It’s Friday. For scones we have to talk on the
old school telephone. We must all use Dutch
phones so that what we hear may be logged
extensively. Or maybe it says flogged. It does
not matter, we’ll figure things out. Uh oh, I feel
sluggish like Sluggo. This isn’t happening. This
doesn’t happen? Scratch that. We’ll erase that
part, whimsical as moods are. Can be. Will be. No
thing is as logical as a pendulum. As intricately
mathematical as the inner workings of a wristwatch.
I mean as the bold mechanics of a grandfather
clock. Can a gay girl get an amen? “Hey, Big Ben,”
he rhapsodizes, “it’s almost time for you to come
in. Play me one more before you get to the door.”
sluggish like Sluggo. This isn’t happening. This
doesn’t happen? Scratch that. We’ll erase that
part, whimsical as moods are. Can be. Will be. No
thing is as logical as a pendulum. As intricately
mathematical as the inner workings of a wristwatch.
I mean as the bold mechanics of a grandfather
clock. Can a gay girl get an amen? “Hey, Big Ben,”
he rhapsodizes, “it’s almost time for you to come
in. Play me one more before you get to the door.”
