

WILBUR

by

Edward Drobinski

Copyright © 2018 by Edward Drobinski

All rights reserved

# Contents

#1- Wilbur- The Day After

He was in his room with his friends just like always; all the "always" he was able to remember, anyhow. In this particular morning segment of "Always" the host was up prior to his fifty-eight buddies. He must have been jarred awake by the thunder and lightning outside. Inside, a driving rain pelted through the partially open window. His instinct to be scared was placated through seeing that he was still surrounded by all of his little friends.

Actually, some of them might have been a bit larger than him. But, they all were more or less equal in stature and that was his main consideration. Any possible "conclusive" determination of the differentiating and ultimately uninteresting minutiae was the job for someone with some sort of likely to be improperly calibrated instrument which in an arrogance endemic to flashy technology, pretended to be capable of accurately measuring shapes, while an absolute zero on the irregular varieties.

In that flashy regard, as in-a-pan, "state-of-the-art," battery-powered lasers proved to have had some deficiencies in comparison to what remained of the "archaic," frayed, and stretch prone cloth rulers. But, their speed and instantaneous readout in bold red squares, utilizing omissions here and there in an attempt to resemble numbers, rounded to a tenth of a percent was just so "cool," one would not dare approach Kardashian "art" without a few apps and gadgets.

Just like that which resulted from the wonders displayed by a digital electronic clock, it apparently had become gauche to question their abilities to go around the corners. The necessitated deferences to modern mass commerciality and style served to dictate the short run altering of natural style in the worthy and compelling social pursuits of being liked and making a living. Bolstered by the growing, addictive force of "social media" it became both an irresistible force and an un-movable object; Derrida and Foucalt considerations consistent; but the subject of a long-winded PhD thesis not even read by the lit professor. "Unity" was finally achieved ...... by and for the well-skimmed "progressives." All politically "correct" people were equally not paying any attention to anything other than their bumper sticker dogma and what they had written on their blog, which boasted 2,308 friends and 118 "likes," indicative of a new budding star. But, oddly this dynamic also served to heighten the desirability of Doonesbury's Walden Puddle in the long run, as diving still posed some immediate risks.

It didn't ring any of his bells, but if Quasimodo needed to yank on the cords to get attention, it really had zero effect on his life, and consequently he could care even less than a plasticized "precise-to-one-decimal-place," red beamer at the insoluble crossroads of rarely accurate calibration and a blind inability to measure anything not perfectly straight.

Rather, it was the unpredictable actions and crashes coming from the sky which as always, had gotten the bird brain's attention. The thunder tried to imitate the surround-sound-reverberating-echo of a lion laying claim to his territory, successful at obliterating the work of the best of d-jays, Dr. Dre's, and blue jays. The flashing intermittent lightning looked and sounded as if it had struck nearby; of possible consequence to those sufficiently reckless or imprudent to remain in an unprotected field during that inclement sort of weather, as well as those dependent upon the uninterrupted, frying flow of electricity.

He was all right .............. for the most part. He was with his friends, and as long as that driving rain did not pick up a "convenient," northern gust it would not reach his wooden body. Sometimes Wilbur worried that the rain might catch up to him as drops of water allowed to sit and dry out on wood does the wood no good; causing discoloration at the least and rot at the worst. The majority of the time he thought; "Since it never has previously done so, the odds are strongly in my favor that it never will. I'm okay ..... more or less."

AND THERE WAS THE HI-DEF HUMONGOUS 4096KB 4DS SCREEN FOR A MAXIMUM FOUR SCREEN VISUAL EXPERIENCE ENHANCED WITH A BUILT IN 2048KB BLASTER CARD SOUND WHICH JOELLE VAN DYNE WOULD HAVE ENJOYED PLAYING WITH. OR NOT.

#2- Wilbur- The Day

Wilbur sat as calmly and contentedly in his room as one can do that surrounded by the heavenly cacophony, insurgent water, and fifty-eight soon-to-be, chatty Cheeseball trophies. Actually, he might have been standing. But he was a bird, and with birds it is often as hard to tell the difference as it is to bite into hard cheese; beak testing Double Gloucester only one of many possible manifestations. When he attempted to look down he couldn't see his feet, and it didn't matter as at each side he had a wing of every color of the rainbow; blues, greens, reds, blacks, whites, yellows, browns, purples, and every mixture he could imagine. Were Wilbur to travel, he was no pedestrian and would take to the sky. But, he had no plans of going anywhere else.

Though, out of politeness, he never articulated it, he suspected that he had accumulated the highest number of Cheeseball trophies. Wilbur could not be 100% certain of that as he had no access to the "Guinness Book of World Records" or The Official Cheeseball Records.com.

Tragically, Wilbur also did not know how to read or operate a computer. He didn't even have a smart phone. Worse, even if he had such equipment and skills, he possessed no fingers with which he might navigate through cyber screens or manipulate a keyboard; a severe impediment to participation in the post truth era. Even wings had their built-in limitations; and he had absolutely no intention of utilizing his great and colorful beak to sift through and turn sheets of paper, or like a chicken pecks at the ground, poke at the squiggly-decorated-mechanical-levers as if he were a typewriter's assistant enabler. This rarely bothered him much, and his bouts with anxiety tended to center around the times when he obsessed about his stature in the world of Cheeseball or had an itch. The majority of the time he was contented to believe that he was one of the Cheeseball greats, now retired and resting near his laurels. Deep down, he had always thought that the trophies were his. That just had to be. Wilbur had little or no memory of anything other than the room in which he now resided, but the physical evidence of his Cheeseball acumen was sufficiently overwhelming to satisfy any investigation performed by either a grouchy physicist who graduated with a B cum (pronounced kyoom) or a legal maven spouting; "Possession is nine tenths of the law."

Maybe it was that doubting one tenth which would foster in his protrusive beak, an elusive, existentially brain based agony, desirous of complete certitude. Wilbur would probably have constantly been the most happy of properly sized, colorful, immobile, balsa wood toucans if he was smart enough to know that he had no brain and acted accordingly.

Of course, if Wilbur knew all that, then he'd also know that he had not won any of his Cheeseball trophies. It's one of those double bind things they often mention on that "Bookworm" show, apparently unaware that a lobotomy would solve their despondency at least ninety percent of the time.

Wilbur; property of the author.

The storm abated, taking its earthly intrusion back where it came from until the next unscheduled and random show. The light filtered through the eastern window, gingerly at first and steadily increasing by the second. Wilbur wondered why no one was talking. Usually the trophies began their silly chatter as soon as the light came through the room's one window which some currently faced. The coterie of frontal skylight interfacers switched each time they were moved, providing an eclecticism of sorts, a kaleidoscopic point of view. He never previously realized how much he depended on prompting, hearing, seeing, and participating with the trophies, as they carried on with their impassioned discussions until it was now gone.

They'd chatter on and on about whether Trump, presumably the one with the prevailing suit this hand, first or second said that he'd fired the little club opportunist, because of his actions which heavily, and how heavily is eminently debatable; contributed to the diamond-masquerading-as-a-heart's electoral triumph. From a wobbly, uncertain point of view this seemed semi-highly reasonable. That is, excepting the possible flaw in that it is strange to fire someone for the attempted "fix" of a card game, whether Bridge or Pinochle, in your favor. To do otherwise one must assume that it is possible for a Trump card to weigh the possible and indeterminate values of personally game detrimental principles. Most would agree that if any values higher than personal aggrandizement and the unreported cash revenue attendant to the trick taking play exist, it is capable of hiding at a Grandmaster level.

But then the Trump card compounded the complexity by turning around and giving yet another version of the story. In this one he seemed to illogically choose to enter dangerous territory, when he said that he had really fired the little club opportunist because he wouldn't be cooperative about the extra-cards-in-the-old-sock investigation. The direct and seemingly predictable result was that No Trump was appointed to find out what was going on, which could possibly result in getting Trump over-ridden or at least put in a position where in order to win, the value of his cards had to exceed the value of No Trump's cards; quite a comeuppance for one accustomed to ruling the board.

Hindsight and under-the-table-leg-kicking had certainly revealed a great deal of trouble for Trump already; and there remained a few more tricks to be played. The degree of the aforementioned which has been taken from "fake news" channels is indeterminate if one considers "Fox" and "MSNBC" to be real, reasonably competent, and desirous of retaining their customary degree of partisan "credibility." Hey, look. No one is applying for the opening at Saint.com. Everyone stresses their side of the story, but to be caught in a direct lie is detrimental to the entity's market value and the liar's job. Checks and balances are immortal.

Taken as it may have been unclearly stated, this is the best ersatz evidence yet to support the claim that Trump isn't following some kind of deep strategy, unless it is the equivalent of something AlphaGo has not yet been capable of imagining, no less outplaying. At least that was as close to Wilbur's understanding of what the previously incessant trophy chatter was about; the shifting sands in the shifty world of politics, power, and money.

Had he the heartlessness to tell the truth, Wilbur didn't care about the headache inducing current details of the timeless game of politics, power, and money. He had absolutely no understanding of the morality questions the trophies attached to a hair-brained card game. But he pretended that he did, as he found that he was addicted to the animated noise that the trophies made. Now, this silent morning made him feel like a cold turkey, rather than the warm, vividly colored, wooden, and friendly toucan with artistic pretensions, which he truly was.

After Wilbur's fifth chirp, one trophy, customarily less vocal, said something off-key; "We trophies have never been so neglected and depressed. We used to be well admired parts of a nice place. This place is dingy and neglected, as now are we too."

In a choked voice, Rodney, another trophy added; "One of my pillars was broken in that bag, and no one has even tried to fix it for me."

Rodney on his broken pillar; property of the author.

Wilbur said; "Bag?"

Rodney said; "You don't remember the bag? You have absolutely no memory or concept of time. You have been exceedingly blessed."

Wilbur didn't feel so blessed at that moment, as the silence which made him uncomfortable returned.

Wilbur had nothing to distract him, and he consequently focussed on what the two trophies had said, as it both disturbed him and raised questions for which he had no answer. Both of the trophies had alluded to having been somewhere else before they were in this room one had called dingy of all things. Dingy was a relative term, and he had nothing to compare this place to. It is what it is. As far as he was concerned, one could call it dingy or one could call it sublime. The word chosen to characterize the room was merely a reflection of the characterizer's imperfect personal outlook and usually indicative of his unrecognized value judgements; and not much of a reflection upon the room itself. Wilbur only had memories of this space, though it didn't seem likely to him that he could have won the trophies here. There were no games going on, but he couldn't be sure if he had just forgotten them.

He said; "What nice place? What bag?" He got no answer. Not even a reference to a card game. Card game? What card game? No one had played cards here. So, there must have been an elsewhere, at least for his pals, the trophies. But, he was again reminded that he could have forgotten it.

The trophies were utterly resolute that day. He called out to them, and finally one replied saying; "It's not you Wilbur. It's not personal. It's this place."

Being told that it wasn't personal, Wilbur felt better. Then he didn't. Whichever direction he mentally took it, the effect was the same. Silence. A silence he couldn't stand. He decided that he had to pass the quiet day in reverie, but couldn't think of what to rever about. It was troubling, and in that state of discombobulation he wound up revering about what he recalled of the past.

That didn't occupy Wilbur's neurons or synapses for more than a few seconds, as his recollection of the past was not much different from his recollection of the present. Sure, the present was louder and there were different displays of light, dark, and gradations in between. They always managed to return to where they once were, but all in all the only meaningful change was the current verbal tranquility and the degree of wind and rain which had come through the window at his back. "Hmmnnn," Wilbur thought. He had used the word "tranquility" to describe a situation which had made him feel disturbed, and he had thought "window;" something neither he, nor some of the trophies had ever seen, having had their backs to it.

But he could not deny from time to time having felt the breeze; heard the rain, thunder, and lightning; as well as the sounds of vehicles, voices and the inebriated screams and exultations of those not in his room, and apparently in some kind of intoxicated and intoxicating state of consciousness.

Wilbur was feeling a bit better, as he realized that he had just accidentally broached a series of implied questions, which could potentially occupy his neurons and synapses, if any, for quite some time. In an effort to avoid personal confusion and/or the impersonal mixing of differing displays, he decided to start at the beginning; the window in his estimation. Why had he called this unseen item a window? Why not a portal? Why not an opening? Aperture, breach, cavity, gateway, gap, notch, lead-in, inauguration? A few of the possibilities had negative or positive connotations, and indeed sometimes the wind, sounds, and rain allowed in by this ........ "thing" were not always pleasant; though most of the time they were.

Wilbur liked the neutrality of "window" which to him simply meant an opening made for the admission of air, light, water, or all three, commonly fitted with a frame in which are set movable sashes containing panes of glass. While it was nonaligned, hopefully only in a meta sense, it was also put there purposely. It had to be the work of Cable and Barb.

Having now contentedly solved the primary questions of existence, he had forgotten what it was which prompted his discovery. Innocently suggestive of epistemology's three round, split decision triumph over the ontological approach, Wilbur decided to rest his neurons and synapses, before dabbling with the minor details which remained. He took advantage of the warm southern breeze and took a nice nap.

#3- The Room - Past, Present, and Future Illusions

The apartment to which Wilbur's room was attached actually consisted of four of them, though Wilbur and his friends, the fifty-eight Cheeseball trophies, had no way of knowing that. Especially when Trump-No Trump debates reached a temporary lull, they all entertained varying suspicions; most often marked by a Wilbur abstention.

The minority consensus (less than half, but in possession of the highest number) was that without having been afforded the courtesy of prior consultation, they had all been placed in the last one. It wasn't one of the three "living" or sleeping areas. It was primarily used for storage and as a predictably "unintentional" temporary resting place for that which was soon to be left out for the garbage man or otherwise less rudely disposed of. The distinctions between the two, if any, are generally as obscure as The Church's early "Blurred Crusade" album, and periodically almost as layered and riotous. Opposites attract some.

What was also blurred was the trophy vision. It wasn't as if there was any possibility of their sight being improved through corrective lenses. They saw no deficiency. As a consequence, nor did they consider that they may have needed any improvements. They thought that they did, and actually did see quite well. Relative comparisons were not at their disposal.

In certain lights, like those provided in early morning or late day by a focussed sunbeam coming in at an angle, always acute, but demonstrably ambivalent in terms of its current placement within the crafting triangle, one could see the many miniscule, yet visually blemishing particles of dust floating through the air. Like a constant leisurely snowfall of gray dots, banal and humdrum if viewed individually, as all of which seemed almost identical, within the confines of five or six minorly varying persona sizes, attributes, and traits, (nafs in the esoteric, poetic ghettoes of the east, and possibly the reason for the imperfection commonly referred to as existence) their totality was as if a bomb had exploded sometime back, and what of terra firma was thereby thrown at the sky was still in the process of re-settling eons later. Not requiring it, but supplemented by sporadic cleansing, which was actually more of a dusting, the room continually had a bit of a haze, most often seen only through the imprecise precision accidentally recorded by a super-duper lense manipulated by a master union cameraman on double overtime, while aiming for the audience excitement generated by an ESPN highlight reel. It's all about ratings, and for the last half century Nielsen rules.

The four rooms were of the "railroad" style, one after the other in succession, only interrupted by a wall with one door, usually left open, as a line of ostensible demarcation. Consequently apartments in the interior of the complex only had windows in the first and last rooms. Wilbur and the Cheeseball trophies were blessed with one of these apertures; though most of them, like Wilbur, had been positioned with their backs to it. The door they faced was always kept closed.

In addition to each other they could all see some of the stuff which someone had put there. There was a frame, simple, thin and maybe four feet by four feet on legs of two; strange in that it held no picture. The barren "enclosure" merely acted as a minor distraction from, among other things, the boxes and/or boxed-up goods on the other side of the room. Extending from every half inch of the empty frame was a sharp pin, the rear devoid of any noticeable entrance point, thereby inhibiting removal, making the frame dangerous to approach without appropriate precaution; though the half buried pins were far from being able to inflict any blood not fixable by a few scarring stitches.

Upon a minimum of reflection, the frame seemed to be more of a tragic than ominous figure, in that its empty middle suggested that it may have once, and thereby consequently might have been more attractive, less sharp, and more prominent now, if, and/or as, it was ostensibly once filled, as it seems obvious that it was intended to have been filled with a painted canvas. The possibility of an in-out sort of abandonment overwhelms other tragic considerations, and is thereby subject to the human brain's natural, protective deletion process, poorly affected by Facebook. Its current "void" afforded an unobstructed view into what may have been previously blocked by a representational, impressionistic, or abstractly rendered art form, maximum or minimal; blow-ups of photographic clicks not considered as such.

