Asbestos at Best
That February when the cat was timorously tumorous and the sky was Tylenol-white. Go write
it in your travelogue, the voice on TV says. I’m watching The Truman Show. My definition of excess?
Christof’s weather manipulator stationed on the moon. Also, dog treats in the shape of tiny toothbrushes.
Millennials are the worst. They’re on a mission to make the hyphen obsolete. They care a lot about trigger warnings
and Target. I want to give you a vaccine, which is another way of saying I want to give you autism. We have a real shortage
of people who acknowledge that each day we have a brand-new sky. How many mechanics does it take
to fix a busted-up Taurus? Zero. All Tauruses are broken beyond repair; it’s the worst astrological sign.
Millennials are self-centered, but they don’t put the hyphen in. Hitler was a Taurus. He drove a Volkswagen.
If I were floored, I’d want to be carpeted. If I were the ground, I’d want to be a crater on Christof’s moon, Tylenol-white.
If I were Canada, I’d mine and export asbestos for 130 years, too. If I were a cat, I’d breathe it all in.