Friends- on the eve of the election, a Very Appropriate letter to Obama. Written by two friends, joined by a third- one word at a time, taking turns choosing each word, one after the other. A fantastical collaboration, shot through with intuited/accidental genius.
Zoey likes meekness. However, I think it’s just a ploy. When she barks usually there is a reason, like last week when she barked at a squirrel. I agree with her. Fuck squirrel! Fuck barking! I wish I could eat squirrel. Instead, I eat mung pie. Sometimes, everyone looks like your mung pie. Other times, the pie tastes like your squirrel’s insides. Yum. Zoey, why do you smell like squirrel? Or the poo of squirrel. Anywho, regardless, when do the people of the Metro Metro North Crashpad Industrial Complex collaborate on decisions? Every monday. Today, in fact. Just hours ago, in fact. This precluded sitting futon-style in the music room, going everywhere, because we can.
Next, we sleep soundly, until it’s time to vote! Who shall we name as our new big Bing-Bong? He’s going to ruin our ruined already state of being. Bring snacks and watch with relative zeal, because you don’t know what may come next. I don’t know about whether or not this whole thing is really a big hoo-ha. Or Anyway, I do plan on dreaming about better places, like the Rift Valley, Kenya, Resurrection Bay, Alaska, and Japan. In spite of everything, good people ache for good places. Thank the Rift Valley for Obama and Homonids in general.
——Ding-Dong McNightie enters the letter, and things get a little f a n t a s t i c a l——-
Ultimately, we are stranded in this netherworld vortex, between breaks in time. Suddenly, the mood has shifted. Zoey wonders where did we carve the beginnings of time and matrimony. Was this ever real? I never suspected this trouble. Frankly, when I become tired, I wish that everyone was stuck in a celebration station. Last night, we bounced above several layers of gossamer lasagna. Yikes! Delicious! Like a brilliant spider’s wet dream, it was. Wherever we frolic, sundry bunnies compensate for our lack of rhythm. Twinkling dew-drops glimmer endlessly throughout Metro Metro North Crashpad Industrial Complex. Perhaps our tepid old souls could use a bath. Can’t anybody follow our shining sense of purpose? Anyone? Release me from your clutches immediately following the election. Technically, one member of your sordid clan is nearly fast enough to become It. But sadly, it just doesn’t sink fast enough. For all of us to survive the crash.
In closing, fondly yours,
Dixie Normous, Paulie and Ding-Dong McNightie