On the unfortunate and tiny chance that the preceding paragraph makes any sense to you, it is strongly suggested that you lie like a dog on your next government mandated Rorsach test.

Through the vast pinned frame opening, Willard and the Cheeseball trophies could easily see the 1950's blond wooded end table and the mirrored bedroom vanity chest behind it, or in front of it, for someone viewing from one hundred and eighty degrees from the other side; such as the initial observation, if any, of the haphazard, though consistently periodic "dusters."

Upon cursory, initial observation, one might not notice any difference between the instruments carried by these "dusters." But, if one could suspend the compelling urge to laugh, ask stupid questions, or otherwise get off point; and instead scrutinized the utensils which the "dusters" carried, one might note that the variations between them were not only a matter of their obvious formation, but perhaps of more significance, a suggested glimpse into the overt cultivating experiences which encouraged them to be as they were.

One form of dusting instrument; property of the author.

These "dusters" always entered Wilbur's room as a pair. The quick and quiet efficiency of the lamb's wool instruments temporarily displaced Wilbur and the Cheeseball trophies' accumulation of dust, throwing it into the air, whereupon it immediately began to resettle not far from the original place from which it had been displaced.

The other form of dusting instrument; property of the author.

Wilbur might have vocalized that he found the process as long-term-seriously silly, if it did not pleasantly tickle him into a very frivolous short-lived silliness.

These "dusters" appeared twice every seven glittering mounds. At least that was how Wilbur viewed the mounds through the back of his head. It seemed as if that was a very imprecise way of measuring, but it was the only one he easily had at his disposal. Moreover, it really didn't matter in the least if the "correct" relative "duster" to mound ratio was actually two of eight, three of nine, or one of two. None of the Cheeseball trophies ever asked Wilbur about it and he really didn't care. The thought seemed to be merely something inflicted upon a process which had been allowed to degenerate to the use of words and numbers, not that some processes might be more amenable that way; and is no doubt a conspiracy promulgated through the mean-spirited and sterile halls of academe. If you don't believe that, just ask DFW. He was an officially recognized genius, with a plaque and everything.

1950's mirrored bedroom vanity chest; property of the author.

In a possible testimony to Wilbur's power of observation, his methodology seemed to work exceedingly well whenever the vanity mirror's center reflected no atmospheric obstructions for extended periods. He entered a state of ephemeral anxiety as he pondered how an imperfect mirror's reflection might actually be conducive to providing a more accurate observation. It intuitively seemed as if something was as skewed as "fun house" reflections.

Perhaps seeing Wilbur's state of consternation, the Cheeseball trophy Wilbur knew as Agita Bust broke the silence, and said; "What is bothering you, Wilbur?"

Happy to hear a sound, Wilbur said; "I don't know how to explain it well. It's kind of the nature of epistemology, existence, and lack of authenticity."

Agita tried to hide a giggle when she replied; "I guess you paid little attention when that was covered freshman year."

Wilbur said; "Well, no. I went to a public university and they didn't require it. So, I took stuff like Matrices and Linear Programming instead."

Agita said; "No!!! Tell me you just made that up."

Wilbur said; "No. At the time I preferred having concrete answers to being dependent on the instructor's opinion of an essay for 70% of my grade."

#4- Cable and Barb; A Few Months Ago

Once upon a hopelessly drunken recent time, the Cable and Barb Dwyer duo accidentally became Wilbur's benefactors, though Wilbur never exactly saw it that way. He was unaware that the mid-thirties and much too quickly escalating couple had purchased the Cheeseball trophies purposely, and at the same time they were unaware that they had inadvertently purchased Wilbur, too. In a way the serendipitous mutuality made sense as after all, everything does come in packages, but most people and wooden birds don't check all the details.

Cable and Barb probably had a strong suspicion that their bag full of trophies was hot, merely because they purchased them at 3AM from a skinny smack and/or crack head of indeterminate sex or gender whose shaking babble seemed to imply a need for immediate sustenance at the expense of any long term notion of quality or value.

On the morning-evening of the purchase, Cable and Barb were customarily kind of lit up in the multi-colored, neon glow of "Dominick's Bar and Café." It was closing time for the establishment at the corner of Thirteenth Street, the block in Lower Darby which also accommodated their four story apartment hovel. They emerged from their Dominick's sanctuary and were again confronted with their not quite sober reality. The place was once de classe cool, though that concept did not yet exist in common parlance at the time, but now it seemed more grungy dangerous, a reality which now did. The only remaining tree was withering, on a dawdling and laborious trip toward the firewood pile, perhaps with a slight preference for cremation over "life" on Thirteenth Street.

Thirteenth Street; property of the author.

The area was fine, safe and affordable fifteen years prior when Cable and Barb got together and settled in what had gradually become a "terrorist" infiltrated no-go zone. Stimulating Republican income tax cuts had little effect as few residents had sufficient income to have paid any to begin with. Low interest rates were the primary impetus for the stock market to have had gone up five times over, but the only securities purchased by Cable and Barb were those which bolted their door.

They were just happy to be together that fifteen years prior when Cable and Barb first got jointly linked. Like them, the area was kind of young and uncaring. Their move to it was well after the official end of the "hippy days," but retro remnants reflectively remained in various places not yet touched by its defunct, dangerous, and directly deadly dissipations.

Now in Lower Darby there were routine reports of neighborhood destructive street crime from the anecdotally inclined on-line periodicals as well as the anecdotally inclined and expansive Police Department; as if the resident's common sightings were not sufficient, thereby ostensibly for the benefit of shut-ins. Low end street crime and homeless drug victims in search of quick cash and access to Mickey D's garbage cans is toxic. The alleged perpetrators seemed to spawn more alleged perpetrators by the day, the heinousness of their crimes rising in a consistent proportion.

Virtually all of Cable and Barb's original local friends had moved away, some citing a desire to be in more open spaces. That is perhaps one of those truths which conveniently leave out the communication of the heart of the story; as some of it was unpopular and unrewarding to articulate. It doesn't really matter, as those who were there know, and those who weren't can never. Cable and Barb were still in the pariah zone feeling older, stuck, and increasingly besieged by the moment which portended an eternity of continued decline.

In a disgust over-ruled by drunken desperation, Cable double checked the bag offered by the smack-crack head, while feigning a much too unpracticed hand slide over a pants pocket, intended to show that he was packing a "loaded friend." The smack-crack head might have been intimidated and more price negotiable had this not become familiar territory, had he valued his life, or had he noticed.

Cable didn't see Wilbur, but he saw a potload of Cheeseball trophies. He didn't have any precise knowledge of the value and status of Cheeseball memorabilia, but was quite certain that it was much more than the fifty bucks the smack-crack head was asking for the whole bag, maybe even as much as $10-20 apiece. Being of less than plebian awareness in regard to the "sport" of Cheeseball, he had no interest in and no aesthetic appreciation for the trophies, but thought that he might be able to re-sell them to needy, new-at-the-game opportunists, or maybe even a toddy time, Cheeseball aficionado, if his supposed impending good luck continued.

In one last possible excuse for a nullification of the impending guilty transaction, Cable looked to Barb, who might have been truly or pretending to be more concerned with staying on her two feet on a sidewalk which from her perspective was swaying in irregular patterns reminiscent of the ocean waves seen while hang-gliding at the Jersey shore.

Lower Darby's "welcoming" entrance; property of the author.

With his fifty dollars in hand, the smack-crack head scampered off at the speed of an elated rat running on a wheel which never brings him to the cheese, and is used for a "scientific" study of how long a sentient being is willing to continue to fruitlessly try.

Cable was left holding the bag. He carried it half a block and up three flights of stairs to home. He placed the trophies in the back room and shut the door, for the first time making note of Wilbur.

Cable said; "I was cheated. I got a bird."

Barb said; "He's cute," before she and Cable collapsed into bed.

#5- The Cheesy Status Symbol- Timeless

The game of Cheese Rolling is most often referred to as Cheeseball. The latter was originally used as a pejorative term, but has since "outgrown" that through its standardization, constancy, and likely because it eliminated one syllable. Cheeseball is a simple, and yet status conveying sport for both the participants and observers. The origin of this notion of prestige is unclear. Some would attest to the rising price of Double Gloucester cheese, though that does not explain why this was so when Double Gloucester was still a household staple. Some mention the small number of those involved in the sport; the attendant exclusivity as convincing as the attestations of the fans of "buried" post-modern writers of disregard, who say; "If you've never heard of it, that means its good." A consensus, inasmuch as less than fifty percent may be called that, seemed to have settled upon a theory based on the unrecorded exclamation of the first Cheeseball champion, Jack Goff, who when upon crossing the finish line yelled; "I am the cheese!" just before sticking his entire face into the prize Double Gloucester. This could be seen as an easily communicated, "amusing" anecdote.

If the scenario is still a bit out of focus, here is how Cheeseball is played. From the top of a steep hill, a round of Double Gloucester cheese, approximating nine pounds, is rolled and competitors chase after it. The first individual across the finish line at the bottom of the hill wins the cheese, a sometimes personalized trophy, and a host of social accolades. In theory, the competitors aim is to catch the rolling cheese, but this method of winning never happens, as the cheese gets a head start and can reach a speed of 70 MPH. In 1997 the cheese took a wrong turn and a spectator was knocked over and injured. The incident resulted in nothing more than a few bruises, a Gloucester nose smear which turned out to be negative, and the official ruling that the game had to be started over in ostensible "concern" for the flattened "victim."

But the subsequent, successful "pain and suffering" lawsuit brought by one "Chunky" Elizabeth Lardbutt, resulted in Cheeseball becoming an unsanctioned and clandestine, if not renegade, sport played by those well insured and a few striving mavericks. This resulted in Cheeseball and its participants attaining an even higher level of "super cool" status, and a rabid fandom which regularly took to the internet to post rumors of the date, time, and location of upcoming events, the majority of which was "fake news" primarily proffered by those seeking to broaden the popularity of their own profile.

Cheeseball game; property of the author.

The game retained its old time air of congeniality and high class sportsmanship. But now, when the cheese started rolling, an intensely increased level of dirty play became the norm. Hockey-like checking, tripping, and even an occasional high sticking commenced and quickly increased as the non-existent referees did not enforce the non-existent rules which had been established. Many players and even more so, the fans preferred this increasingly action oriented form of play, considering it a better reflection of reality. Old timers had long thought this modernization inevitable; a matter of when rather than if.

Sylvester Stallone, Wesley Snipes, Bruce Lee's Estate Executrix, Mister T, Donald Trump, Steve Bannon, the actress who plays "Peppermint," the original bald head, Telly Savalas, and even some "free" style fighter charged with spousal abuse took credit for increasing Cheeseball's popularity through their unrequested open endorsements. Alex Baldwin did too, but the public considered Alex to be a much-too-obvious joke.

#6- The Cheese Rolling Trophy- 1920 - Present

It is estimated that 196 "authentic" Cheese Rolling trophies exist. Though Cheeseball play goes back quite some time, one theory of it having evolved from a 14th century British game called "Hard Cheese." In the US records of the game officially commenced in 1920 and under the auspices of the "Reserved International Cheeseball Holders," hereinafter referred to as RICH, play had been an annual event.

Only first place trophies were ever awarded. Some call this fascist, while most consider it to be a symbol of the proper and natural incentive to win. When finishing a close, but undisputed second in 1929, Dudley Deadbeat opined that trophies should also be given for second place, third place, and even honorable mention. He received no direct response from the RICH sanctioning authorities, but was immediately branded a Communist, and was banned from all future events.

You brightly note that this indicates 98 trophies. Correctamundo, indeed. However, complications ensued following and as a consequence of the lawsuit brought by "Chunky" Elizabeth Lardbutt in 1997 which had an arguably deleterious effect. As a space taking spectator, in possession of two seats, she was struck by an errant cheeseball, which apparently had a penchant to get off the main path. "Chunky" had a pronounced weight advantage, but the Cheeseball had a rolling start. The mess with the medical expense, loss of income, pain and suffering, psychological damage, and "Chunky's" irreparably-cheeseballed-special-order-big-beautiful-women dress lawsuit resulted in the disbanding of the sanctioning authority. RICH officially broke up with the intention of leaving any supposedly injured party no one to sue in this increasingly litigious society.

This action is rumored to have been a ruse, a sham transaction, as "Families Undivided and Kindly United," hereinafter referred to as FUKU, sprang up a day later, exhibiting similar, risk averse principals and management. The unconfirmed and unconfirmable suspicions likely emanated from the public non-profit filing which "coincidentally" listed the principals as the attorneys who were known to represent the bosses which the now defunct RICH had. The results of this ostensible ploy were mixed, as subsequent litigants sued the one who got the game started by rolling the cheese, that problematic to the judicial system regarding culpable intent as well as its barred "legal" representatives, the distinction between regulating authority and professional organization irreparably and some would say conveniently blurred, as a result of the continually shifting, generally tending pungently and eagerly toward the shrunken Jivaroan head proportional, extent of workmen's compensation coverage, including but not limited to the definition of owner vis-à-vis employee, perhaps an intellectual outgrowth of Reagan's "Laffer Curve" suggestion which resulted in leveraged buyouts.

The losing political party would seem to have adopted a derivation of this type of blurring as standard operating procedure. Their results were unsurprisingly mixed, as the outcome was always an interminable investigation of the winners with only one clear financial beneficiary; the otherwise unemployable investigators on the public dole. Further complications became apparent when and if the losing party managed to win, thereby becoming subjected to the dethroned winner's investigation. Nielsen reported that the voters-watchers generally considered this a comedy, and the #1 viewed reality TV show regardless of the gender of the investigation proponents. The serious, humor challenged, and usually well-educated got off on expressing fluid outrage while focussed on the fluid details.

Most importantly in terms of the Cheeseball trophies, in 1998 various unsanctioned events sprung up, each awarding a first place trophy, the number of them known to no one. Investors generally ballpark another 98, roughly corresponding to three per annum; the maverick events virtually indistinguishable from those granted through the shattered remnants of the originally official RICH organization, and the FUKU people, who may or may not have taken its place.

Originally, these trophies were never sold. They resided in prominent places in the homes of those who were never troubled with any difficulties in paying the private school tuition promptly. A quiet source of understated prominence to those of the owner's ilk, they were once a one decision "choice," show and "never sell."

Inklings noticeable to the prescient, short-term Nostrodami of the late twentieth century became common knowledge to the most ordinary of hawks in the twenty-first. The first advent of unruly market behavior since 1929 caused financial setbacks to those paterfamiliases, especially hard hitting to those long and maxed out on margin. This rude activity necessitated that some of the original owners had to keep their heads above water by discarding some assets; the Cheeseball trophies almost a lapidary's gem; relatively tiny, easily transportable, unrecorded, and thereby three ways difficult for the IRS to inadequately track, if they made the effort.

Authenticity versus forgery actually became a complicated issue, at least for those prone to languid afternoon and early evening discussions on the "select" "Gratis' Obscure and Otherwise Lousy Softbacks" website, commonly referred to as GOOLS (www/https://GOOLS/en_perp.com) after the forgers did to the Cheeseball trophy market what they did to sports memorabilia. While the initial reaction to the sales offered was an attempt for purchasers to ensure authenticity, the feeling changed when some argued that with the lack of a clear governing authority as prompted by the now comfortable Chunkster's cheeseball injury lawsuit and the consequent sanctioned-unsanctioned and impromptu events, what was a "real" cheeseball event became a murky swamp. The GOOLS centered confusion might have become seen as just another boring over-intellectualization of an overly obvious scam had the market been flooded with thousands of cheeseball trophies. But the "forgers" had a remarkable, if not potential-profit-motivated and unregulated instinct to keep the number of trophies for sale a mathematical possibility, given the "reality" of 196. Perhaps the esoterically written policies of De Beers Consolidated Mines served as a tangible business model.

Besides, purchasers did not really want to know anything of forgeries. They merely wanted the cachet of having an impressive display, with which to induce envy from their "friends" and visitors, not to mention the security of an Amazonic price chart. The trophies' association with wealth or the playful secure mockery of it supplied a much better balance than the kidney shaped swimming pool which was absurdly subject to the uncertainties of fleeting tastes and styles.

