell the "games master" we're about to go to Malaysia and see if he has any Malaria "Inserts" for you'

'Is that the "correct" way to pronounce "Mario Cart" cause if so let's get in the fucking car you god damn fucking tease'. 

Yep, it's pretty clear modern upgrades to gaming technology ruined parenthood. 

Now you probably have to trick your kids into copping physical pain for reasons they can't understand with ice-cream or chocolate. 

But where is the long term viciously held resentment and vow for revenge for parental figures supposed to be sourced in this brave new world?

It really is a crying shame. 

Roger was now kicking a cow.

His little replica kids sized farm boots pounding it's buttock region almost to the point of being bothersome. 

Sadly, burned butterscotch, Cherry Mocha, or even Roger's classic favorites Chocolate or Strawberry milk were never going to come out of this cow.

Little Roger's little brain couldn't understand. 

He kicked and kicked and kicked, until, a now clearly bothered, cow walked three paces, and Roger air-swung his boot so hard he landed on his butt. 

Seventeen years later Roger was asked by his then girlfriend if he'd ever tried butt stuff.

When he burst into tears for reasons he couldn't even fathom it really, really weirded her out. 

And she ended up experimenting with butt stuff with a hairbrush instead. 

Attack The Whim - A poem

Dennie was at the hardware store and spotted the coolest ladder he'd ever seen.

He decided impulsively that he HAD to have it and bought it right there.

It was only upon arriving home that he remembered he had nothing to climb.

So he went around town and used it to leave open tins of cat food up trees.

He promised himself he'd start rescuing all the newly stuck kitties as soon as he came up with a cool vigilante costume.

But he's now too busy trying to think of a good opportunity to use the three gallons of fake blood he impulsively bought at the costume shop. 

Smile Please - A Poem

Greg, a twenty-eight year old accountant from Mount Gambier South Australia, read online that over the course of his life he was destined to spend the equivalent of two hundred full days brushing his teeth.

'If I focus really hard I could knock that off by the time I'm thirty and never have to worry about it again!' He immediately thought with an enlightened glee. 

By day three of near constant scrubbing his teeth were a bloody mess.

Something Greg was well aware of.

As the thought of his future getting-ready-for-work routine being flush with previously unheard of levels of lack of teeth worry freedom, left him with a near permanent, wide- mouthed, blood-ravaged, toothy smile.

Post Teleportation Society

It was now a post-teleportation society.

Things had changed.

Many of them for the better. 

People who'd climbed to the top of Everest, for example, could no longer be boasting bores who seemingly talked about nothing else.

As they'd now get shut down in ten seconds...

'Oh politics, if you ask me you really have to be dedicated if you want to get any revolutionary policies before the house these days, it reminds me of my Everest climb... wait, fuck, where am I... Oh very funny Steve, did you teleport me to the top of Everest you dick?' was now a commonly said sentence.

But there were down sides to this new society too, like sometimes your friends would think it was funny to teleport you places, like the top of Everest, and after two or three times you'd be forced to learn that it didn't matter if you were planning a trip or not, or that for some reason teleportation devices were awkwardly designed and were cumbersome and pointy in your pocket, but you better damn well carry one at all times, because climbing down Everest in shorts was chilly, and asking one of the thousands of people already up there to borrow theirs was a major social social faux-pas, almost to the magnitude of letting someone buy you a drink in a bar and then not offering to buy the next round. 

Still, there were other fun elements too. 

Like boys weekends in fun exotic locations like the new Himalayan themed casino in Vegas, or on top of Everest, first dates at romantic places like 'Ice Ice Ice' Paris's number one Everest inspired bistro, or perhaps the top of Everest, or even just having easy access to Hutty Hutty, the world's most happening Tiki Bar, located right there on the top of Everest. 

Yep it was a post-teleportation society. 

And almost everyone was well travelled, enveloped in romance and adventure, and dripping with happiness like a snow bank on Everest being decimated under the weight and heat of endless visitors. 

Everyone was happy, that is except Don Caruana. 

The inventor of the teleportation-device. 

He wasn't happy at all...

Because in all the years since his invention had taken off, not one person had teleported to his house for a visit. 

Because his previous greatest achievement, climbing Everest, now seemed pedestrian. 

And because he'd turned down the chance to buy shares in Hutty Hutty BEFORE it took off, and he now has to wait in line to get in just like every other shluby loser. 

But mostly because of the complaints. 

His cats would often hear him muttering...

'Oh it's cumbersome in your pocket is it? Oh Everest is too crowded now is it? Well I'm working on a fucking time machine and I'm going to go back and UNINVENT the teleportation device, and soon you'll never even remember it existed!'

