FISHBOWLS AND SHAZZ

There is no identity without crisis, it is what sets the bar. For Shazmis-sakes vultures and rodents, back off! This isn't a free for all circus nothing being to yuse. It is real and alive blossoming each and every day. There's nothing new to the sharks but their views and nothing further to say.

Common thread and theme becomes untied in purpose losing steam and focus. Henceforth, we market not only plausability 'round here in Petersville; but a spirit at the heart of innovation; ideas being chosen as a window of medium.

It began one summer night...in a smoky downstairs room.

"This working for the man is for the birds. It must be a test. There's never enough. I can't get no rest..."

Sales-minded corner intelligence plants another seed, but work it girl like you was one of the shining stars in the sky, like honey to a hive in a swarm of bee buzzings. Forecast abominable. Gray skies with eyes of the same color presented before the maker, measured in terms of functionality and reliability. A code of honor setting up factories and strip malls upon the instant. This is your general public. Strung out downtown on greasy street corners infected like roach ridden addicts of habit...

Funny you see ida been waiting on me fix as you stood, hovering above and around, like a proud silver shroud from a ghost parenting the past, displaying the wonder wears of shrewd invention. How long will this onslaught last? A business proposal off the clock? What'd she say, this here saint, 'bout the man? Lemme try and understand.

I-nap and dream the precise location to stuff a footsie where levitation and humanity could be part of the process....i.e. the old fashioned lottery according to Shirley Jackson; to lay claim where insurance couldn't possibly mask as a cover for grief and finally, a land where one can fall safely asleep without a direct threat to indemnity. Get 'em off me man!

The invention being a comfort pillow complete with i-pod placement and various computer odds and ends to make for long travel. Would liability prevent every footsie from ever leaving the ground, stability being the name of the game as I-nap and you've just pulled the Joker? Or could safety be a harness and a headrest, perhaps with a long winded warranty that could do little for the rest of the majority wavering upon the next impending cliff? How much would that be....to rent? Keep in mind the upcoming long week-end.

From the above in the notion of Love to come in nick of time...during the last all star game in the house that Ruth built-gala celebration-household names blowing a child's mind! Ripken. Ryne Sandberg. Rod Carew.

This presentation, though decidely stout was accurately ill-timed, but does represent a strong desire to infiltrate a virus; this being the word of the Saint,

"We muss break free from said chains of Man and machinery (though potentially creating new wicked wandering webs...drat!), which, if you like to swing a dick, is a twisted trick, but anything that jumps back at the Man is to be commended and recommended like a light brunch, late on Sunday morning.

Before the rush of afternoon tennis has a chance to settle the soul, even for a moment."

The filter has a tendency to run off kilter and no-one likes a rulebreaker, hence the term "ballbreaker," but Miss Eyeville Squakmore, fer sure, no-one wa wanta marry hah! That dirty verbal whore, someone we may all know as not so fictitious that never does get to shutting up, scouring 4 quarters of this watered down world with buttons, and flaming billboards and an everpresent bullhorn, springing upon every indecent angle; carving stone tablets to sell as clay to the market of the soul.

"Rape me....rape me, my friend..."

Isn't there more than a few special someones that resemble that remark? Lite brite. Black and decker. Perhaps the infamous Christopher Sly, playing 'round in the park after dark as a lark to tell the jealous wife? Talk about a dick-swinger. He want's to go on Safari to hunt the white elephant for nothing more than fun! Betcha he don't have the guts to pull the trigger. Sour puss! It being as it was...somehow Seymour keeps meeting 'em, from sea to shining sea, taken on the good word as advice, but then there are the bills to lend, loan and buy. What ta do foist...dat dere a rickety boat we aint had 'nough gum four fa years...whatchu wanna do Boss?

"free, free, set them free...O..."

Those rat bastards have pimped Madre Magedlyne's last dime, clucking like turkeys at the backyard bake sales, lining up on the city streets for first dibs; remiscent of a fuster cluck much unlike the order of your average beehive. Talk about buzzing! This is something out of the Enves, where nothing seems to sasafy...fussing over property and possession, even though theys all making more than their fair share of meat pies!