Insurance issues understandably became quite complex and of little interest to anyone other than a Cheeseball trophy owner and his-her insurer, but suffice to say that an "arts rider" to the standard homeowner's policy was generally sufficient if current market was stipulated, and in addition not subjected to the limitations imposed by the depreciation dictated by the imposition of estimated useful lives, whether straight line or accelerated.

In an attempt to not be accused of having taken any side, FUKU played their cards close to their chest, though supposed inferences continued to be extrapolated.

#7- The Epicurean Dyad Cheeseball Trophy Market

In the hindsight almost perfected in retrospect, initial sales started out slowly in 1998. Though Amazon and E-Bay had established internet presences by 1994 and 1995, respectively, ads which actually generated money-backed interest were placed in selected periodicals, such as "News from Tokeneke," distributed freely within the community. For the uninitiated and/or those paying absolutely no attention whatsoever, Tokeneke is an unincorporated and gated community within the confines of lesser and more dangerous, $300,000 per capita income Darien, Connecticut. "Don't miss anything about Claire Borecki, Sacha Amereno, Susan Titsworth, Susan Schulz, Matthew Porretta, Christopher Aiker, Chez Ernie and fun others," proclaimed the right side of the newest issue in letters not clumsily bold, but in the more aberrant italicized condition than the overhead title, as one might expect.

It seemed obvious that one would have to go out of one's way to commit such a faux pas, that is "to miss anything," especially with the "fun others" of Tokeneke; Claire, Sacha, et al.

Actually, in terms of what was happening now, Tokeneke had no significance whatsoever; other than having the as yet un-disproven claim that the first public offering of a Cheeseball trophy had appeared in their version of Albuquerque's "Alibi." The "crème-de-la crème" periodical bearing rarified interest in Cheeseball trophies initially considered Amazon and E-Bay extremely crass, not necessarily trustworthy, and even worse, a possibly publicly traceable source of private money transactions. In retrospect many would consider their instincts to have been accurate.

Those off-topic, digressions now comfortably aside, sales essentially became a "Who blinked first" contest between a skilled negotiator hampered by a passion for increased status and someone who was broke supplemented by the generosities of US federally sanctioned, personal bankruptcy debt evasions; much like your typical Presidential sort.

One might well gather that the opportunity for a legalized form of debt evasion took top hand, as well as foot, and initial sales tended to approximate asking prices. The subsequent rumors of "forgeries" caused a setback. Its ultimate resolution regarding the issue of "What constitutes a forgery and what constitutes an authenticity" or vague lack thereof, at least resolution-wise, led to a rebound in prices, as it rendered the "authenticity issue" moot, dependent upon annoying experts, essentially non-existent in terms of clear standards, a bottleneck hindering transactions, and an impediment to the people's right to financially screw each other, which further led to awkward speculators entering the market, joining in with the "old money" and destitute, primarily un-documentably "titled" Western Europeans bearing a "lack of money, old, new, or in between," getting by with "exquisite" manners and "sexy" accents. These "speculators" shared none of the interests of the old money losers, or even the new money climbers, but rather had a simple interest in buying low and selling high; the upward drift of Rolling Cheese trophies conducive to profitable transactions; their role eventually extolled in MBA programs as necessary "market makers."

Or maybe it was something else, more akin to the results obtained by a not overly skilled archer throwing darts at a board with a random pattern. In any case, below please find the whole story in indisputable numbers, insofar as transactions may have been honestly reported. One must simultaneously use the minimal degree of common sense to realize that is something which is like 100% implausible, but that charting numbers indoctrinates a certain part of the population. Their beliefs and attendant actions governed by such, which has the effect of making the implausible such into a believable and somewhat predictable such or anti-such one can take to the bank; the vast majority in hope of a lower-your-monthly-payments-bill-consolidation loan.

Not too shabby for a cheeseball trophy, authentic or forged. And here in his "dingy" little room little Wilbur unknowingly sat with 58 of them; also unaware of their total market value of $8,700,000. It was arguably better for all involved that way. The uninvolved are invited to comfortably stay that way.

#8- Wilbur Tries Some Pointless Silliness

Seeking to get his muted trophy friends again talking and laughing, Wilbur managed to do the exact opposite. He said; "In order to hear a bird it is necessary to become a part of the silence." He immediately realized that what he had said had accidentally made a sense he was aiming to curtail, and the taciturn hush was only interrupted by a few teeny grimaces, like the ones evinced by polite trophies when someone passes gas. Attaining a more optimistic mood, he thought; "At least some of them still hear me."

"Whoops, let me try that again. A goose flies by a map only Google would attempt to improve."

".......... "

"Truth is stranger than impeding interdiction."

" ......... "

"A wet balsa wood toucan never flies at night."

" ......... "

"I'll just keep going here until indecently interrupted."

" ......... "

"The search for a toucan begins and ends with his beaker."

" ......... "

"A genuine trophy is always someone's wife or bimbo."

Germaine said; "Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Tom appropriating the crying of Lot without footnote. You have borderline managed to invite the annoying scrutiny of the Politically Precise Police (PPP) - Trophy Division." She snickered, but in a manner which could have been dismissed as a tiny swipe at a non-existent nose itch.

Wilbur said; "Glad to see that you're awake. It's hard to tell unless you make some noise."

Germaine said; "Yeah, but the PPP needs to chill. ..... Ah, hormones, I guess. They're always just so .... vigilant. Yes, that's a good word. It's like they have a legitimate place, but not so much."

Wilbur said; "I think that it's an understandable function of net speed. As a metaphor on a physical level just recall exhausted Paul Bunyan and his quest to outdo the tireless machine. In the specificity of the 2018 case, the burden to disregard is in effect passed from the arguably 'chosen' blocking potential previously de facto associated solely with the writer to the finally allowed and 'chosen' and totally appropriate option to the discard of the otherwise generous and altruistic reader, and the current reader is generally not yet comfortable in that role, resulting in a reticence to appear to reject any absurdity, perversion, or abject retardation. Maybe when the readers become proficient in differentiating indifference to the impersonal stimulus from a more personal stimulus guided by a desire to be kind and/or surreptitiously contentious, things will return to a near reasonable balance. ....... It did exist in that one brief shining moment, and undeniably that moment can become an eternity."

Germaine deadpanned; "You spend much time on Zeitgeist.com?"

Wilbur ignored the question and in a debatable diversion said; "This is a right fine trophy. I think I'll keep it to display when I get old."

Germaine responded with; "You are pushing OUR luck, bird brain."

Wilbur said; "Extreme times require extreme measures. ......... Well, not that my comment was extreme, but ...... "

Kate interjected; "You must either be totally insensitive to women's rights, think that we've time machine retrogressed to 1956, really are a bird brain, or have the worst sense of humor in the entirety of the inanimate world. That is reminiscent of that sexist commercial in which some guy said of his wife; 'She's a good girl. I think I'll keep her.' You're the one who needs to wake up."

"Which way is Retrogressive Street. A vandal must have torn down the sign. Humph. Better I say that she's a bad girl, and I think I'll get rid of her?"

Kate said; "Your double negative is indicative of an indirect route to agreement with me. Nuff said."

Wilbur said; "Your assumptions regarding the duplicitous meaning of 'bad' is now obvious, and I consider your bared mental conviction to be abysmally limited. Let me point out that you don't make the rules, little lady."

Kate said; "No sense of humor, Willy boy?"

Norman became irrationally incensed, saying; "I just hate that. It's just so convenient not to mention a 'foolproof' attempt to be 'right,' regardless of where the truth, if any, is momentarily determined to lie. I am so envious; I can't help but be openly complimentary of your insight, Kate. You absolutely overwhelm in your brevity."

Wilbur said; "I think that I may have detected the door being opened to a thread consistent with the concept of an unproductive exclusion, as opposed to the productive exclusion married to the willing concept of free choice. ...... I might be wrong. Chances are that I am. But, I was compelled to say this because ........... I don't know"

" ......... "

" ......... "

" ......... "

Wilbur said; "Lost track of whose turn it is. Okay. Time flies like an arrow. But then fruit flies like bananas."

" ......... "

"Nothing, huh? You might have at least evoked sympathy, as this was my best one." Lung emptying sigh.

" ......... "

"The signified can no longer hear the signifier."

" ......... "

Wilbur said; "The blank dots have become the default response to or initiation of ..... whatever. It is I who have willed myself to sleep this time; perhaps too soon, though after the majority of you. Please send all intended communications to the B.F. Skinner predicted social media site of your erroneous choice, in the sense of its being viewed as your personally chosen, preference; while it is actually a randomly dictated preference. ...... B.F. may have been a Communist."

Kayeesha seemed to be either bewildered or effusively derisive when she deigned to join the conversation in saying; "Isn't this like from sixties Crumb Comics? It's a shame that Angelfood McSpade didn't accrue the monetary significance of Marvel super-heroes. ....... I guess that 'reality' has righteously and rightfully been extremely marginalized to half the page. Ah, it's finally just so meta."

#9- The Crockers- Two Seasons Prior

Ninety days at the lower end; like what you get for possession with no verifiable intention to distribute. Let's say six months prior to whatever seems not yet outdated up until the very now, or perhaps more truly that which requires a similar six page flip of the free-ish ASPCA calendar, the residents of a 22 room house in neighboring Upper Darby Manor,

Crocker Brothers mansion; property of the author.

brothers Major, Spike, and Mad Monty Crocker were having a conversation whose content was becoming as predictable and daily typical for them as the sun rising in the east. That is, if one forgets that the scientists say that the sun is stationary, and one remembers which way east is said to be.

The Crocker brothers; property of the author.

Despite having not been so graced through birth, the brothers were always inclined toward the attributes of the enduring and time honored speculative clan. With a tempo roughly as swift as a cleaver's chop-chop on the butcher block or an unscheduled, droning, noise metal guitar incident, the Crocker brothers believed that they had taken their place within the most profitable branch of the exclusive coterie. Their lack of official confirmation was not negated by any sort of testimony to the contrary. Being rather insular to perhaps much too expedient a fault, the Crockers were not commonly aware of any panache based distinctions between people not calculable by the rudimentary tenets of simple math. Unconsciously on that "progressively" and/or "'new'-lib-up-to-the-minute" flank which is popularly and pridefully considered to be a 21st century "innovative" and surreptitiously "cool" manifestation of nerdition in being "totes," please pardon the deference to "innovative" colloquialisms, racially tolerant, if not "totes again" white derisive, in what some out-of-style retro Pleistocenes subjected to Luddism might consider a very basic contradiction in their demonstrated awkward and annoying faux pas, the Crocker brothers enjoyed the overwhelming type of distinction first popularized by "hawt" Ms. Paris Hilton, who through the backward tradition of the legal process, was unfairly denied the copyright of her ostensible trademark, perhaps a function of a mis-spelling.

No problem for the Crocker brothers; no problem whatsoever. No one pays any attention to these sorts of ill-timed and tiresome diversions. The current lock step march is always resolute within the banks of its own shores. That undisclosed limitation pervades at least until another "unexpected" flood immerses all. In that manner the water produces, and in that same way the "modern" problematic decade comes to exist rightfully and childishly, much as if all movement is necessarily a rejection of what-is-seen as a past inhibited inertia, the lack of a discernable spark, an alternative point of view which confuses through its previous conventional incarnation; yet another ellipse which culminates in ....................

When the collectively accepted Occam type of rationalism, that clearly in favor of whatever or non-ever, and imaginatively or un, which only considers the Crocker's form of ersatz simplicity is allowed to pervade, a certain kind of comfortable and "neat" truth comes to the fore just as sure as that expounded by Moe separated from Larry and Curly. Though it was perennially there for those not yet paralyzed by the seemingly adequate light paled by farce, parody, black humor, or their cousins, its comfort level potentiality was especially maximized for those in need of that same comfort which had a peak of sorts when the Babel-confused-with-credentials declared 2017 the year of post-truth. This proved to be virtually as seductive as any mud slide into the "avatar" played form known as 'Resident Evil 87: Smoke Induced Biohazard' with a 1024 bit, 4096KB Nintendo 4DS, for the maximum, four screen visual experience, which covered a synthetic trip into the meta fears which supposedly dwelled in some reality in the psychiatrically affected domiciles of Southern California. An even number of negations were said to be a positive; an odd number a negative. Math PhD's plagued grammar schools through insisting as such.

As the simplicity is continually and undeniably favored by the majority, what could not be measured in concrete Crocker greenbacks did not substantially exist for the Crockers. In a sense this relegated them to a marginalized status which they chose to interpret as an attractive exclusivity. Thereby this mindset truly did not, yet in a note of analytical and displaced kindness coupled with a penchant for the guileless banal, unwittingly propose anything to substantially eliminate the Crockers' obligation to pay any attention to anything other than the number of digits in their personal accounts.

While still in grade school the Crocker brothers had already "discovered" that physical labor was both tiring and not very lucrative. "Franchising," the art of allowing someone else to pay you to use your lackluster, but publicized name, in return for doing all your work, and paying whatever you want to charge for the privilege of selling the underlying product, if any, sure beat the hell out of the "personal service" lawn mowing business. Their early forays into their well-advertised "Crock's Yard Service" provided them with an income sufficient to buy all the collector's comics they could handle at the mere imposition of having to answer the phone politely and just a few worker warnings about inexactitudes, supplemented as needed by a few maimings. The lawsuits which followed were handled by their attorney father, and he was always able to get them off on grounds ranging from self-defense, to no witnesses, to first-time-juvie-offense, the latter handled at sentencing.

This success set the pattern for their adult entrée into their internationally based "What Not on a Burger" franchise, which claimed an ability to enhance buyer burgers with any known edible additive, including opioid sprinkles. After three expansive years their illiquid investment was converted to liquid because of their public offering, and two years after that very liquid thanks to a leveraged buyout. Essentially, LBO's allow those who own everything to retain the benefits of higher entrepreneurial returns while passing the previous inherently and theoretical risks off to employees of the franchise "owner" as well as the franchise "owner;" him-herself, both, or an algorithmically assisted hybrid concoction replete with "proper" categories, rumored to equal two to the power of eight and growing. Public mis-statements regarding these matters were now on the top ten lists of business mistakes, and the Crocker's were always careful to get the easy stuff right.

The troublesome trepidations for transgressions topped the potential pecuniary penalties for the prohibited proffering of poppy products. As silly as the uninformed may take this situation, this was no joke to anyone with the least bit of business common sense. The Politically Precise Police (PPP) appendage of the Newlib Social Media Mavens' (NUSOMMA) vociferous, arguably opinion conjoined, and spokes-man-like, ........ errr spokes-person-like tribe invariably was in existence to find "reasons" to take overt umbrage and surreptitious pleasure in finding violations of their changeable and unwritten Code of Currently Censurable Predicaments, commonly referred to as "The CCCP Hardback."

This selectively and exclusively available to the privileged "meta" book was apparently a resident of the same gated neighborhood as the Holy Ghost, as the only people who claimed to have seen it also claimed to have regularly seen communal faucets and toilets which taunt Artificial Intelligence braggartry by either turning off or flushing utilizing a mind of their own. If one is cynical to a fault, thereby concluding that this was not exactly the stature of a Revelation, it is at the very least safe to say that this may have been one of those occupational hazards common and endemic to those in the well-paid plumbing trade as well as the flaming former followers of Waco Koresh.

#10-Crocker Proven Mechanics

Though the Crockers were entirely apolitical, they annually issued minor gratuities to the appreciative and non-appreciative all on a non-discriminatory basis. They cared zero of their opinions and/or political stances, other than that which might have the potential to negatively affect the Crocker largesse. They were also acutely aware and pragmatically wary of the PPP's and their parent NUSOMMA's possible effects upon Crocker wallets. Spike Crocker often ignored any possible charge of redundancy, secreting and welcoming of a retort yet to come, harboring a comeback related to time lasting tradition. He would say; "There has never been any accounting for taste. In this case; some desire umbrage, some desire fame, and some desire greenbacks. The 'issues' will dissipate when people become bright enough to know what they're doing."

On this past day which no one was counting, the brothers were on their recent favorite topics; toddies and the theft of their Cheeseball trophies. Their toddy concoctions consisted of coffee, sugar, cloves, and three-quarters Jack Daniels; their degree of "righteous" outrage increasing with each sip, swallow and gulp.

