Razor Kitty Fax Detergent Versus Ancient Fever Rerun

A million boring seconds calling you up on the computer screen

I looked into your eyes as words of technology drifted through the air. The boredom was so fascinating to me that you took it as increased desire for me sip your holy monotone, so dazzled by the evidence of humans moving their mouths and only the motes of dust are launched from them. The question going through my head was how could one achieve such incredible heights of boredom? Words, so empty, they even considered me as tools in some far-off story, or blog sojourn, that elicit affair with intellect's whore: daydreams.  The rooms you moved between; the car you drove in; the pleasure you experienced in remodeling your basement. There could be nothing more appealing to me to hear about the cost of items of Home Depot from your very lips. And you, my other co-worker, I await in deep anticipation for your single-handed solutions to taxes and politics. I confess that my knowledge in both areas are so limited that I depend upon the great need of people like you to free me of my doubts of you. I drive my car, asking myself, "I must be blessed to be surrounded by wisdom so oft repeated, it creates the jelly in my mind to ooze from my ears ---- quite a scientific feat! I confess. My own world, so small compared to yours. My single life of debt. A crack apartment. And The End. But yours, in possession of family issues, your daughter's dance classes, or your husband's virile life of labor. As for me, I await everyday to hear the daily list of your personal account statement in its all-glorious drivel. And, Oi, what about about the flotsam of bears in dress and suits, like fairy tales, rolling about in trusted stereotypes and myths. Aren't they, too, necessary to include in this 1st grade coloring book you give me to read? We require no thinking during this commercial break, just your commitment to addle in the puddles-mud sloshed around by each of our neighbor's history, each talking endlessly about the spotlight which shines upon each of their identities. Where would I be without the amazing stories of human beings gurgling within their piles of contentedness? Thanks, God, what a Guy you are! Hope some day I can be pretty good, too.

Tom's Spreadsheet

He was a host to routine. The Spreadsheet was organized. (He named the spreadsheet "The Spreadsheet") There was a minute for each row. The columns were as follows: START, DESCRIPTION, END, RESULT. The spreadsheet was on all the time, glowing in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep; ready in the morning for his coffee. The spreadsheet was to be filled with the routine he completed at through the day. But it was empty. There were the four columns, the lines across the screen, and the hum of the C:\ drive, the sound of binary information laid horizontal, the motionless patient of technology fed though its surge protector, intravenously.

Tom was staring at a clean wall. He had removed the writings and the symbols and the charts and the diagrams, which had all drawn and pointed to one another. He could look at the wall and hear the computer dying in the background. Was there a need to populate The Spreadsheet? Nothing had occured. Although he had aged, and the country went on, there was nothing on the wall. There were no people or places. There was just him putting up the paper inside.

There were rooms in other place houses; houses buried deep in old neighborhoods; people sitting under lights looking at each other, pressing their bodies together or tearing them apart, together. The rooms held the people together, and expanded and contracted, poking out body parts underneath the capillary-webbed egg sac. In bathrooms they cried; in bedrooms they drilled into each other with instruments. Humans consumed and discharged matter; they managed the process, some more successful than others. The runoff built up in the rooms, seeping underneath doorways, and flow out into blood-clogged streets where industrial lights and machines guided them safely into obilvion.

Tom was staring at The Spreadsheet at 7:01 am. He started his day, as he did every day, staring at The Spreadsheet. Over time he called it "Mr. Spreadsheet" or "My Lovely Spreadsheet", and went to drugstores looking for Post-It pads, different colored files, giving birth to a family of office supplies to keep "Mommy Spreadsheet" nice and comfortable. And all the different buildings in New York or Seattle or International Time zones contained buildings within buildings which held office supplies, and organized the daily flow between us on tiny pieces of sentences, written under the columns "DESCRIPTION" and ultimately had "RESULTS" completed. The information was peddled around in containers and preserved in jars of minds in our historical formaldehyde, the memories simmering in evolutionary goo, seed to incarcerate our next biological communication transactional system: civilization.

The time glowed: "My Mommy Spreadsheet says its 7:02 AM" Description entry: READ NEW YORK TIMES ONLINE". RESULTS: PALIN TAPE RECORDS TINA FEY TO OBTAIN EROTIC SATISFACTION OF SELF.  Mommy says Spreadsheet glows 7:03 am. Results: OBTAIN STARBUCKS OR MCDONALDS CORPORATE BREAKFAST.

Seth and Martha and their ideal economy

Seth Journey, a small business owner who once had some kind of adjustable rate mortage, just heard the news: the new vice-president woman was touring around the country distributing Willy Wonka bars. What an idea! A few lucky Americans were chosen to stand in mock bread lines. THey were told to look depressed and sad and all this poppycock set up by CNN. Some were laughing and holding up empty gasoline cans, which didn't make sense, except that food was being coverted to energy (?) And others were waving to the camera, waiting for a chance to win what was called: "My Bailout.Com" . The golden ticket was hidden in chocolate bars, like in the movie, "Willy Wonka".