And most of us don't. 

Saliva Life - A Poem

Simone was a licker. 

'It's NOT a sexual thing' she would swiftly have to say, whenever the topic was raised.

As it turned out men often hear 'lick' and automatically think of their 'dick'.

Simone hated this. 

Her licking things was an obsessive compulsive affliction.

She'd been licking hundreds of things a day since she was a little girl.

She'd licked everything from train seats, light posts, food packaging, zoo animals, sporting equipment, newspapers, telephones, cruise ships, knitting needles, to restaurant menus and even vases!!! 

Sometimes vases that didn't even have bloody flowers in them.

It was a serious issue. 

She HAD to lick things or else she'd have panic attacks and break downs, and sometimes if she hadn't licked something new for a few hours the desire would bubble into such a frenzy that she'd find herself going on lick binges that could last days on end.

And leave her mouth dry.

Like super dry.

At least TWO glasses of water needed to rectify the situation dry.

It was the worst aspect of her life.

She felt vulnerable wherever she went.

And these animals and their dirty minds often made her feel like a freak. 

Those bastards. 

They were worse than the need to lick itself. 

She thought it was a situation with literally no upside.

However, unbeknownst to Simone, on at least a dozen occasions, men getting lost in their lustful hallucinations, saved her from purchasing expensive and unwanted white-goods in shops with staunch and unwavering storewide 'you lick it you buy it' policies. 

Reven, the Bear Headed Raven

Reven, the Bear Headed Raven, was beginning to limp.

He knew instinctively this was bad.

Because things don't typically begin and then just end.

It would not be described as a beginning in that case. 

Things that begin... then continue. 

No one was saying that Reven, The Bear Headed Raven, was 'temporarily' limping for example.

Which would have been bad it's own right. 

Limping of any kind being a sign of injury. 

Injury being a sign of weakness.

And weakness being a sign of deliciousness. 

I mean who among us hasn't sat around Christmas or Thanksgiving dinner and said 'Mmmmmm, yum, this Turkey is weaker than a little girl with polio'?

So I'm glad I cleared that up.

And even though the bear part of Reven had no natural predators.

The raven part had many. 

It's part and parcel of being a new species.

Most of the animals that are potentially destined to eat you have yet to have a taste and are keen to try you out. 

Even if they risk having their face eaten off themselves by your bear parts. 

But when it comes to new meat flavors, sometimes it's worth losing a cheek, and maybe an eye, for a sample.

Which is where the popular phrase to describe someone who is hungry 'you look like like you're seething with cheekless eye envy' originated. 

So I'm glad I cleared that up. 

Finding a mate was hard too. Whether gimped with a limp OR fully fit. 

Bears weren't attracted to him because bears are notoriously not attracted to wings.

Some even go as far as to say 'I wouldn't bang a winged creature with a koala's dick'.

Koalas of course being the go-to make fun of species to bears, given them wearing the bear moniker, but in no way honoring the spirit in the title. 

Pandas are of course very happy about this, as it rescues them from much mocking in bear circles.

Sometimes they'll make fun of koalas themselves, saying epically cruel things like 'yeah have another nap', or 'ha ha you eat leaves, everyone knows shoots are where it's at'. 

Deep down though they feel ashamed of themselves, 'bullying to avoid bullying, how did it come to this?' They'll think while trying to make a koala cry. 

It leads to a lot of panda shame-based erectile dysfunction, but that's a whole other issue. 

It's kind of like the Welsh making fun of the Irish, in hoping to avoid the English making fun of them. 

Which finally explains why the Welsh rarely getting caught banging Pandas.

So I'm glad I cleared that up. 

And ravens are scared of mating with a bear headed creatures. 

Because due to an evolutionary anomaly the bear head was looking backwards, and so it would look you right in the eyes during coitus, which ravens hate.

Due to them usually preferring to close their eyes and pretend they're actually making love with parrots and toucans. 

Which is where the popular pick up line 'hey baby, you're more colorful than the minds-eye of a nut busting scavenger bird' comes from.

So I'm glad I cleared that up.  

But finding a mate wasn't on Revens mind today.

Only the limp.

Oh and the lizard that, in an incident possibly related to the limp, had earlier bitten Reven's leg and gotten it's teeth stuck in the section between the flesh and the pointy nail/ talon type bit.

And was now being dragged all over the place.

With Bear Headed Raven blood n' puss constantly pouring into its mouth.

Threatening to drown it any minute.

But for now it was living in a hell beyond anything it had ever imagined.

Where being eaten alive would be a be an utter dream right now. 