After their convivial fourth, breakfast toddy became very un-traditionally toddy like as the alcohol reached .28 on the non-existent breathalyzer. Rising from the Queen Anne armchairs which three quarters surrounded the Queen Anne tilt top table thanks to someone's improvisational use of a ripping implement on the once round table's now flat side, convenient for placement against a wall, the brothers held onto each other emulating comradery, which was actually just as much, another learned attempt not to fall.

Half looking at Spike, Major said: "This entire mess is your fault."

Glancing south and west at yesterday's now congealed vomit which was in the process of mimicking a diminutive Pollack-like portion of a Domino's delivery, Spike replied: "Na, na, na. I made it to the throne. It was one or both of you two."

Major said: "Come on. This is serious. I'm trying to address the big issue."

Spike said: "Okay, so it's only half a pie's worth now and it has taken on an irregular form. But when the fungus sets in there's no telling what it can do. ....... It might even take over the whole room one day. It sneaks. It creeps. It climbs against the wall. IT'S THE BLOB. Look, it's on the chair now!"

Mad Monty said; "That's the pillow, stupid."

Spike sighed and said; "Yeah, I know. But, if you could go meta for a moment, when taken in context of the all absorbing entertainment beast, it's kind of a big issue."

Major said; "For cheeseballs."

Spike half looked at Major. Addressing the old issue, he said; "Half at most. I wasn't the one who did the sale-leaseback and didn't want to."

Mad Monty said; "That was almost irrelevant to the matter at hand, and at least secondary to the inadequate police protection we pay through the nose for."

Major said; "I want those Cheeseball trophies back. We worked, cheated, and maimed for a long time to get them."

Spike said; "If you got the insurance like you were supposed to, we could buy them back."

Major said; "Look. I got a lot of money for us through that transaction. We got the cash and kept the house. Those leveraged buyout guys can take a lesson from me."

Mad Monty said; "Yeah, the insurance guys too."

Major said; "How was I to know that you can't use a standard homeowners to insure what you don't technically own and its contents? I don't think that idiot salesman knew what he was talking about. We still own it through that other corporation. Like, duh? Just get out the non-standard papers, nitwit, and tack on a surcharge."

Suddenly more despondent, Mad Monty said; "I'd just rather have the trophies back. You know, it's not always just a matter of the money. It's the whole lifestyle thing."

Major looked curtly askance, and with an elevated voice dripping with acrimonious intolerance said; "No kidding. It would be nice if you took one side and stayed there. Damn."

Utilizing his best mock professorial voice, seen as almost tolerant of lesser opinions, if one took his perfunctory, miniature, and fleeting smile as genuine, Mad Monty opined; "It's not only about the money. That's well taken care of. It's the trophies. They defined us. They impressed our guests. They were Crocker and Crocker only. Now, who are we? Who am I? Who are you? It's more than existential. Good gracious; this approaches post-industrial or even post-modernist standardized considerations."

Having been previously subjected to this indirect line of thought, Major said; "That has no relevance to whether the house is owned or leased from our private company. Jeez. It only suggests inadequate police protection." His tone now dripping overly obvious sarcasm, Major continued; "Who am I? Who are you? Like duh?"

Mad Monty deadpanned; "Like uh, high-brow?"

Spike loudly exclaimed, thinking his exclamation an overly obvious absurdity; "I say we get on our bikes and toss every bum we can find in Lower Darby. Since the trophies haven't turned up on the market, they must be somewhere within the underclass."

Mad Monty saw no joke; just an opportunity, and said; "Far out. Just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and ...... "

Major said; "We ride."

Mad Monty said; "I'll pass on that one. There's a new "Mr. Bean" on today."

Spike said: "Mr. Bean?"

Mad Monty shrugged and replied: "Yeah, you know I hate that "Game of Thrones' kind of stuff."

Spike said; "Wuss. The bums of Lower Darby eagerly await their just desserts."

Major exclaimed; "To the bikes! Time to ride."

Mad Monty grimaced and said; "Not me today. Strange mood. I'm just not into it."

#11-The Motorcycles - Time Stands Still in 1903

The brothers had amassed an assortment of twenty-three expensive and very collectible Harleys. They secretively housed them in what any outsider would think to be an oversized

1903 Harley Davidson "Flywheel"; property of the author.

detached garage at the rear of their house. The nondescript structure was actually a giant playroom replete with state-of-the-art electronics. Taxes were much less if the underly-zealoused assessors considered the structure to be a garage rather than a living area. When periodically, legally and annoyingly required to do their jobs and re-assess, the Upper Darby Manor tax assessors, who lived exclusively in Lower Darby, made extensive use of "windshield" appraisals, in order to be back at home by lunchtime. They may not have ever even noticed the existence of the garage at all.

As they had seen and heard them on numerous occasions, many Upper Darby Manor residents knew that the Crocker brothers had antiques, choppers, softails, cruisers, street, racers, sportsters and some customized hybrids which could theoretically reach speeds in excess of 300 MPH. They said nothing and pretended not to notice as they had also heard sufficient rumors to strongly suspect that the Crockers were truly violent and vindictive maniacs. The brothers never saw a need to locally test their limits, and were just happy with all the purposeful inattention they had recently achieved, despite having generated a daily boorish cacophony of bloodcurdling bluster, accompanied by a black exhaust capable of immobilizing a huffing boar.

Their "rousting" and occasional decapitation, immolation, or sundry maiming of Lower Darby's homeless street dwellers, ostensibly in the pursuit of information about their stolen Cheeseball trophies, had become an event welcomed by the Lower Darby authorities as well as the majority of the general population. Though well known, their exploits were officially attributed to the ISIS terrorists who were welcomed to the US through the open borders policies of the misguided Obama administration.

Not only were the brothers large contributors to each member of the Lower Darby Town Council as well as their defeated opponents, the Police Benevolent Association and the Fireman's Fund, but their recent exterminating actions were regarded as a civic improvement which the town fathers were unable to personally provide directly. The majority of the residents were of the opinion that despite the unfortunate ugly clean-up required, and the middle school popular photographic "artistic" hilarities, the termination activities definitely lowered the undesirable population and served as a theoretical disincentive to further bums who might otherwise have considered squatting in Lower Darby. And the clean-up wasn't all that cumbersome. It usually just required a running hose and a nearby gateway to an un-clogged sewer.

The brothers' favorite motorcycles were the first ones made; the original 1903 Harley Davidson "Flywheels." They had all three of them as the result of a $3,000,000 bulk purchase from the desperate Hunt family, headed by oldest brother, "Fats" Silver Bunker in 2002. Their current value was a matter of speculation as the Crockers weren't selling; but it was speculated to have been in the tens of millions each. The precious scramblers didn't look like much more than motorized bicycles by 2018 standards, but commanded awe and envy from anyone who knew a bit about motorcycles.

Spike and Major mounted two of them, and kick started the stubborn old "hogs" on their seventh or eighth attempts when Spike yelled; "Whoa, who, whoa."

Gunning his machine, Major yelled back; "What?"

Spike said; "I got the chainsaw. You gotta carry the accelerant and the club."

Major yelled back; "Got the club. Accelerant too?"

Spike said; "Yeah. I mean, like I got my hands full with the chainsaw."

Major said; "Okay. Okay. Next you'll be bringing up the blowtorch."

Spike said; "My pocket lighter will work just fine with the accelerant."

Apparently, there was a meeting of the minds, and two of the Crockers were off for Lower Darby. It is sometimes a blessing to not be able to detect an absurd personal appearance.

#12-Mad Monty's Lonely Abstention

From-time-to-time-reticent Mad Monty was suddenly alone in the oversized, twenty-two room house. This was another of his annotations of brotherly reticence, and his strongest since the bygone days in which the three pintsized brothers first offered their lawn maintenance services. In those days he always got stuck with the job which Major and Spike had the habit of having some reason to sidestep; the grass surrounding the house of Penny and Peter Pinchington.

The grass was easy. But, getting paid for mowing it seemed to take more time, effort, and finesse than the time during which the mower was humming and pushed. Not yet "Mad," young Monty always did what was agreed to do, only to be accosted with Pinchington ramifications when done. Back end "negotiations" ranged from Pinchington claims of how others previously did it for a conveniently miscalculated ten percent less to the alleged Pinchington lack of available funds, to questions about why a tyke needed all this money. Years too soon Monty saw the "affable," long-winded repartee as an obvious ruse intended to leave the Pinchington household with a mowed lawn and less of a payment than they had previously agreed to make to obtain that.

After initially having politely pursued the line of "cost efficient" conversation imposed upon him, Monty concluded that it was more cost efficient for him to quickly accept the "ten" percent discounted payment offered and go on to the next job. In addition to the lethal level of disdain he covertly felt, Monty compensated by cutting corners and becoming oblivious to the standard care given to edges. They didn't have any appreciation for a quality job, so he accommodated them with a cheap one.

He complained to Major about the Pinchingtons, and how he'd appreciate him or Spike doing their job.

Major laughed, saying; "You really think they're the only ones who do that kind of garbage? We all have some of those tightwads. Lots of people are not happy unless they think that they are saving money through paying out less money than originally agreed to. Kind of funny, as they can save much more money by doing it themselves. But, if we handle it right we get their money at an increased per-hour rate. That's the main thing and they don't offer us any alternative choice other than a tedious, time consuming conversation."

Early on, Monty thought about that a lot. Just like every other person who spoke honestly, he wanted the money. He ultimately came to the general conclusion that everything is offered in packages. Nothing comes alone. The real "trick" was in determining how one could keep the desired part of the package while getting others to take the undesired parts of it. Had he pursued this line of thought beyond its personal ramifications, he might have inadvertently invented leveraged buyouts.

Monty found it to be strange; past and present; strange in that one's best chance of "winning" seemed to be by doing what one does not want to do. Either he, God, or humanity made a serious fundamental error. Sure, the Reverend was perfectly capable in finding "beautiful" Biblical passages which were almost analogous to the situation at hand. Almost; and less so the more one thought about it. Then, if the tithe request isn't done in person, it comes in the next day's mail.

Monty shuffled from room to room. The "toddy room" was the one considered communal. Each of the three brothers had seven which were more or less exclusively theirs and had private entrances. An excellent reason, such as a clogged bowl, or a fire, or a blindly drunken mistake was required to enter another's territory. But now, knowing that the others would be gone for a while he thought that he'd take a leisurely look all around. He was kind of tired of the whole thing, as well as the motorcycle marauding of homeless losers in an attempt which had proven to be fruitless, in trying to get information about their stolen cheeseball trophies.

Mad Monty used his skeleton key to enter the inner sanctum of Major. The Chippendale and Queen Anne furniture immediately reminded him of Major's consistently traditional taste. He spilled a few drops from his cup onto the "Chinoiserie" rug when he chortled. He recalled what seemed like yesterday when he too favored pre-1830 Americana. It seemed to be all inclusive, evoking the sub-genres of rustic Pilgrim, Spanish-flavored William and Mary, simple, curvy Queen Anne, baroque Chippendale, the sharper tapered lines of inlaid Sheraton tending toward modern, and classical Empire eventually degraded upon the coming of the machine age, all while having proven the ability to pass the test of time. He didn't dis-favor the Americana now, but he had developed a taste, or the lack thereof, for an evolving eclecticism, which ranged from the Godard brothers, NEWPORT AND PROVIDENCE based blocked mahogany, difficult support for brass handles and escutcheons, to the US Southwestern's painted, home-made trasteros, rare as too often used as firewood when the pre-Depression Number One, burgeoning train line brought access to the professional, efficient, and affordable offerings contained within the fat, phonebook sized book offered freely by the briefly Biblical competitive Sears catalogue, to a Modernism, "Post-Modernism," post-post modernism, or a whatever vaguely "characterized" or ignored by the much-too-easily credentialed, ageing academics as a propitiously placed "new" niche, which they proceed to further confound and confuse through paid decorating-rag dissertations, of particular interest to the terminally pretentious and mildly retarded, to the naïve and childish manifestations of decoration available at Good Will as well as the more pricey variety available at a plethora of "gift shops" in parking convenient, transitory occupation of anchorless malls replete with heart-warming, smiley, greeters capable of inducing a temporarily annoying vomit which often leads to a pleasant clearing, a purge of non-regurgitational sorts which actually works, to exposed beams tending toward exposed pipes tastefully done in an non-ostensible oversion of the plumbing, hinting at a decorative effect through a lack of the stains consistent with practical use coupled with a price exorbitant, to Ikea innovation, to hybrids, to that which, to that which, to that which, to that which, to that which is simple and egalitarian fully aware of being interpreted as undecipherable and exclusive as a Walmart marketed, knock-off, Eames, tannish, naugahyde chair which includes all the tools required for easy assembly, to that which has been categorized as un-categorizable, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, and what a few non-sophisticates might privately characterize as much too to. When he shopped for aspirin, he wished that he could more easily find the type he wanted through the elimination of a million "choices," whose differences began and ended with their coverings. In truth, there was only one manufacturer, but a million brands and packagers vied for shelf space, while they all had "furtively" acquired their product from that one.

To his retreat from Major's lair, to the sparse decoration of Spike; ultra-modern Spike. The straight lined simplicity executed in synthetic materials explained the practical necessity of minimalism when Mad Monty entered Spike's private lair and stumbled into a sharp edge, his thigh possibly wounded and sore for three days. Glass, plastic, chrome, metal, and marble encouraged him to leave before he might spurt blood on the hanging, computer generated, pastel, obviously faux "Pollocks" on every other non-color-co-ordinated wall. No one would have noticed, but he walked back to his own domain, took a last gulp, and settled into the center of his posted bed, proud of its protective canopy. Pulling up the covers, his body felt cozy and warm, while his mind raced as if in a Winter Olympic contest hosted in Bobby Fischer popularized Reykjavik.

Mad and non-Mad Monty were perplexed for differing reasons. Prior to getting into the exposed particulars, he/they thought it practical to first address the seemingly primary consideration which silently suggested that IT was and/or had to have been some function of an algorithm not yet made public by Google, Amazon, IBM, or Microsoft. The "IT" just had to exist. IT was a grade-level-eight inferable possibility with a 98% probability of being right. IT was also as if you ducked the immoral war out of true conscience, only to witness your loved ones being killed while doing their "duty." The tiny, yet inescapably guilty thoughts of doubt also suggested that if one chooses to buck the odds, one will lose in all determinable circumstances, but not necessarily if one could ignore the imperfect doctrines utilized in the professional psychiatric scam.

So, like duh to a power currently considered infinite, which is appropriately and accurately depicted as a fallen eight or a touching double circle at rest.

Mad Monty was irrationally compelled to do something which he had simultaneously forgotten about. He realized that he was most likely wrong about the temporary compulsion. He closed his eyes and went back to happy sleep on the eastern periphery of his Queen Anne, canopied, double bed.

#13-On the Outskirts of Both Upper and Lower Darby

In addition to the Crocker and Hunt brothers, one of the other people who knew something about "hogs" and their market values was rather unsurprisingly, also one who occupied a financial position least able to afford one and have any effect on that market. In effect, he was an unrecognized dilettante with glorious aspirations and/or a penchant to imply more importance to his station than it warranted. This increasingly common affliction was obvious to everyone other than the one so afflicted, perhaps another side effect brought on by the advent of social media and blogging. In fact, much like leprosy, this yet to be acronymed, popular "syndrome" was surreptitiously and perhaps inadvertently encouraged by the many so afflicted, as well as those seeking the offbeat giggles provided by unintended humor, much like that provided by the "bigger is better" school of contemporary "lit," primarily pupilled through government grants, whether direct or indirect, granted with the advice and consent, if not abject disinterest of college professors in concert with their benefactors, by a few stubborn, effeminate adherents of played out post or post-post-modern "literature," especially when they try to convey through a sales pitching blurb, a reconciliation of their stated requirement for continual "innovation" with their currently embraced anthologically based body of works, the latter perhaps suitable to be syllabus suggested as optional undergraduate recap reading.

A heightened, yet simplified degree of particular "mirth" may be suffered-enjoyed through perusal of the seemingly required repetition of the "Who am I?" narration, now at interminable length, while at times mercifully and "artistically" inclusive of a plethora of consecutive blank pages, suitable for notes and doodles.

