Oh, he’s easy to find.
He’ll be the one in
the walk-in closet
reading last year’s
issues of Hustler.
What do you think,
though (What were
you thinking?)? That
he’d just speak normal
language? Today, on this
first day of the rest of eternity,
I landed three important meetings
within about an hour, this all coming
during the noon hour on a day when I
slept in, having been unable to really give
it a good solid go last night. One was today,
at 4:00pm sharp. Talk about running around
like a headless chicken! I worked my way down
toward something akin to the appearance of per-
fectly calm and giddily engaged. I do make the most
of my hyperbole, as always, and everything oddly seemed
to go fairly well, although there are still a few kinks to iron out
here in the back of my neck; also, like who was I speaking with,
exactly, and about what? I reserve the right to hold out on revealing
anything yet about the other two, so as not to cause further harm to
you, myself, or any of the others (although none of the latter care,
so why should I?). What exactly am I saying? The day was chock-
a-block, brisk, and I’m now waving goodbye to a headache and
a hopeful hello to love. Who's nauseous; my nauseous love.
Hint: you can't find him on Mount Rushmore. At least
not without the sunglasses. Rimshot.
And, over and out.