Which is of course where the classic catholic prayer 'my father in heaven, I'd rather be eaten alive than be the least cool type of reptile drowning in the blood from a for how mythical, but in the future probably real, part dark and mysterious bird, part badass mammal creature, oh plus leprosy looks shit, Amen ' comes from. 

But we all knew that, so that doesn't clear up squat. 

This could easily have been the lizards story of course, rather than Revens. 

But who gives a fuck about stupid lizards, the least cool reptile?

Well the Welsh do. 

But even koalas make fun of them. 

Which is where the hilarious joke 'a lady koala and a Welsh woman walk into a bar, and the barman says, sorry we don't serve drugged up chlamydia riddled whores here, but what would you like Miss Koala?' comes from. 

So I'm glad we cleared that up.

Uphill Home - A Poem

Alexia had just won an uphill battle. 

She'd been warned by her opponent 'You know you're fighting an uphill battle'.

But she fought anyway. 

Uphill all the way. 

The battle was fierce and brutal. 

The combatants were relentless and steadfast. 

Tears had flowed and blood had spilled. 

And despite the odds she had won. 

And she and her husband had officially put a deposit down on the house with the sun deck, instead of his preferred house, the one with the basement man-cave. 

Her husband was now stubbornly sulking, while holding a tissue to his bleeding nose, caused by sucking snot hard back into his head trying, and failing, to stop his wife knowing he was crying. 

She'd never known a victory so sweet.

The story would be told dozens of times, resulting in boundless streams giggles, whenever her girlfriends came over to the new place to drink champagne and tan. 

He sought his revenge by thinking of these friends in their bikinis when he and Alexia made love. 

Now this is a rare work of art

The following is a poem from the point of view of Pablo Picasso, about a staircase handrail, had he once, in a drunken half asleep dream state, thought it to actually be a sea-lion that had climbed the stairs at his sea-side villa, where he was staying hoping to paint some landscapes, failing to predict inclement weather keeping him indoors, that the villa he rented would come well stocked with help yourself wine, that there would be noisy sea mammals living within steps of the properties boundaries, that when he was not painting as much as usual his always imaginative soul would run wild and manifest itself in alternative outlets, and that having mistaken the handrail for a sea-lion, he had avoided reaching out for it, fearing sea-lion saliva, and as a result had fallen down the stairs: 

Oh Fuck

It was just the handrail 

Best not tell anyone about this 

That was a poem from the point of view of Pablo Picasso, written as if an embarrassing event had taken place in his life, that he wished people not know about, so in attempt to clear it from his sub-conscious had written it into beautiful verse, as always circumnavigating the typical rules and barriers that often suppressed the natural artistic outpouring of his contemptories, and instead creating in some ways a crude, yet colorful and vibrant, representation of his muse, in this case being the fact he felt like a pussy for being scared of sea-lion saliva, which obviously turned out to be a lush source of inspiration. Although of course he didn't want anyone to know about it, so yeah, shhhh. 

Bout the same

Breaking News Everybody: 

 

It is, as I type, 11:22 on Saturday night.

The air around me, in my present and immediate environment, surrounding my person and aura, is brisk, chipper and almost hysterically cool, due to it being the heart of winter and I not owning any form of heating.

The rest of my environment full of the noise of my washing machine on spin cycle, which is cleaning my clothes, which grew tainted from their exposure to the human world, the dirty world, the unclean coming from man's lack of grace, oh and from dirt. 

My body is feeling lackadaisical and disresplendent after just completing a participation in a lukewarm shower, the result of current pipe and/or pump issues which continue to strike my building with fear and a lack of bathing satisfaction. 

And it is in this state, this condition, that I bring news, news which is sure to interest almost everyone, or at LEAST no one... 

Yes it's true, after long discussions, deep debate, and extraneous amounts of thought using my brain, I have officially made the following drastic and complicated decision - I am staying in for the evening. 

 

Alright, calm the fuck down everyone. 

This is obviously very new information, as recently as two hours ago I was ‘thinking of maybe going somewhere, I’m not sure where though’ and at that time, I know I speak for us all, in that we all felt comforted and reassured by that information. 

It was, at the time, a clear sentiment and yet full of possibility, and even opportunity. And those are things that make almost everyone feel good, and optimistic. 

Except donkey herders of course, who like their futures to be ironclad and inauspicious in promise, due to the fact that in their life a surprise is almost ALWAYS a back kicked hoof to the dick, and on the rare occasions it is not this, it’s a back kicked hoof to the vagina (not that there are many female donkey herders, only that once you’ve been kicked in the dick by a donkey a hundred plus times everything kind of turns inside out).