That Gaddis was a predecessor of and influence upon David Foster Wallace is alone hilarious. To expand upon and prove this would raise Gaddis to an undeserved status; that "study" already reserved by an inconsequential, aging critic who often uses the name "Moore." To think that this will be read and/or commented upon is the pinnacle of indulgent absurdity, and the pre-cursor to an extended stay within the cushy walls of the federally subsidized "happy farm" where life is beautiful all the time. It is indeed tempting to fallaciously adopt the other Moore-LeClair high windowed insight which says; "If it is obscure it must be good."

Thomas M. Hartfield was a truly bizarre, homeless, several time crack addict, with grungy, shoulder invading black hair, which could fit well with Nirvana, were the group not now defunct. He had spent ten of his twenty-seven years incarcerated and had been ersatz free for the preceding two years. He now peacefully resided under the toll free, unguarded bridge over the Reciprocal River, which separated Upper from Lower Darby. He shared that waterfront space, depending upon seasonal considerations and which particular day of the week, with four to ten others who had, like him, never found much merit in settling into the repetitive hum-drum of pecuniary pursuits.

Tom had regularly seen and heard the old, un-muffled engine hum-drum generated by the three Crockers powering overhead, the loud drone often serving as an alarm clock, and had received word-of-mouth news reports of their locally popular "bum rousts," conceivably more accurately described as random selective eliminations.

Putting the three thought-perception-correction's together, Tom finally had some dream-type plans which he hoped might well provide him with a lifetime of living in a manner better than that to which he had become accustomed. He could snuff the Crockers and sell their bikes on the deep web. The most likely snag he could imagine was his lack of trust in the market value of Bitcoin, heavily insisted upon by the shady characters in his potential market; the plethora of opportunistic undesirables who dispensed, insisted upon its use, and often inferred a "revolutionary" worship of the fixed supply medium of exchange. Republicans and Crocker-types could be quite unreasonably difficult.

Tom had a gun, an inexpensive sten. Despite its affordability a sten could take out a roomful of garden variety schmucks in less than a second if it didn't explode in hand, as when someone manufactures a sten it requires an addition, and it is thereby more expensive to make it a more solitary and specific shot arm. The additional work and material required to make a more precise gun crowns the automatic sten as the gun of the people. If and when his circumstances were enhanced, Tom could upgrade his arsenal. "Assault" weapons reputedly provided a pricey best of both worlds, but that was a consideration best reserved for a successful future, which Tom, like any hack, often contemplated during the dreams which were endemic to his abundant leisure time.

Regarding the matter which rudely imposed itself by audaciously being on hand, the only problematic triviality associated with the disgorging, uncontrolled automatic use of an overly eager sten was a general requirement for the sprayer to be held by a trigger man partner with a high degree of dexterous control; that dexterity in direct proportion to the number of enemy targets, inclusively in consideration of the enemy's clumsy and needy tendency to flock like sheep or in a more secure, dispersed, inverse relationship, such as that produced by spread out, well-trained terrorists doing their own things. Of course the chummier the enemy affinity for each other, the better for the cheap sten holder. The propinquity of the "chums" who the holder needs to plug is a holder advantage, as the time required to re-load tends to negatively impact the realization of the desired operation, or any reasonable approximation thereof.

In an attempt to make clearer the obvious, the number of enemies you need to quickly take out complicates the mission, as the gun discharges all its bullets with one trigger pull. This makes a cloistered enemy the ideal target, and/or necessitates an exceptional ability to focus a default ten foot spray over a hundred foot area, on a metaphorical basis, if the ammunition will. In difficult circumstances, the egalitarian appearing sten holder must convert his scattershot instrument to one of more or less precision, the details dictated by the proposed event.

One might well imagine the difficulties inherent with simultaneously attempting to nail all of the enemies, who or what in turn are simultaneously domiciled in Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Abu Dhabi, and some other shithole African "nations" no one ever heard of, each in convenient use of the world popular rhetoric of militaristic participation in anti-US jihadism ostensibly to promote alleviation of their 70% unemployment rates through a "newly radicalized" form of conscription. The "Royal Saudi family" grants provisionally granted, are of course disbursed after the loyal local chiefs clandestinely extract their hard earned 75% override, effectively blurring silly considerations of the "real" enemy, but simultaneously providing avenues of "social media" discourse, best handled by sock puppets and bots with a preference.

Sure, one can reload. But, tactically speaking, that takes some time, and a dumber-than-can-be-reasonably-expected enemy, prone to standing still and patiently waiting for the next blast. That "noble" war methodology began its decline when the Brits stood up to lose the American Revolutionary War to crouching Davey Crockett and his pals.

Quite frankly, at this point, the level of math required to competently approximate the level of risk involved in the potential transaction resides in, more or less, only five living humans. One might have died last week, but no one was paying any attention. Being deemed as somewhat "smart," they are all people who have calculated their potential benefits to the highest possibility of an expected 98% degree of accuracy, and thereby lean upon impressive "credentials" sufficient for the deflection of any direct yes-no type question through a "humorous" response, not quite, but more pertinent to a subjective essay equalizer, tittered at by the other three or four, applauded by the overly needy, dumb wannabees. Perhaps most importantly, given the easily calculable possibilities of the particular circumstances, the top mavens are actually quite adept at dispensing any one of the differing myriad of historical theories which almost fit. Non-scholars try not to get bogged down in their envious lack of enlightenment and check their pants in hopes of a loaded gun, simultaneously realizing that their "answer" was much better or worse, depending upon the current miscalculation of the evolving laws of attraction.

It's largely a matter of texture and/or posture, or whose bull got gored, one would guess. Enter the contradictory supply of "morals." The rest of us not glued to our seats exit stage left ...... or stage right. Whatever escape is desired ...... or easiest to get to.

Hawaii has once again survived the volcanic eruptions with minor "damage," only a week later to ostensibly be kissed, forward or reversed; the frail surface yet lacking lasting construction, in that tender trap consistent with the congratulatorilly directed postures much too conveniently adopted by the beneficiaries of that which is collectively deemed to "really" exist; unruly water coupled with a strong wind; a simple, naïve contruct, to affect a congeniality which defers to a Derrida-esque point-of-non-view, not to mention the Picasso theft, of more significance to contemporary manifestationally limited borders, supplemented by DFW's "A Brief Interview With Hideous Men"'s window gone opaque as the result of the inward warmth's liaison with the outside's winter cold, yet is the one which almost always continues to pragmatically work, admittedly sometimes requiring a loose interpretation of the mechanics dictated, certainly while in imperfect comparison to the Wiki based "knowledge" of the 21st century's algorithmically biased standardizations and momentarily-difficult-to-refute precisions which is righteously relegated to an exclusivity, which never manages to mimic the main theme of half-century-prior "Wooden Ships," no matter the purveyor, originator, or thief.

Thomas M. Hartfield was once mentioned long ago, perhaps in a legendary vein. The dated communal bridge dweller and all about raconteur of a thus far limited, dream oriented note, despite and because of an egregious attack by unsolicited sources or a personal predilection for a graduated form of minimalism, both, neither, or disinterested gradations in between, was proud to be still in retention of his first and last names, not to mention the capital letter attributed to his un-remembered middle, Confirmed, or Bar Mitzvahed central appendage, had once again briefly surfaced; his snorkeling outfit making strangers think he was a radiated frog desperately wanting to get into a hot tub.

He was poised to be in transition; from what to what arguably irrelevant relative to the movement. It was the intent rather than the details which continued to be primal.

Tom considered the middle letter retention to be quite an accomplishment in a world which had decades prior taken a strong turn toward names like J-Lo and Dr. Dre, unless the M stood for Mohammed, Misunderstood, or MonkeyAss.

His only possible non-participatory compromise was the shortening trespassed through the acronymization of his middle M, with or without period. That's what he thought, but he had his sporadic share of un-communicated doubts, or at the least thought that the best thing to communicate to evoke a false humility. A very imperfect analogy is that it is much like that of a pitcher short of his best stuff and control on any particular day, who just hopes that the batter hits his first pitch right back at him. At the core, it was just a matter of technique and pure chance. If it goes on much too long, is that a valid criticism? O blah di.

Tom was out of control, in that he was compelled to keep thinking that the three Crockers would be an ideal target, as when they did their marauding in Lower Darby, they were never more than ten feet apart. That satisfied both the strategic aspect of the mission and the traits of the sten. The moral considerations, if any, took a backseat to Tom's dislike of the Crockers and what they had been doing to his homeless compadres with the de facto complicity of the Lower Darby authorities, while he also had no particular aversion to what he could get for their bikes on the open market. The operation seemed to him as a potential bi-partisan win-win-win.

Tom had most days heard and partially daily seen the Crocker brothers for the last month or two, as the three motored their way over the bridge from their Upper Darby Manor compound into Lower Darby. Reports indicated that they always went to the back alleys of the derelict Mission district to do their dastardly deeds.

Tom thought it a good idea to take two of his homeless pals down to the Mission, and wait there for the three Crockers with his impetuous sten. They'd attract the Crockers and then show them that things are not always what they appear to be, and that making silly and unfounded assumptions can be quite dangerous for them; much in the manner in which artificial intelligence mechanics exceedingly boast that their cute little cuddly bots are any-day-now poised to eradicate all of mankind in a matter of nano seconds. Too bad that the Crockers would only know that for a fraction of a second before their screens went irreparably a middling, tending toward dark, shade of blue in perpetuity.

Tom had already decided that if and when this type of opportunity presented itself, that he'd have liked to be accompanied by Desmond and Caligari. Desmond was very much the actor, and he might have made some think that he was Johnny Depp had the fe, wardrobe, eptness challenged, malapropism not "artistically" adorned him with an outfit partially reminiscent of Boris Karloff's 1932 "Mummy," supplemented by exposed and gangrened body parts which did not end at his face. Caligari was off on some kind of trip only he and his imaginary, rather stiff, and rather obedient doppelganger knew about. Despite his seeming dive into meta's deep end, his beneficial qualities revolved around his penchant to be affable; always smiling and willing to offer a friendly hand, were it still there, to anyone not averse to the painless, granulomic conditions brought about by the non-contagious manifestation of un-professionally-diagnosed-metastatic leprosy.

Perhaps as an expectation of their imminent death, both importantly neither gave the slightest of Farfels about money, smoothly allowing pragmatically greedy Tom to keep it all for himself. "Let the dead bury their dead," indeed.

Before the pre-dawn could begin its journey into mid-morning tepidity, Tom, Desmond, and Caligari made their ways through the quiet streets of Lower Darby. The only other sound of ersatz "life" was that buzz made by the malfunctioning street lamps. Under the circumstances, it not only seemed to be unenlightening; it was out and out aesthetically disconcerting.

#14-Wilbur Later That Day

Wilbur concluded his pleasant snooze, only to have the pleasantness destroyed, when he was immediately greeted upon awakening to once more "hear" the unpleasant silence now rampant in the Cheeseball trophy community. He immediately adjusted his natural inclinations toward "destroyed" to a less malevolent, measured assessment of "impaired," and left any notions of remediation to a future consideration, which never comes. He briefly entertained, and ultimately rejected the idea of going back to sleep, that being a tactic utilized by those in long term orange jumpsuits.

It seemed to him that as recent as yesterday that the trophies were vibrant, chatty, animated, and all that other upbeat stuff one pays upwards of $1,000 to have temporarily instilled at a Tony Robbins conference. The "effervescence" might have been longer lasting if Tony's meth-imitative-ramble did not first induce a sloppy and unfortunate instant replay of the regurgitation of chunks similar to that which had been left by prior attendees which had commenced right after the over-the-hill Aerosmith testimonial. Ostensibly Aerosmith was attempting to find an "alternative" substitute outlet for their sales of retro music in the museum shop, and Tony had some attraction to dreams.

If Tony had a "real" job, then surely, his performance could have enhanced his position. He would have been viewed as an employee so nauseatingly hyper, that he'd either get a raise from the boss just to get him out of his office, or result in Tony being summarily dismissed and sent back to his "glory" days spent as the leading member of his vomit encouraging high school "pep" squad, which was collectively headed for a lucrative career in pizza delivery.

Wilbur could detect that Sargento was up, though his eyes were on the floor. He called out; "Hey, Sargento. What's with the long goopy face? Thinking of running for office and sadly telling the voters that you can't do anything about whatever it is they want at the moment?"

Sargento actually broke from his floor observation for a second and giggled, then replied; "In my case I'm not faking the theatrics."

Artisanal said; "No, you only calculated their effect. ....... I believe correctly. ......... Obama was a good role model, but lesser known Mitch McConnell had it nailed. I mean like that old boy can do things with his lips which can put Rosie O'Donnell in a tizzy. ..... Ah, I shouldn't have said anything."

Billie Jean said; "Pleased do. No harm, no foul."

Boursin tried to hold a purported semblance of decorum together as he vocalized; "It might work out soon; and if it doesn't we won't be here forever."

Billie Jean deeply sighed and retorted; "Patience is a virtue."

Cabot grunted and sounded something like Henry Kissinger on a particularly methodical and consequently toxically pedantic day, if not demonstrating the weariness of one desperately in need of going back to sleep, when intending to convey some degree of amelioration which resulted in a flawed Gallup estimate of an 85% approval rating; that percentage likely overstated through the asking of a misleading, inherently biased question-statement; the result of effective, partisan, and productive training, or abject incompetent stupidity; suitable for MSNBC or Fox News, but not both. He slurred in a heavily bored and studious German accent; "If we're as cursed as it seems, we no doubt will." It was unclear whether that was a positive or negative note, whether it had addressed Boursin or Billie Jean, or if it was designed utilizing a contrived intention to register neither a positive or negative note; which was calculated to fully expect to be viewed as "right," "not wrong," or incomprehensible in all possible cases.

Wilbur said; "Will what? I think that I've lost track."

Billie Jean said; "Keep losing it. It's kind of surreal. Oh. Oh."

Wilbur effectively followed the suit of the current wave of the partially positive, which was simultaneously the partially dissident, discordant, depressed, distressed and to complicate a seemingly simple matter further, possibly sarcastically, as in orgasmically and/or seismologically secreted through screened points-of-view, saying; "Okay. Back where we started, wherever that was."

Perhaps interrupting, perhaps not, Sargento actually broke from his floor observation for a second and giggled, then replied; "In my case I'm not faking the theatrics."

Wilbur said; "Funny, I just heard that somewhere. Shut up Sargento. This is serious. It's not me; you guys always say so. ......... Sort of."

Brie sounded exasperated and imploring when she plaintively said; "Wilbur, don't you remember that great room at all. The ceiling was so high. It was wonderful. We were there! You were there too."

Wilbur and the trophies as displayed in the Crocker mansion; property of the author.

Wilbur said; "No. I only remember here. You might have dreamt that."

Artisanal said; "If it was a dream, I happened to have had the same one recurrently."

Cabot added; "As have I."

Boursin said; "As have I."

Sargento said; "As have I."

Wilbur became the silent one now. It was difficult for him to continue thinking that this room had been his only home. Well, he couldn't help thinking precisely that, but he also recognized that the odds of him being right had dropped 83.33%, the threes to infinity. He was sometimes infuriatingly proficient in elementary math.

Brie said; "Yes, and the people used to come in to clean and care for us every day." She giggled, then added; "And they'd always take us off the mantel and shelves, so that they could clean them too. And they'd always forget exactly where we were before, and put us back in different places. We'd get new views ........." Brie's voice trailed off as she unsuccessfully tried to hide that she had started to cry.

Wilbur wanted to hold her and say reassuring things like; "It will be all right," just like females generally want to hear in full recognition of the lie, but like her he was immobile, which may have prevented his mutually desired lie, as Wilbur knew that they worked better when combined with an embrace.

Wilbur again got quiet, and thought that maybe he should not have initiated this conversation. He then could not remember if it was he who had done so. Wilbur then concluded that was irrelevant at this point or any other point.

He focussed on the fact that two people came from elsewhere right into this room. It was Cable and Barb doing their dusting chores, though Wilbur didn't know their names and thought that their intents were to tickle him and the Cheeseball trophies. So, he realized that there were other places and stuff. He did previously note the sounds he heard through the window, but had never given them the thought he was giving to Cable and Barb now. "Hmmmnnn," he thought. "If there are other places, why can't they be the ones that the Cheeseball trophies have dreamt?"

The Cheeseball trophies complemented Wilbur's posture through their own return to dreamy silence. They either napped, were too disgusted to do any more grousing, were too saddened by the resurrected memories, or anxiously awaited their next imaginary Zoloft dose.