"Imagine", stated Wolf Blitzer, "having Chairman Bernake greet you with a poster-sized check with ballons and the whole world watching. We'll, you too will be soon bailed out, according to senior sources. The Federal Reserve is establishing an Emergency Make-A-Wish-For-Future-Happiness Fund. Homeowners are now able to securitize their 'wishes, hopes, and anything else of value', and --- after completeing a couple of forms,--- will be able to sell these forms to the U.S. government. The govenment will invest in the hopes of each and every American. To pay for these securities, the government will garnish the  wages of anyone alive, past, present and future. Building jails to hold all those who refuse to have their wages garnished will create jobs and help the economy! said one Washington Willy Wonk.

Seth was driving in his Turbo Ford Series X-cellent Crusher SUV when he heard the news. It only got 5 miles a gallon. Luckily, he had several credit cards to spread out the gas cost. And he was only $20 away from his credit limit. He just make it home in time before his Saudi American luxury sputtered to a halt. Seth felt at peace within the air-conditioned armoured-truck, like a monk did within his temple. Their was this extension of massive energy he felt he guided, as if he were Zeus throwing arrows. The driver's seat had an automatic booster seat raised him up, higher and higher. He could see over the tops of all the cars on the highway! What a vision!

Martha was Seth's wife. She had grown accustomed to the blank walls, the non-existant furniture, and the empty drawers. She had prepared a meal composed of bread sandwichs smeared with butter and jelly. Glasses of water, and a side dish of chopped up crackers, completed the picture: a table for two --- sitting against the walls of their kitchen. Foreclosure was not as bad as she thought. It even seemed to bring her closer in some ways to her husband.

"Hi, Marth" Seth said, as he stepped in, and put down his empty briefcase, which he now used to hold small lunch items. He kissed her, and held her for a long time.

"Hi, Babe" she mummured, feeling close to the scent and his warm body holding her.

The completed their embrace, and came apart. Through the weeks, they adusted to the empty rooms of this house they loved. It made Seth more depressed than Martha. He wanted to have her with him, for possibly a family, and a room where she could paint her watercolors, and another room where Seth could sit in, and practice on his flute. He liked music, but he felt he got a good price on the flute.

When Martha looked at Seth, he could sense his sadness. She didn't understand why he wanted to play the flute, but that was "Seth" to her. They each had their likes and dislikes, and they uncovered a number of their patterns and emotions in their relationship due to Martha being laid off and Seth cashing out. He only went to the city to sell it all to Wall Street types, amorphous bacteria, like the flu, laughing and drinking, and making poor Seth weep in the bathroom in the middle of the night. He tried hard to fight it. That was "Seth". But you can't fight crying, she thought.

She looked at him and said "Well, another night."

"Can't go out" Seth said. The two literally could not do anythng, for it would tax resources they no longer possessed. There was nothing in the till. The budget folders were bare. Assets were now a perverse joke: ownership seemed to be the inverse of its meaning. Debt was now some kind of terrorist. And they were now hostages. There was no way out.

As the two sat together in silence, but they smiled whenever they looked at each other. They still loved each other, even after their lifestyle evaporated. Family and good friends simply ignored them. The rules were pretty clear. And even if they were given a helping hand, they would have probably turned it down.  Seth would of, but maybe not Martha. And if Martha accepted, she would of turned around and given half the money back. Then she would be still with the other half, the dirty guilt of holding it, and the feeling of being punished made her face flush. There was either anger or dispair, because they needed it, but they could not see themselves as before. They were the beggars. They were to blame. The god of The Fed was Angry. The Public would just rather have them lynched.

Seth could see that Marth was deep in thought. She looked the best when she was composed. Her cheeks, and face, and forehead had an air of a warrior woman on hold. No problem, generally speaking. Being broke didn't mean she looked any less attractive.

Marth looked up and saw Seth his his sexual eyes. She smiled and was reminded how incredibly difficult it was to get a moment together to perform generally accepted accounting principles. They both wanted to write some macros together under the spreadsheets. And for a long time, the volume of their career transactions interfered with their private equity. They saw an opportunity to make a huge buyback.

Seth said, "My mortgage securities are inflating" as he porked around his federal package area. He groped her other arm around her. "Do you feel my debt ceiling rising?" he said, holding his pulse. "My Bank of America is raising his flag" he said. But Martha just laughed a little.

Martha said, "Well, Mister Federal Trillion Dollar Debt, my market needs some stimulation, can you bail me out? There is no Soverign Entity Fund in the world that can buy up all the stock I'm selling. Can you underwrite me?"

