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The Pucker That Stuck

Everyone in 8th grade knew
that Sigmund was full of himself,
that he’d bend over backwards just
to turn the most eyes toward whatever 

general direction he happened to be in, relative 

to the highest concentration of individuals
(factoring in algorithms that pre-determine
such things as influence and biggest bang for
smallest buck, which he could swiftly, subtly and
inherently quantify), he’d finesse a sentence until 

it was so bloated with twists and tangles that most 

of its words almost fell outside without (amazingly) 
quite spilling over the double fortresses within
which veracity is safely and securely contained;
it was quite a way with words that Sigmund
had, which he would use to slander
incontrovertible facts, morphing
them into something that
would become impossible
to prove, utilizing the devices
most commonly perfected by the
world’s most nefarious snake-oil sellers
who cast their spells over their various congregations 

chopping and churning truth (for massed mindless minions) 

from something incontrovertible into something almost debatable.

until finally these truths were so turned inside out and
upside down that each would seem a flat-out fantasy. 

Sigmund had just been to the
mall (an irrefutable fact
toward which his mother,
who’d accompanied him
on this excursion, could
provide ample, persua-

sive evidence), and
while at the mall’s book-
store, he had
coaxed (more at
annoyed) his mom
into purchasing for him
a brand new hardcover edition
of Hot Lips Make the Sexiest Kisses:
Eighteen Everyday Exercises Anyone
Can Do to Achieve Excellent Embouchure.
He’d wanted a copy of his own for over a

year, and anyone could see he was downright 

giddy now that he had it in his hot little hands. 

Sigmund was a trumpeter, you see, but he was 

“third trumpet” (out of five) in the junior band. 

And, Sigmund being Sigmund, he hated being 

anything but first or best at anything. And 

dropping out of band was not an option,
given the fact that within
the confines of each
fifty-five minute
session of band class
on each day of the 

school-week
(and even on some
glorious weekends;
which does not even
take all of the football 

and basketball games 

into account!), Sigmund

had discovered that,
by far, relative to
any other
similar period of
time in a week
(don’t forget that

on this subject he

was authority!), he’d
easily wrest the most concentrated
amounts of fully ascertainable attention 

(away from the band’s chagrined director, 

away from everyone else) for the longest 

durations. Which often meant the entire wealth
of overly-eager adolescent curiosity would be,

for longer and longer durations, clasped snugly 

within his pasty, overly moist and (if one looked

closely, shockingly) miniscule hands. 

And as I mentioned earlier, there

was nothing in the world 

that Sigmund loved 

more than to 

toot his own horn.