Some of the trophies still illogically tried to recall their first memories. They were at the bottom of a hill which held some fallen humans and one immobile Double Gloucester ball. The other humans on the flat land were hoopin'and hollerin' as if something wonderful had happened. And something wonderful must have, as I (the trophy) was held high in the air, as I (the prize) was generously conveyed to another human, who must have just won some battle, as it apparently was inadequately defined to accommodate the loose rules required by games. Despite being sweaty, disheveled, and the dirty center of attention, the human seemed inordinately proud and the required falsely humble and "humorously" self- effacing tone, betrayed only to the possibilities considered by the most perceptive, nonsensically-prone-to-un-scientific-conclusion-jumping, and those sufficiently privileged to have the luxury to think about and research things other than the competitive and relative price levels of mayonnaise available at the occupied immediate subject, whatever that might be, to the always conveniently "error" prone Walmart, Amazon, more "upscale" discounter Target, that tripartite brevity, in the compelling self-interest to be thorough, necessarily inclusive of an infinite supply of less reliable lesser-statures, adjusted for the miles-per-gallon abilities of one's auto and periodically adjusted for the current price of gas. It might be temporarily construed as quite "cavalier" to ignore the pennies. But in the long run, who cares?

Billie Jean said; "Like the mayonnaise? Oh. Oh."

Wilbur said; "Mnnnn. Mnnnn. Mnnnn."

Things once again seemed to be impromptu.

MAYONAISSE.

#15-An AM Trip to the Business District A/K/A Mission

Before the sweet blindness of the pre-dawn past had the "opportunity" to be afforded the multi-sided option which included the much desired ambivalence, more or less consistent with the ramifications attendant to the repertoire of the repetitive tepidity of defaulted mid-morning, the gray sky not solely a function of its unwillingness to make a choice; Tom, Desmond, and Caligari began their somewhat shared journeys by making their ways through the quiet streets of Lower Darby. The only other sound of ersatz "life;" flesh, electronic, and/or algorithmically (Some substitute AI, and some substitute meta. Feel free to choose, mix, or match as inclined.) based conjecture was that buzz made by the malfunctioning street lamps, during the trio's weird, déjà vu-like schlep through a sleeping community which offered them less resistance than that conveyed by any of the aimless death wishing serial shooters armed with a combination of an assault weapon and one of the increasingly common sad-ass stories milked by Dr. Phil, lucky Phil-programmed-friendly right after Oprah's popular spot.

Vaguely reminiscent of a tertiary land bound version of the fable were there one, most ala singular "Aguirre, the Wrath of God," the 2018 version of the Pinta, the Nina, and the Santa Marie trio left early and walked through the darkness of Lower Darby without the blessing or largesse of the Queen of Spain, the Queen of Europe, the Queen of the Homeless, or the Queen of the Dry.

They took their chances and took their places in the back alley of the Mission district's empty Commerce Street, and waited for their Crocker-prey-seeking-prey. They took their places on top of the garbage cans. It was the perfect locale, as the back alley service area had required no service in the years since the businesses in front had become victims of efficient, on-line shopping. The privacy level was ideal in its totality. Even, the resident rats co-operated by scattering toward the entrances they had gnawed where the foundations met the wood framings; their abandonment a testimony to their wise "choice" to abandon, rather than defend when confronted with outsized forces.

Tom felt encouraged and optimistic when he heard the engine roar, and then saw the bikes turn into his alley. The Crocker "nose" had once more intuitively smelled out its intended prey, but this time may have olfactorially confused that with the scent of a predator, if not three. Tom's doubts surfaced when he saw only two antique Harleys and two antique Crockers. Various scenarios of a complication to his plan ran through his mind. Was the third Crocker now going to be difficult through the presentation of a detached and isolated target? "Uh oh," Tom thought. "Should have had a plan B."

There was no time to improvise any alternative modus operandi, as with a speed which exceeded that displayed by the rat winner of the fifty yard dash, Major and Spike "bravely" roared up and cut their engines, wheels a precarious six inches from the feet of Tom, Desmond, and Caligari.

The brothers dismounted from the converse starboard side, circled, and Major said; "Good morning. We're looking for some help."

Tom could have shot them right there, but held back in fear of Mad Monty roaring down the road any second. He said; "Good morning. Always glad to help out a friend. Shoot."

Major said; "Right neighborly. We're looking for our Cheeseball trophies."

Tom said; "Sorry, pal. Ain't nobody down here in the Mission got near any kind of trophies since about three-quarters the way into the twentieth century."

Spike said; "Appreciate that. But, maybe you know some information which can help us out. Even a rumor." He fondled the chainsaw on the side of his old Harley.

Tom concluded that if Crocker brother #3 was going to show up, he'd have done so by now. Sometimes people do call in sick, while his absence reduced Tom's potential prize by a third, obliterating any prior risk-reward calculations. Regardless, and devoid of adjustment, Tom instantly decided to proceed with his plan. He might have been a bit rash, as his judgement was undoubtedly prompted by the anxious proximity of Spike's chainsaw. Resolute, Tom calmly reached into his pocket, retrieved his sten gun, and proceeded to put two shots into both Major and Spike, first the chests and second the heads. Resolute, Tom calmly returned the exterminating sprayer to its place of origin.

With the bodies at rest with their backs on the ground, completely still, if one did not consider the erratic, rather riveting, rosy red geyser gushes, Tom said; "Pretty good shooting, if I do say so myself."

Caligari said; "The stuff coming out of the heads is kind of punky so far. Don't get me wrong. It's very good for a first effort and I look forward to seeing the second."

Desmond shrugged and from a different point of view, said; "Admirable, though some of the bullets sprayed between the two targets took off a poor rat's tail. Frankly, the degree of fine execution may have been increased a tad with more precision."

Exasperated, Tom said; "I only had a sten. Jeez. It accomplished the main thing. ....... and it certainly accomplished as much as a 'sophisticated' mid-level oulipo constraint allows, and I daresay in a much more entertaining manner. I mean the others never got geysers of any color. Friggin' critics."

Desmond said; "Ostensibly a shooter's shooter, I take it." Two fingers over each mouth, he and Caligari shared a sedate girlish giggle, prior to his continuing with a more routine; "Have you ever considered taking part in a marksmanship seminar? ....... Not that it's necessary of course. But, a good slaughtering effort often includes growth, change, and improvement."

Caligari added; "In defense of Tom's effort, I'm certain that it satisfies the plebian norms endemic to popular genre shooting. I'd say that it erratically hovers somewhere above a three on a scale of five, at times even approaching an inconsistent four."

Desmond said; "I guess I can go with that under the unfortunate and un-credentialed circumstances, if I am permitted to round up to there from a three point three weighted average. These forms make some things easy while imposing some constraints." He immediately wrinkled his lips, as he realized that he was being trite.

Tom said; "You critics are fortunate that I forgot to bring a sten re-load." When Tom saw Desmond and Caligari's faux terrified faces, he added; "I don't care. I really don't. Bottom line, this is going to get me more money than Bin Laden's daddy had to lay out for the funeral." He did a double take, not sure if that was the best possible way of phrasing the thought. In fact, considerations were given to it having possibly been antithetical. He didn't feel like changing it or doing the tedious research necessary to say it correctly, so he dismissively said; "Whatever."

Caligari said; "Two bikes? Somebody miscalculated easy math and somebody is taking it on the arches."

Tom said; "Au contraire, mons ami. I have your best interests at heart. .... Yes." Lying, he continued; "I have thought of this. You two can double up, while I take the other."

Caligari said; "I'm not sitting with Desmond. .... I mean like he's all right and all that, but the dude's got leprosy or something."

Desmond actually raised his voice to vehemently exclaim; "I have no leprosy. If you're making that an issue, you're the one who does." .......... He proudly added; "Without even trying, I made a tautology."

Caligari shook his head and said; "Nope. ......... Look, I'll trust you if you trust me. ........ Umnnn. Wait a minute, Tom. How come you aren't in consideration for a joint project?"

Tom said; "Cause I was the one who pulled the trigger, stupid."

After they figured out how to start the Harleys, the drove back to the bridge, weaving more than the drunken Crockers. Early morning non-rushed hour now well ensconced in the type of "history" which boring towns market in an attempt to entice cheap, boring tourists, the Lower Darby window watching brigade viewed the Crockers as they brashly and deafeningly whirred through their town, on their way back to the safe amenities of borderline Upper Darby Manor. Though some were appalled, and some thought that they were the Crocker brothers, just as many considered them to be heroic Americans.

Most of all, the "observant" majority of Lower Darby wondered why two of them had chosen to become so friendly.

Later that day, Mad Monty was informed through a personal visit from the authorities. His first reaction was disbelief. His next one was guilt for not having been there, as he might have been able to avert the tragedy. After the two minute duration of that, he more or less settled into a mindset which married a philosophical notion of randomness, chance, and fate with an appreciation for now being in possession of the entirety of the family fortune. He did the necessaries. He even displayed an excellent imitation of the Obama goopy face at the funerals and burials; that lippy contortion interpreted as a heartfelt stoicism which held back the sad tears of failure.

In private, he did a lot of jumping around to Pink Floyd's "Money," while shouting; "Yippee!" and quiet time web "research" of various sites, anxious to see when he would be recognized as one of the ten richest people in the world.

Long winded considerations of whether the "good" result was motivated by personal gain or societal benefit were mercifully held in abeyance by the hoi polloi; the swampy territory graciously reserved for those seeking election to public office.

#16-A "Friendly" Snake Imparts Supposedly Useful Information to Its Desperate Constituency

Like most people, Cable and Barb whiled away many more wasted hours than they were aware of through looking at "free" information and other spurious, feral "entertainment" with questionable degrees of accuracy, which took up space on the web at an exponentially increasing rate. Politically oriented "news" was generally an automatic avoid, though an occasional source of unintended humor. Unlike most people, they became aware that they might possess something which may be of great value; the trophies acquired from the apparently substance issued person who they transitorily encountered in front of the bar; the person to whom they would soon be referring to as "the bag man."

Barb guffawed, barely able to keep her nasal ablution from hitting the space bar. She said; "Look at this, Cable. I got a good one."

Cable ambled over and stood behind her. His eyes followed her finger to the indicated spot on the E-Bay page. He chuckled and said; "Good one. The post-truth fake news has gone commercial."

What they were viewing was much too good to be true; especially after having unsuccessfully tried to sell the trophies for five to ten bucks through word of mouth. It just couldn't be; asking prices at or near $160,000. Subject to severe, plausible doubts on an individual basis, each was mutually fortified, in their possibly undetected errors of wishful thinking, through what they thought they had seen because the other confirmed having seen precisely the same thing. That satisfied the visual aspect; substantive and fakery concerns yet to be assuaged.

With the amusement waning, Barb took the simplest approach and said; "There's no downside in giving it a try."

More oriented toward an aversion to being fooled again, Cable shrugged and said; "Only another dashed expectation." He was a fan of The Who.

Barb said; "We're well experienced in that and we're still here."

Cable said; "Yes. ....... Home, sweet home. Thirteenth Street in evolving Lower Darby. .... Half joking. Let's do it."

A week later, in the big, empty feeling house in Upper Darby Manor, Mad Monty chanced upon the Cheeseball trophy listed on E-Bay. He had been searching all over the web, in hope of finding something to buy which would restore his former way of life. He considered it an inconsequential risk to offer $150,000 for one; after all E-Bay warrantied receipt or refund.

His offer was accepted and the brown shirted, United Parcel Service driver brought the good news and delivered it the next day! So, Less Mad Monty checked E-Bay, and found another for sale. He offered another $150,000 which was also accepted. This became a consistent pattern for the enthused trio.

#17-Wilbur's Friends are Taken Away

Cable and Barb's ticket out of Lower Darby was in the possession of their hot little hands and minds. Almost. It was actually in their back storage room. Initially, they thought that it was too good to be true. While they had expected the sales of the trophies to bring them enough to help keep the bills current, it was quite a shock to now be getting $150,000 apiece. It was like finding out that the old neglected monstrosity someone let go unattended as a storage bin for antiquated tools in the old barn was actually a Chippendale highboy with the block and shell motif made exclusively by the Townsend-Goddard family in the late 18th century. Some mistakes which in retrospect seem much too obvious to have happened, happen.

Chippendale highboy; property of the author.

They had listed them for sale, one at a time through E-bay, and after a week's wait on the first one, found a buyer each succeeding day for the rest.

Cable and Barb were elated, and had been bombarding each other with plans for a wonderful future; the precise details most often inadvertently ignored in their restless joy.

Wilbur saw Cable and Barb cleaning the trophies more than he could recall them ever doing previously. He also saw them removing one daily, never to be returned. He wondered what was going on and was sure that he didn't like whatever it was.

His rapidly diminishing number of trophy friends had a different take on the matter. From their point of view, the shared and overriding feeling was that what had been going on was that these strange and previously minimally attentive humans called Cable and Barb were slowly, but consistently becoming more attentive to them, and also bringing those taken to a place which just had to be better than their dingy room.

Rodney said; "They fixed my broken pillar, and honestly, I wouldn't mind going on an adventure to a potentially better place." The murmur from the remaining trophies suggested agreement.

Not wanting to negatively affect the trophies' optimism, yet compelled to say something which unfortunately could have done precisely that, Wilbur indecipherably mumbled; "It's a five minute glue job and a family breakup not even legally inflicted upon boundary-crossing, undocumented aliens. I'll stand right here. Thank you very much." He knew that it was possible that Cable and Barb were after the trophies and not him, simultaneously knowing that the math involved was highly suggestive of trophy rather than toucan deletions at any given point, until end game commencement, too late, made the odds less and less suggestive of benign and indifferent randomness. More importantly, he didn't relish the thought of being left without them.

Though not hearing his words, the trophies used not only his dour tone to accurately guess Wilbur's gist without having to suffer through all the irrelevant detail.

Wilbur anticipated as such. The discrepancy in what Wilbur thought as opposed to the thoughts of the trophies originated, centered, and culminated in that unlike them, Wilbur had always been content in his shared room, no matter how "dingy." He could not help seeing this as a clear cut assault, much akin to the pre-slaughter fattening of the cattle. The subsequent, sure head aimed smash of the humanly wielded sledgehammer held no attraction for the flippy wooden bird. The trophies sometimes held a similar view, but they had always been discontented in this particular room, and at other times consequently thought that their old companions were going to a better place where they would soon meet each other again, when they were able to use their logic-faith-taste to fight off the thought that they might be going to a worse one. Which of the three produced this mindset was not clear, and ultimately of no relevance whatsoever.

At the most bottom of lines, these often articulated thoughts went nowhere and demonstrated no inclination to do otherwise. But, that was obviously no deterrent from their having arisen; and for Wilbur, subsequent to his having gone through his fair share of verbalized bull, they were at least a slight improvement over the Trump-No Trump stuff.

#18-Monty Tries to Manifest Memories

Still alone and still needy of something capable of filling his empty time, Monty went over and over the details of the morning his brothers were killed. He always came to the conclusion that whatever he had done didn't matter, as if he was there, all other things equal, the result would merely have been three dead Crockers, rather than two. "I'd have just happened to have been there; that's all," settled into his mind, a minor re-arrangement of a Dylan line.

$500,000,000. Now all his. "I still have lots of money, a large house, and am still young enough to get more Cheeseball trophies." He had purchased 58 of them through E-Bay, the number the brothers previously shared in something which approached financial and philosophical contentment; both a majority, but the former registering a higher degree. Nonetheless, whether the vote went blue by one vote or 99% of the total had no effect upon the results.

But Monty was still somehow as unfulfilled as a Gatsby in that lucrative, copyrighted, yet still obscenely copied, window reflection and thesis. Actually, the part Monty found to be the hardest to deal with was his inability to fully attribute the necessarily, hard-assed business decisions to some sort of "common denominator" based group think, as displayed in old cowboy movies, in which thirty seconds of self-absolving reconsideration always follows the vigilante lynching. "Oh well. Sorry, partner. Really. Next time we'll consider other options.

The Cheeseball trophies were elated to be back together in a nice place. Their only downside was a worry that Wilbur might have gotten lost. Their conversations temporarily abandoned the detailed intricacies of their emotionally based, Trump-No Trump passions, expressed as arcaneries only Alan Dershowitz was capable of explaining in terms of US Constitutional law. Instead their communications circled around and away from Wilbur, with the same trophy spouting different words, as moods raced the entirety of the trophy's spectrums, before shifting into un-necessary reverse over and over.

