the first chapter of something weirddd

Walking home today my dog fell into a manhole. There wasn’t enough slack on the leash, so I spent the subsequent twelve minutes defending my innocence to a pig-faced girl with blue hair, then the rest of the day mourning and eating tomato bisque. I enjoy most bisques. The soup version of the mosque.

Yesterday was no better. I woke up with a slicing pain in my neck. After some twisting and kinking, I was able to force it away, only to realize the ache in my feet. I sat at the television watching the relief blow the shutout while I pried at ingrowns with wire cutters for about an hour.

Then lunch with a friend. We were conversing over the merits of paper vs. plastic as the waitress inquired as to our preference of water. My request of coconut was declined so I settled on tap with a cocktail onion garnish.

As I brought the glass to my mouth, I realized the pungency of toe cheese on my fingertips, and the blood under my nails. Having been upset by the ill-advised game-losing fielder’s choice single play, I’d forgotten to wash the foot off my hands before lunch. I fled to the lavatory before Larry could catch wind of anything.

While at the urinal I could not help but eavesdrop on the handicapped stall. The voicemail that echoed against the tile told me that the man’s wife had starved herself for the purposes of vanity. When the phone closed, the slow, wet sobs commenced. Tear drops saturated the waistband of his sweatpants. Moist cotton ankle shackles.

I ate my brisket while chatting with Larry about button flys, but couldn’t help but examine the bathroom door’s reflection in his glasses. I waited for the mourning exercist to show a sign of productive life through the swinging of that door, but by the time we had paid, the door remained untouched. I hoped that he at least had the decency to wipe before ending it all in an attempt to reunite with his deceased love, if such was his intention. If this was the case, I do hope he was thoughtful enough to have brought her a sandwich, I’m sure she’s hungry down there.

Yesterday night was the usual, which I suppose might be unusual to some, depending on “some’s” definition of “usual.” For some, usual is kickin’ back with a nice cold one, playin’ Parcheesi with the ol’ wife n’ kids. Some find usuality in asphyxiating themselves while masturbating to late-night infomercials or professional poker. I suppose I fall somewhere in the middle-- in regard to the usual, that is. I, of course, do not mean that I like to asphyxiate myself while masturbating to the wife n’ kids playing late-night poker. I don’t have a wife, or little bastard kids, and if I did, I’m sure they wouldn’t have liked that joke too much.

No, the usual for Mr. Juniper Stopon is less depraved, or more, depending on your definition. It’s all about perspective, that’s something I’ve realized. Dog shit smells pretty bad when it’s on your shoe, but if you’re looking at it from a rooftop, you might mistake it for a penny, or a pretzel, or a profiterole; something along these lines. What I’m getting at, and I’m sure you’ll agree, is that a rooftop smells like a rooftop, even if it’s covered in dog shit.

What did I do last night? Well, you know. The usual.