"Don't credit default on my swap, Baby" Seth said, laughing. "I'm ready to crank up my LIBOR"

"Well you better do it fast, Chairman!" Marth said.

They both laughed and proceeded to invest their evening in chasing the dreams the markets had in store for them, where stocks and bonds floated freely, like butterflies and bumblebees. They kissed and hugged land pressed their bodies together like a frantic carry-trade unwinding, getting hotter and hotter. But this deal wasn't the likes of a Buffet or a Soros. There was no central bank in the world that could see what what was happening. Seth had a fantasy that his love-making would someday make it on the front page of Barrons. To him, that would be the ideal economy.

her card

Your loss was a letter, folded in-two,
Looking for a drugstore-card to send in,
With love from you.

You searched and you stared at Hallmark laughs,
Gaffes of humans, their funerals and holidays:
Letters, like  yours, tucked away.

Above it was 9, and the morning's commute would near.
Life was closed under the lights of Walgreens.
The search for a card would soon cease.

What words were here, in this folded paper,
pressed in a pocket and crinkled from your moves,
were the same as these cards under a surgeon's lamp.

Strangers passed politely and browsed
the cards of goodwill, of sorrow and get well soon.
The goofy cartoons and funny joke remember you.

Palin's Blessing of the Feast of America's Brain Dump

You know, this country is one of the brightest stars in the whole wide Universe. I go down the street and see little people, not just children that I've produced, the amazing amount of true, administrative experience in Alaska, and say to myself "I'm going to be the mommy of a Country based upon Rock Solid Patriotism!" Listen, when you talk about funding for the troops, politics, me standing up on stage as a beacon of true independent stamp of America's dependency on rhetoric, I am that stander-upper. Folks, gee whiz, isn't it 'bout time someone in Washington can stand up to the dirty, money-hogging politicians with a good old fashion baked potato pie and simply say "I've here to Tell Ya' So!" Me and my Maverick Republican Identity, the Founder of Straight-talk Yummy Express are here to say "How's It Going, America?" each and every morning. We're going to pass a bill in Congress called "Everyone Gets Along" where representatives of congress WILL BE REQUIRED to visit small business, small people, people with desperate faces, people struggling just to see us taken over by Iraq the next day --- to have congress march right up to their door with one of my Fresh Baked Pies. People need a little more homespun pork for the belly rather than Pork in Washington DC!. You see, we're a country which is a little feisty. We don't need anyone telling us to sit down with anyone else from our own House, we'll do it all. Founding fathers loved our County. They fought for it. And we're still fighting for it 300 years later. We have a Maverick willing to do whatever it takes to get elected, and we have Barack Obama, who wants to sit down on a flying carpet, go to Iran, and drink their Islamic tea while Ahmadinejad has his nuclear weapons pointed right at little ol' me and you! I'm proud of my Man John McCain. He'll get 'em. He'll get those knknuckleheads over there. Our Man, McCain is a fighting guy for little people wandering about. He's a guy who has the tough times, tough talk and charm to cure our bellyaches! We'll give common people --- those heterosexual white-breeding families who feed on stereotypes like Joe Six packs and Hockey Moms, and other one-liners and flag-happy parades down our traditional Main streets --- the chance to fight for what it means to be sold a bridge in Kansas. This is a time full of energy, full of my man McCain coming up through the farm crops of the heartland. Listen, not only is America the Kingdom of Heaven, it is a vast Time Machine of Republican Ideology: A Mighty God-Fearing and God-Awestruck Maverick of Insane Cliché possibilities! All those who rise up through the ranks of Symbolism will know what I mean! Who would disagree that calling ourselves --- and all the poor struggling debtors who can't change a thing --- A God Fearing Nation? Gosh Williker's, you know, we have a Man in John McCain who's going to fight; he's just here readying to fight, poised to raise all boats, will bring a rainbow of partisanship with those for all, and you want me to think about details, issues, decisions ----- that's what the Holy Landlords and Tax-sucking sounds from Washington's Hiney-bottoms sitting around, doing god knows what, with thorny problems that anyone from my farm could tackle in one split of the axe! We all know a Maverick, like John McCain, needs no explanation. All will be solved through him. All Ye who Listen to Him, will follow the Sheppard. Listen, I may not talk the way you want me to talk, but darn it, the American People are listening to me, and so are their children, and their children's children, and on and on. Do you want me tell them how America took away their bicycles, their video games and their checkbook accounts because of all the tax-crazy accountants on Capitol Hill? Gee Whiz. The McCain Maverick Man is a good plan. It’s a strong plan. He has a bold imagination. It’s that combination that will put the small, common, insignificant people that made a respectable income to remain where they are, and who they are: props in my dialogue.