"Maybe he got lost."

"He's probably in a nice place."

"Maybe he's just going to be late."

"That bird brain is so stupid that he thinks everywhere is a nice place."

"I'm sure that he's happy."

"Then he can't be lost."

"Huh?"

Then voices with different tones chimed in. "Maybe he got lost."

"He's probably in a nice place."

"Maybe he's just going to be late."

"That bird brain is so stupid that he thinks everywhere is a nice place."

"I'm sure that he's happy."

"Then he can't be lost."

"Huh?"

Then voices with different tones chimed in. "Maybe he got lost."

"He's probably in a nice place."

"Maybe he's just going to be late."

"That bird brain is so stupid that he thinks everywhere is a nice place."

"I'm sure that he's happy."

"Then he can't be lost."

"Huh?"

The minor deviations were not worth mentioning; merely an overstated nuance or posture which accidentally suggested a needy "difference" in hopes of not appearing the dolt through engaging in repetitive, conforming rhetoric.

Both Monty and his dearly departed siblings had a few girlfriends over the years; the end always the Crocker discovery that the girl liked their greenbacks much more than their diminutive, concentrated personalities. It was truly disconcerting, yet they did not want to risk pulling an embarrassing, public Paul McCartney. $50,000,000 for a week's "togetherness" was just too much. In an attempt to get the best of both worlds, Monty got an idea.

He put an ad on EliteSingles.com which said; "Unemployed, indigent, thirty-ish male seeks fabulously wealthy, thirty-ish, slim, yet outrageously curvy female into uncommitted, prolonged oral, vaginal, and anal sex, willing to be cash generous."

This got the attention of Maggie McGill, who didn't live on any hill, with her loaded parents in another part of Upper Darby Manor. A local, romantic malcontent, she had acquired a lifetime's supply of experience with guys who were ultimately more interested in the purse than the puss. She was disinterested in the disinterest, and thinking of trying a girlfriend, probably one of the older, chubby mama-types, but thought; "This one cannot be serious. If I was a male with my reversed female experience, it's what I might have written while inebriated. ......... That's perfect. It makes no sense at all ....... except to me. .... us."

She wrote back saying; "Almost got my interest. However, your subservient acquiescence to hard core feminist preferences portends perfunctorily prompt pee pee pursuits while perpetuity is personally preferred."

Intrigued, yet still wary, Monty responded with; "Slovenly, out-of-fit, and terminally overweight, aged male, confined to bed for years, with a miniscule, once-in-a-while functional dinghy, severely in unemployed debt and an in possession of the second Notice of Eviction legally contested on grounds of health, deigns to seek a $100,000,000+ net worth female who resembles Brigitte Bardot at age 22 and talks even less. Object – maximum orgasmic experience through intense and unlimited female degradation, including the transfer of all female assets into my name."

Maggie wrote; "Forty year old fatty with eight brats under fifteen would like to share the beauty of terminal cellulite, chlamydia and natural scents right in a rich, marrying man's face; pee predilection a plus."

Shortly after a bathroom break, Monty persisted with; "Homeless, un-educated, drug dependent male with no aspirations toward gainful employment seeks rich female of any age and appearance, who has been plagued with a mothering instinct which compels her to be anyone's sucker."

Maggie wrote; "Bi with an alternating preference female weight lifting, buff freak, with pecs like Mount Everest, and extensive whoring experience, seeks a whore into pec and nipple worship, specific characteristics of genitalia details optional if accompanied by a bulging pocket of Franklins; other founding fathers case specific and negotiable."

Monty wrote; "Fantastically wealthy male seeks young and extremely gullible female who, despite vast experience to the contrary, continues to enjoy cum dumps only for their momentary joy, popularly misrepresented. Candidate should like it hard, fast, callous, covering, and transactional."

Maggie wrote; "Decrepit, hideous, old married woman with a continued ability to weekly dribble out something which very liberally calls itself an orgasm seeks a Goodreads experienced, 40+ male virgin and meta slut who desperately doesn't know any better. Come on. Let's share beautiful Wednesday mornings with edited "Vampira" re-runs."

Monty wrote; "Sensitive, considerate, attentive, New Age male without a tickling beard on face or head, and only blessed with a compelling desire leading to partner contentment, would like to spend double feature, movie length time trying to please an aromatic "Y" any time of the month at her discretion, seeks a young female, race irrelevant, sufficiently stupid to believe overly obvious lies like those inevitably said prior to predictable seduction and abandonment. A hirsute center and mutuality is a seemingly irrelevant plus, when one ignores all other points of view."

Maggie wrote; "Now I know that you're just trying to get me hot."

Monty wrote; "Never. Young, attractive, affluent, sensitive, bookish, hurt, crying, and lonely male currently into the fast pace of "Wind-up Bird," and also otherwise turning Japanese, seeks a female of any age, appearance, gender, or species, financial condition negotiable, who is hopelessly attracted to or amused by wimpy, bald-headed, self-centered, anti-Trump males, commonly spouting their MSNBC copied witticisms which pass for conversation ending jokes on viewless literary blogs, and even the Goodreads site, amongst the plethora of wimpy, bald-headed, self-centered, anti-Trump males confined thereto and therein, would like to share a 'buddy-read' of an LGB&T book, M-M romance okay, if not sweaty and locker room centric. Come on fag hags; find your Prince."

Maggie wrote; "Right. Never."

Monty wrote; "Do I detect an unattractive note of seriousness? Okay, try this. Simple, humble, and un-talented Midwestern male seeks a horny female with low expectations and a kind desire to complement and cheer on incompetence; and is in possession of long tedious experience in the faking of orgasms and/or the faking of the faking. No questions asked. Where are you, Joelle?"

Maggie wrote; "Middle aged, middling, and humble, female-ish acne malingerant with three cyber friends, counting the sock puppets, seeks similar Goodreads based reader; gender, age, and race optional, who is totally appalled by the ugliness of sex, love, and money. Poetry publishers with deep pockets and a lack of taste extremely welcome."

Monty wrote; "Young, attractive, considerate, and hopeful male seeks a young, attractive, considerate, and hopeful female who would never dream of answering an ad on this pathetic, lying website."

Maggie wrote; "You have gone too far. Goodbye forever."

Monty was not sure if Maggie meant that. But, he had been too exhausted by the badinage marathon to continue. He could think of nothing more to say.

Alone in the 22 room house, Monty did a lot of sitting, fidgeting, and thinking of the past. When his brothers were there they often were annoying to him, but he concluded that was what brothers were for. He recalled the things they had done together and had fond memories of the planned skullduggery hotly imagined at home and executed on the Cheese Rolling fields.

He got to E-Bay and saw that another trophy was for sale and without negotiating, offered a final ten dollars, just to annoy the $160,000 asking seller. Monty already had the original Crocker 58 back in his possession. It was a comforting thought which 59 would hopelessly complicate. He went back to EliteSingles.com and added; "We are destined to meet again."

And, of course, they did. Later that week they were both cackling at the books in the Lower Darby Walmart's Harlequin section. They broke away from their "funny" books, and simultaneously said; "Baby, it's you."

Using baseball outlawed, underhanded, windmill style deliveries they simultaneously threw their books at the punky, dirty, washed-out-light-green-yellow painted steel rafters, and embraced in a number of manners, each of which made the whole "Fifty Shades" series seem PG in comparison; that apples-oranges comparison only made by bookish nerds.

The books touched down in the self-service checkout section. The "greeter" greeted them saying; "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Maggie said; "Please no. We were really drunk at the time."

The greeter said; "Then I can't allow you to leave."

Maggie laughed and said; "You've confused me. Out or in or both?"

The gender duplicitous greeter with a center parted half a head of red and half a head of blue said; "I'll have to ask the manager." He-she took out its "smart" phone and proceeded to stare at it.

Monty smirked and held Maggie's right elbow, slightly suggesting a direction which led to the parking lot. He looked into her eyes and said; "Time to ride. Your car or mine?"

#19-Sanctuary By Way of Trophies? - Day Plus – Isn't "Ostensibly" a Smart, Super-Cool Word?

Over a period of two personally upbeat months, Cable and Barb had very lucratively disposed of all their Cheeseball trophies, being left only with the lonesome Wilbur bird. Though they only slightly in excess of cursorily searched the web, they found no meaningful market for cranky, balsa wood toucans. Besides, he was kind of cute.

They spent more time perusing on-line real estate listings, looking for some safe and pretty place, with a few private acres they could cultivate and call their own. They were surprised to find that not very much met those seemingly minimal requirements in the US. The "forty acres and a mule" promise of 1930's FDR times had evolved into a promise of "a quarter acre and an annoyingly-ever-present 'garage sitter' next door" in the early 21st century, with a Toll-Brothers-type-McMansion available to "winners" blessed by a an aesthetically challenged condition. Without doubt, this was an improvement over sharing communal walls and occupied laundry rooms with objectionable criminals. And then there was previously ignored Upper Darby Manor, geographically and very conveniently right next door.

The very name had previously repulsed Cable and Barb. To them it was a manifestation of all the things which made Lower Darby inhospitable at the least and dangerous at the worst. Upon further reflection, they drew straws as to precisely what Upper Darby Manor residents did to make the lives of Lower Darby inhabitants as they were. Basically, they concluded that it was nothing other than a Sartre-DeBouvier approved benign neglect. Taking somewhat of a leap of faith, one could question the effects of taxation policies through assuming that the Upper Darbians had any effect upon that. They could question the "exclusionary" house prices, and then realize that the prices were set by no individual, party, or political ideology; that it was a collective dynamic which merely indicated that many people wanted to live there as compared to the number of houses available.

Cable said; "The mansion is warm at the top of the hill. Rich are the rooms and the comforts there. Red are the arms of luxuriant chairs, and you won't know a thing 'til you get inside."

Barb said; "I think that Jim may have been talking about something else."

Cable said; "Yes and no. A good phrase has a number of valid interpretations."

Barb said; "Paragraphs too."

Cable said; "Gets difficult at novel length, no matter the conflicting definitions, primarily because every idiot is compelled to register their very limited, though long-winded opinion of the author's 'true message.'"

Barb said; "You have familiarity with a novel? Which one?"

Cable said; "Well .... well .... well .... 'Tanuki Tango Overdrive' by Arthur Graham."

Barb said; "Figures. Lots of pictures?"

Cable said; "I ....... we wish."

Perhaps as a result of having some money in the bank and its attendant options they saw no reason as to why they should be denied the right to live in a "safe and pretty place, with a few private acres they could cultivate." That desire was in no way evil. As to why Lower Darby had become what it had become was a matter of continual conjecture; the majority of the "liberal" conjecturers seeing the residents as victims with limited or no control over their own lives; while it was also readily apparent to "conservatives" that anyone not wearing blinders could easily see that the residents of Lower Darby, with a home or not, were engaged in behavior which tended to historically result in a life more hellacious than it would have been otherwise. Neither "side" was in possession of a theory which easily fit people without high paying jobs, like Cable and Barb. Through chance, time, or/or stealth, using minimal effort, they had taken care of that themselves.

Back in another time when it had become standard operating procedure to go into dramatics after scoring, one college football coach was quoted as saying; "I don't want to see any spikes or dances. When you score a touchdown, I want you to walk over to the referee, give him the ball, and act as if you've been there before."

Cable and Barb had no intellectual interest whatsoever in entering the seemingly, eternally insoluble debate; and periodically used the dynamic as a source of "objectionable" humor. Besides, myopic and Cyclopic zealots always got un-civilly adamant about their current position, in its ostensibly personally unseen purposelessness, as well as the boring redundancy of its ostensibly unseen "classical" regurgitation, which was absolutely no fun at all for anyone other than unpaying, physical activity challenged, liberally oriented social media observers, as ostensibly characterized early on in Sam Shepard's "True West." Un-ostensibly, Cable and Barb simply moved.

#20-A Directed Aside

Innocently plagued SHUT-INS have always been the unfortunate, sympathetic, and heart-stealing complications. The shut-ins are not only those confined to one room. They are everyone whose life has left them feeling deficient in their experiences. Though not commonly seen in that manner, in other words it is ALL PEOPLE; US, hereinafter referred to as SAP in the singular and SAPS in the plural.

The SAPS are those for whom some writers inadequately try to write and attempt to understand and not fire back when the SAPS first accept, and then reject the painstaking work done by the other SAP. It seems cruel. But it is just faultlessly inevitable. The inadequately experienced SAP writer has naturally and honestly developed a degree of misgiving about all the things the shut-in would like to have experienced, though the shut-in, understandably doesn't want to admit to what they see as a much-too-sad-inadequacy-to-disclose and proceeds to flare at any suggestion which implies that like all, they just are what they are; no value judgements relevant.

On a relative basis, it is inarguable that some SAPS have more experience than others. It would seem that this should logically "work" in the sense of opposites attracting, even though their degree of being opposite is minimal in a physical sense. But, somebody got it wrong, and the everlasting tragedy is that it does not. DFW essence – the acceptance of the double-bound impossibility? Somebody must also have gotten that part wrong.

It is not to be said. It is near, but not quite in the realm of the artists who say "not one word," presumably, as all soon fail. Yet the banality, overt or not, will of necessity and desire always manifest itself, suggestive of an intent; well-ill, or dispassionately-innocently-naively-ignorantly prompted, which becomes clearly obvious whether night or day. It is the yet to be named bridge over the Reciprocal River, home to the homeless and a convenience to those in possession of a roof; which will someday be named "Blind Trust." Hell, if the lawyers can establish this meta concept in properly filed words, it is not unreasonable to expect that the "lay" people will soon establish this same concept in the improperly filed flesh.

#21-Back to an Ostensible Sanctuary

Of more or less current consequence, the consequent, constituent, computer conned and constructed, cantankerous conversations engaged in by the terminally brain challenged, were conveniently subjected to "censoring rules," predominately but not totally, established by NUSOMMA in their changeable, nonetheless stringently enforced by the computer enhanced, coordinated mob rule of the "family of zealots", through "strangely" time-consistent, tedious, and that which detractors might deride in mutually congratulatory regurgitative web posts taken from their "The CCCP Hardback" version of the Bible.

Overall, this resulted in a C- effort, with a cordially communicated requirement to re-write the thesis, if one desired the "credentials" attendant to an advanced degree.

This often resulted in the "comedian" feeling badly, or compelled-to-say-that, about having ruffled the sparse, graying, and/or prematurely out-of-it feathers of many the not-personally-recognized-as-shut-in, self-appointed "protectors" of the shut-ins or SAPS. Oh, wad some power, the giftie gie ........ It's difficult to pinpoint the intended and bewildered "beneficiaries" of this "kind-spirited" largesse; opening the distinct possibility of the uninvited and unelected recriminations primarily being an excuse for the recriminator to expound and advertise whatever they were trying to sell. To address the pertinent level of incompetence, became too often a counter-productive "error," which resulted in a lengthy issue in and of itself. Suffice to say that stupid people would better serve their cause by shutting up, rather than in.

Excepting the mavens paid well to expound upon their views on TV, for those with little else going on in their social media "lives," this culminated in a diatribe which seemed interminable, in specifying the "merits" of the bawling, offended "benefactor's" "well-thought" opinion, assumptions added thereto, "future" predictions borrowed from the murky past, and righteous "outrage" expressed therein, which recognized religions even avoid during recruitment drives; the offended professional "benefactor" ostensibly in the hope of CNN, MSNBC, and/or Fox further lowering their standards in a desperate attempt to fill the airways with 24 hours of "news." The only other possibility was that the bullshitters had truly come to believe their own bullshit.

"Callously," Cable and Barb merely wanted to get somewhere which was a "safe and pretty place, with a few private acres they could cultivate." Some simple things are worth repeating; despite their not being simple to some.

These thoughts were not likely to have been prompted by a yugely expressed consensus of the usual Goodreads inhabitants. Among other possibilities, one possible fair characterization of it is therefore that "it is derivative of the jealous and deluded second rate."

Upper Darby Manor fit that bill exquisitely. Cable and Barb's search became more focussed and was not at all subjected to abstract meta considerations which lead nowhere other than a time worn and thereby potentially infectious, oozing, fourth stage boring essay, ostensibly concerning "deserving poor" versus "undeserving poor" considerations, adjusted for the "new" factors brought on by the present's overly obvious displacement, in its if not bragging of the common, lock-step "new," then a demonstrated misperception of an impossible total "obliteration" of the old. Their only defense mimics that standardly utilized by the lesser Bizarro writers saying; "I intended it to be stupid. You just don't get it. Blam-o. Hahaha. So uncool, dooooood."