But the information changed, as information is want to do, that’s why they call it the information ‘age’ not the information ‘airtight zip-locked sandwich bag’ (although fun fact if you put your watch in one of those, fill it with water, zip-lock it tight, throw it in the freezer, wait six months, while never once taking your eye off the freezer, then pull it out and throw it into a bonfire, then you will have wasted a LOT of time, and a watch, and a bag of water, and a zip-lock bag, and whatever pants you’ve been peeing and shitting in for six months, oh and it seems like while you were watching the freezer some silly practical joker lit a bonfire in your house). 

 

This new information is therefore still obviously fresh and new and recent and unexplored and uncharted, except a little bit around the edges, which is where information tends to store it’s ‘huh’ zone anyway. 

So calm the fuck down. Obviously I will have more on this as more comes to hand and not one second before, or more. 

Clearly this new information will not literally come to hand, who hands people information now? Get with the times you dicks!

So fucking WHAT if it's sensitive information? Just say it - 'the rash IS contagious' ok, then let me decide whether I need to say 'shush' or whether I need to say 'shhh', it's my body my choice!

That's a good catch phrase, by the way, rash societies should jump on that.

Just like the rash jumped on THEM, am I right?

No I'm not! Shame on you. Airborne rashes are no laughing matter you dicks, especially ones with the ability to 'spring', or 'launch' themselves.

Cause that involves knees, possibly even ankles, you think a rash with knees and ankles is something to laugh about?

The next step after that will be the development of hips, and possibly even thighs.

Plus, I'm gonna learn you here, some rashes are RED! You got a red thighed rash on your neck and who do you think is gonna come calling?

That's right, dermatologists.

And do you realize how hurtful it is when a dermatologist says to you 'oh that's interesting'.

I know it's interesting you dick, that's why I brought it to you, you think I'm gonna bring you an uninteresting, possibly even boring, rash?

That would make ME one of 'those' people.

And 'they' often naysay potentially exciting new space exploration projects.

'See that star, it's twinkling right now, but just twelve hours from now it may well be twinkle free, and twinkling is my preferred star condition and presentation' I'll say, to site a recent example.
'I say nay to your plan to build a rocket ship out of your old Dell, the congregation of cockroaches in your mega-roach-trap and fuel made out of sour milk, keroisine and thoughts about 'what Jack Kerouac would think about modern professional golf', I say nay all day' they responded. 

What the fuck? And that's the world YOU want to live in? With roach traps un-emptied, sour milk turned clumpy and 'bout the same' unverbalized???

The point is, staying in is FUN. And it's too cold. Plus it's like 12:39 now which is too late to go anywhere anyway. So stop fucking judging me!!!

Besides you're the weirdos that wanted to know what I think about the modern world of professional rashes.

At least that's how I remember it.

Ps. 'Bout the same'. 

 

 

Blowhard - a poem

'It sure is gusty out here'.

McFarely, the first mate on a tug boat, had just made a pertinent point. His first ever. At least as far as O'Brian, his captain, was aware. 

So it was all smiles all around, at least one 'well done mate' was dished out, and two or three suggestions were made that if champagne were allowed on the boat during work hours that a glass and toast would be in order. In fact O'Brian pointed out, that even if a bottle had been smuggled on by McFarley, and that in normal circumstances, this being found out, would be grounds for dismissal, that in this particular instance he would be both willing to turn a blind eye to this act of insubordinate application of protocol, and enthusiastic about the opportunity to celebrate this monumental event. In fact he went as far as to say that in this instance he was HOPING McFarely had broken this, normally STRICTLY enforced rule.

McFarely was touched, and felt a significant amount of pride. 

The only thing stopping him being overwhelmed with emotion at O'Brian's kind endorsement, was a nagging voice in the back of his head saying 'maybe O'Brian just wants to get dunk, seeing as this gustiness is surely evidence that the cyclone we were warned of is about to hit'.

Crow Crime - a poem

The positive, yet silent, crow sat on a telephone wire. 

He was positive because he'd just eaten a pink cupcake that he'd pinched off a small child who responded by making a weird wailing noise akin to the sound females make when they have decided to seek a new lover, and she had leaked water from her face the way his favorite cave's walls did when a drought had broken. So he took this as a great omen for his life to take a new direction, full of love, and rich with possibility. 

He was silent because, as he was to imminently discover, the feeling he felt welling in his throat was not in fact pride at a well pinched meal, but mealy growing symptoms of an allergic reaction to the pretty pink frosting, and that within the hour he'd be dead. 

Later that night a drug deal was conducted below him, as teenagers mistook his dangling corpse as a pair of tied on shoes.