Footnote #1. In order not to break the consistently smooth flow of this book, the writer has inserted this footnote here. It may be skipped without that being a detriment to the reader's continued enjoyment. Arm chair quarterbacks may find it of interest after done with the corpus. It may be most enjoyed in the sequence presented by the writer's well-loved nerds with a penchant for streaming minutiae.

"Bizarro" is a reference to an obscure genre of alleged anti-literature, with characteristic themes running the gamut from a verbal depiction of a purposely incompetent "Godzilla Meets Megalon" movie to a bacchanal involving purple Martian chicks with tails capable of erection, to saying how stupid all the non-Bizarro's are, to a recounting of the writer's most recent visit to the psychiatrist. It was first noted in error at the turn of the last century, initially calling itself irreal. After a brief heyday of insignificance around 2012, it has since declined to an oblivion marked by zero cash sales and an embarrassed writer denial of involvement, evolving noms de plume, and an attempt to characterize their work as "surreal," or some other term which could conceivably be viewed as characterized by an obviously detectable writer, long term and severe, substance abuse "issue," often consistent with, a randomized lack of coherence married to the need for a spelling remediation seminar. The glue, paint, and fart huffers are the worst. End of Footnote #1.

Dripping with a sly un-specificity regarding, but not limited to which prior stimulus at which she aimed her address, Barb said; "Who cares?"

In an attempt to open a tertiary aspect, Cable replied; "I like trivia, and am preparing for being the big winner on a game show hosted by Monty Hall."

Barb said; "Monty is officially recognized as dead."

Cable said; "Fake news?"

Barb said; "Could be. You never know. The Bible says that some people live well past the pre-pubescent age of 123."

Cable said; "Not me. I just have this compulsion to test the limits of pedanticism. There seems to be a market for an improvement upon Michael Pietsch's, DFW assisted, Pulitzer-short-listed rendering of 'The Pale King.'"

Their words temporarily in non-chemically assisted remission, Cable and Barb used their down time to relocate to an eight room Cape Cod on three generally wooded acres, fronting on the Reciprocal River, in Upper Darby Manor. Though the house had no visually determinable size considerations, Gargantuan or Pantagrueled, their biggest fear became that they had become mutually congratulatory aficionados of the ageing, "bigger is better," ersatz post and/or post-post-modern coterie of advocacy-challenged, claimed-to-be willingly obscured, gender confused, selfish "artists," in search of an analyst proficient with a Hegelian approach and a bias toward ontology at the expense of epistemological considerations.

That lasted five minutes; being annihilated by the arrival of the moving van.

Footnote #2. In order not to break the consistently smooth flow of this book, the writer has inserted this footnote here. It may be skipped without that being a detriment to the reader's continued enjoyment. Arm chair quarterbacks may find it of interest after done with the corpus. It may be most enjoyed in the sequence presented by the writer's well-loved nerds with a penchant for streaming minutiae.

Skipping is permitted if not overtly recommended. For those devoid of dictionary access and those not totally disinterested, ontology is basically an analysis of the human cognitive process as the route to human knowledge, while epistemology is the human historically based, event driven one. This greatly matters to a generally aged smattering of readers and writers with no discernable source of income, and the consequent luxury of time proven by a rotund center, not caused or effected by pregnancy. Hegel is a forgotten 17th century philosopher, resurrected by the ontological advocates. The writer is certain that the reader already knows that. If you are still reading this, your patience is appreciated. .... Not. End of Footnote #2.

Cable and Barb's new Upper Darby Manor house on the Reciprocal River; property of the author.

Wilbur was now in a nice spot with a Reciprocal River view. He solely presided over the fireplace mantel in the living room. His initial tranquil despondency, caused by his solitude, was substantially alleviated the majority of the time when his benefactors, Cable and Barb, provided him with a chatty, Wilma, balsa wood toucan companion. He immediately loved his girlfriend, and considerately hid that he sometimes missed his old trophy friends, and their Trump-No Trump chatter.

Likely the result of gender-free intuition, Wilma suspected that something troubled Wilbur, but since the present was good enough for both of them, reserved comments or questions for some unspecified future date.

Cable and Barb stayed off-subject during their toddiest of times, while Roxy Music's "Strictly Confidential" looped and looped and looped.

#22-Monty Moves

Since his two brothers had been gone, Monty had continued to become increasingly lonely by himself in the big house, despite his restoration of their mutually won Cheeseball trophies. That was substantially alleviated when he met Maggie, and they proceeded to hit it off, especially when they each quickly saw that the other was after something other than the other's money and found Harlequin hilarious.

Maggie also came to find Monty's house hilarious. "It's absurd," she often said. "It's more like a rooming house, a hotel, or that of a basketball player with a rigorously extended family and lots of 'long lost friends' they wish would try to get re-lost, or at least get a job with potential."

Monty didn't disagree. For him, its attraction had declined to become a copious, often depressing, bad habit which stored memory baggage, completely unresponsive, even to a delete button pushed with all the force of an overweight sumo wrestler. In apparent defiance of the positive concepts of cool and "chill," slothfulness also played its stereotypical and inevitable roll in that Monty didn't have to go through the inconvenience of moving to get there.

The near agreement and nearly identical point of view led to Monty and Maggie's moving out. Maggie had been primed to belatedly get out of her overtime parent's house, as pronto as possible.

In a matter of days Monty sold the "whale" at asking price to Mandel, the current Wall Street superstar seeking the appearance of Mayflower "status," an open living room concept, and space for entertaining. On some level, it seemed eminently fair to allow the "crooked money maven" have his "dream" for the short time prior to his rest-of-life" incarceration in the one room facility with protectively barred windows.

Jointly with rights of survivorship, Monty and Maggie bought a smaller, eight room house in aesthetically pleasing Upper Darby Manor with frontage or a rearage on Upper or Lower Darby's shared Reciprocal River.

That it turned out to border the property of "newcomers" to Upper Darby Manor, Cable and Barb, prior to actuality, had just as much likelihood as one buying a plastic trash bag worth $9,000,000 from a substance issued, homeless person. Accordingly such serendipity risked becoming expected. Religions have officially classified seemingly lesser events as miraculous. One teenage girl saw the Virgin Mary? Not to deride her visions, it does seem safe to say that thousands of teenage girls and boys have seen thousands of "visions" under the influence of Owsley acid. A number of accounts are now "documented" on YouTube, all replete with recently simulated visuals. Freely viewable, unrecognized "miracles" abounded in turned on and tuned in 2018, the missing drop out aspect a common delusion of high income techies at Google, Twitter, Tesla, et al; the male and/or female bald head derivations and "casual dress" perfectly acceptable at hipster bars, downtown punk hangouts, and corporate headquarters.

The trophies were again bagged and moved, this time properly surrounded by bubbly protective material. This travel had become such a regular event, that most of them assumed that they were on one of those group vacations. "If it's Tuesday, this must be Belgium."

The "new" neighbors were initially as neighborly cordial, as neighbors are standardly expected to be. "A wave and a half smile prior to returning to one's "business" characterized the repartee exhibited upon chance borderline meetings.

That continued until Monty, more or less satisfied with other aspects of his life, desired to extend his future boundaries into those which had passed, as he missed competing in the Cheese Rolling contests. He wanted a partner. A bit inebriated, he walked the shared post-and-rail fence, and eventually saw Cable in the vicinity. In a similar state, just to get some fresh air, Cable was pretending to be raking something which required no raking.

After the perfunctories, Monty called out; "Hey; you ever play any Cheeseball?"

Cable smirked while responding; "Funny you should ask that. It's probably not what you're thinking, but ......... I do have some familiarity as a fan."

"Ever think of playing? It's pretty easy as all you have to do is keep your balance on the hill and run."

They soon began to attend feral Cheeseball events together. They didn't cheat and didn't ever win. They just enjoyed the nonsense. Barb and Maggie were sufficiently dexterous to not get hit by any errant cheeseballs.

#23-Speculative Prophecy in Retrospect

New York Investment Review; Monday, March 11, 2019

Values of Cheeseball trophies, sometimes more properly referred to as Cheese Rolling trophies, have plummeted. This plummet began mid-January, and may more accurately be called a nose dive. You read it here on NYIR first. Trophies which commanded a price of $150,000 in late 2018 now have an E-bay asking price of $100.

The scarce awards once granted only to the annually sanctioned Cheeseball winner, later extended to the winners of the feral Cheeseball contests, have been duplicated en masse by competitive manufacturers and have now flooded the market. No one has been able to find a methodology capable of differentiating the knockoffs from the "real" thing or their feral companions, the latter differentiation never previously of monetary consequence.

Leshem Fabricant, CEO and majority shareholder of Simulacrum Technologies, Inc. told NYIR exclusively; "Even at $100 apiece we're making a fortune as it costs us only about two bucks each to manufacture them. Once a rare, prized status symbol, our goal is to get a Cheeseball trophy, or two, or three, in every home, regardless of class, income, ability, race, or sexual persuasion. We are all equals, dammit!"

When asked why Mr. Fabricant didn't make the trophies available to the "equality" market at prices under $10, he had some sort of seizure, perhaps grand mal, and was escorted away by his four topless bodyguards.

So, there you have it. NYIR issued a "sell" advisory back on March 10th, in an issue which the authorities have apparently deleted from the web. If you're still holding we have this to say to you; "Very tough titty, chump. You should have subscribed to NYIR. "

*Instructions regarding how to apply for exclusive subscriptions to NYIR, including our news breaking, valuable, up-to-the-minute e-mails appear after the publisher's, 214 liked blog.*

#24-An Unplanned Gathering Pre-Destined?

Life was good at the Monty-Maggie residence, very good. That was until Maggie decided to do a minor re-modeling; centered upon the removal of the Cheeseball trophies. She said; "I hear them mumbling all the time. It's creepy."

Monty had a different auditory experience and outlook. The trophies never mumbled at him, and when with psychiatric help, admirably not boosted by the usually required ingestion of psychotropic drugs, he got over his feelings of trophy rejection, professionally referred to as Trophy Rejection Syndrome (TRS). He proceeded to focus upon how much effort the Crocker brothers had put into acquiring them. Indeed, two had catastrophically lost their lives in an attempt to re-acquire the cutting edge status symbols. It seemed so "American."

Maggie was patient, yet persistent with him. She gave him time, and no more than twice a day whispered; "It's either those trophies or me. You have a week, buster."

Monty was no fool. Had he been forced to choose between Maggie and the Cheeseball trophies, Maggie would have won hands down. But, since her ultimatum was always "a week" into the future, he was only being forced into making a decision within the non-constraints of "never" time. Hoping to hone his natural skills in this area, he took to reading Jonathan Franzen's short story collection; "How to be Alone." It assisted him in developing a series of techniques which allowed him to periodically spout agreeable rhetoric, and later negate that, without clearly lying or contradicting himself, as he had no real desire to get rid of the trophies. These procedures are nowhere near as easy to do as they sound, and as a consequence US federal level politicians pay tens of thousands to attend seminars on the subject, opening up more space in their freezers to store "Great Value Fish Sticks."

Monty's position became more negotiable when he considered that his use of Maggie's possibly accidental rhetoric to avert giving Maggie her wishes was an unfair procedure to use with a loved one. It also did not impede his loving thoughts when he learned about the unprecedented, severe decline in the market value of the trophies. In return for complete capitulation on this topic, Monty got Maggie to agree to the planting of daffodils bordering the entirety of the lollipop shaped path which led to the front door. He had suspected that Maggie had silently wanted to do that anyway. In the throes, Monty had not been remiss in inferring further likely extensions from Maggie's not being a screamer.

Monty didn't want to just dump them, regardless of whether the receptacle was to be the trash or E-Bay. He felt that he owed the trophies at least that much. He also didn't want to go through the trouble of selling them on line for a lousy hundred bucks apiece, so he offered them to his neighbors, Cable and Barb.

Cable and Barb were more than surprised at the "kind" offer. They also were aware of the recent activity in the Cheeseball market, though they had been previously unaware that Monty had them and was a likely source of at least part of their good fortune. It was kind of funny, though they didn't know how to tell the "joke," regardless of view point. As they had an affinity for the trophies, they graciously agreed to accept them. "Thank you, thank you, thank you ................. "

The trophies again experienced a few worries when they were again put in a container. Now being well experienced travelers, they took another modicum of solace in their being properly surrounded with more of that bubbly, protective material. But, since they thought that they were already in a nice place, they experienced some trepidation over being compelled to change that.

"These trash bags are getting to be someone's bad habit." "Actually, I'd rate the accommodations at four stars." "'A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again.' Three tops." "These rude intrusions must end. Trophies have rights." "I been rollin' and a tumblin' the whole night long." "Hang on Beatrice. This is going to be a bumpy ride." "These group plans are certainly affordable, but they tend toward being overly generic." "How did 'Travel and Leisure' rate it?" "The constant changes in time zone are wearing." "You have to enjoy the journey." "I would if Rodney would stop poking me." "Come on over here and poke me, Rodney."

Before they had exhausted their needs to express or joke, they were at their destination. Some were further encouraged and some were further discouraged by the short trip. "A quickie? Damn." "Thank the powers that be for premature ejaculation. You don't have to shower." "Linda Lovelace popularized a satisfactory alternative a long time ago. Forgot?" "Personally, I blame the Viagra." "Better living through chemistry." "That is so fifties." "It's back on HGTV." "Open concept." "No, that's eighties. The cheap furniture. Soon blonde wood will be resurrected." "Bitch, bitch, bitch." "Feral, feral, feral."

It is impossible to have sufficient time to hear all points of view. If you crave them, read more than 1,002 books, and see more than 200 movies. It is also absolutely impossible to satisfy everyone at the same time; and terminally foolish to try. This "Come Together" stuff happens as frequently as "Titanic" and "Great Gatsby" re-makes coincide, and even if they do, it is most often interrupted and rendered saccharine by "The Prison Meditations of Father Delp." Now, is that enough of a triple bind fo' yo' ass?

Then the unwrapped and once again free trophies saw Wilbur and a newcomer who looked something like him. Wilbur was elated beyond comprehension, but coolly said; "Meet Wilma. You guys always take the roundabout route?"

" .............. "

"Get over here you serious birds. It is so great to see you again."

As Cable and Barb placed the trophies on the shelves at both sides of Wilbur and Wilma's mantel, all with Reciprocal River views, tears of joy attempted to flood the living room. They came close.

Un-noticed Thomas M. Hartfield, who was taking his daily constitutional in his new neighborhood could not help but notice the exchange of the "collectibles," between and during the cursory waves. He had been slothfully remiss in his monitoring of Cheeseball trophy market values, and still thought that they were six figure items. His comfortably numbed intellect once again became as alert as it had been when he was under the bridge with Desmond and Caligari, this time in an arguably increased level of knowledge-ignorance, his mind once again brimming with "lucrative" ideas.

Wilbur and Wilma; property of the author.

Some would rightly say too soon after the introductions and soppy re-introductions caused by the happiness to again meet with old friends is expressed, the trophies proceeded to get into their Trump-No Trump discussions; essentially a timeless liberal-conservative discussion-argument by way of incorrect "legalistic" yadda yadda. Wilbur and Wilma looked at each other and shrugged confoundedly in their lack of understanding, but also happy to have the company of so many passionate advocates of something which they may one day positively determine.

Wilbur and his friends knew nothing of the Thomas M. Hartfield's of the world; never knew of meeting one and didn't care to venture into the darkest sections of the unknown. The animated Cheeseball trophies liked their surroundings, and Wilbur was glad to see that. He might also have been glad to have this strange Wilma bird near. What he also knew nothing of was that ignorance is both toucan and cheeseball bliss.

Wilma whispered a question to Wilbur, saying; "What are the Cheeseball trophies all talking about with that Trump-No Trump stuff?"

Wilbur said; "I have no idea. I'm just glad that we're all together again."

Wilma said nothing, but her tiny frown showed dissatisfaction with Wilbur's reply."

Wilbur said; "I think that it has something to do with Bridge."

Wilma almost scrunched up her beak when she said; "What's Bridge?"

The two bird brains turned toward each other and started laughing.

And the Beat More or Less Goes On