(See full story developing in petty affairs with a strong backlash of meaningless swill and all the pain, rain and pus developing leaky sores with lasting effects. Further details to come after the trail on this coming campaign train.)

What in the world could be missin? More than originally thought possible? Has time and space permanently decomposed this vegetable shredder?

This offer good until..

Would you like to mention what was true about our original intentions? Would it go capture the white elephant wandering off in creation, if only to hang it's head in a hall? Rhetorical ravement? There is the poteniality but that's a deal set verbally. Scrivenings are word worthy but hesitation prevents any attempt at inclusion...the reason is visual...picture a ruffled mutt with a bad case of the stew pulling with them lumpy front paws as the backside creates friction and leaky residue drops in between the sands of time...

Beware of dat dawg cuz Atticus done shooting for now...

The appropriate creation will certainly call time and the right minds into space...but what if for every seven dog years there is only crime and social dicease? The same situations day after day? Truth tempered by circumstance? What then? Rigidity may, in fact, stunt all evolution; witness atrophy before your very eyes! Which leads right back to Seymoure Grime and all the filth he has witnessed in his time. Absolute horese-shaz. It's as if he's a magnet for this type of hallaballo!In fact, just the other day, after stopping for that daily cup of coffee, filler up, Seymour got behind a huge pile of manure trapped in a ten-ton truck...there was nothing that could change his luck, try as he might. It was like a gathering of the nuts with a pocket full of holes...everything seems so light as his mind began to wander, as it intends to do from time to time. What was worth listening to? Time was quite valuable...

Mr Grime pressed on, despite the obvious disadvantages of traveling behind strong wafts of rising horse-shaz on a hot Summer's day.

"Take him to the office. Pay direct deposit."

Following the lumbering beast clear from Bummer's corner in the proud center of Petersville with the snazzy lawn ornaments, and the green grass and the everpresent advertisement, past the offices, the ten ton tanker finally pulling to the right, without so much as a signal, much to Seymour's delight, who was not about to be late for a day of counting, which for a census bureau boardmember 13 years running, would not be looked upon favorably by the established members on the board. Numbers were crucial to the operation and tardiness, even once, would not be tolerated...it was far too outside the box for longevity purposes.

Accelerating past the truck, turning a metaphorical corner if the audience could only be eager and just ascertain. Seymour frowned, throwing a, "fin-nah-leee...."and the fugly uckey face in the trucker's entitled direction high on up.

Being a taxpayer in Petersville for many years, Seymour Grime, well aware, topping out just under 38m.p.h with the beat up Chevy, that Sargeant Heavy could be lying in wait, in the thick of things by the bushes at the bottom of the hill, which might be mistaken for a grassy knoll and he an ovesized, greedy troll salivating...Sure enough, the bird had landed and there was Heavy, stashed in the hideout, absolutely oblivious, his fat ass out of position, away from the cruiser, a burly potatoe shaped back hunched away from the direction of the approaching pick up.

With an less than a precise about face, talk about weight displacement, Heavy, whirling in many different directions, views a gray shitbox rattling down the hill, tooting and misfiring like Chitty Bang Be Gone going nowhere fast.

The officer rises with difficulty from his knees.

"Aw-right....aw-right...pull ova. You! Yes! Ova!"

The officer's white glove, the opposite of his flushed mug, wildly pointing to a dusty shoulder across the street, where he now stands pressed snugly into ruffled uniform heaving, huffing and puffing in shiny bangles.

The ten ton clunker passes, back in the flow of traffic not more than moments later, a wide smile passing for the trucker from the officer, still busy catching his breath.

Seymour, calculating, head down, methodical, given a break in the action, figures the exact number of minutes to spare before his illustrious name is disparaged.

It must be all business with the minutes and seconds busy ticking away...approaching near ether recesses of the red zone.

"What could this Nazi want?"

"What you thrashing down myyyy hill faw, baaaw?"

Riding this wave lately of badluck unto the all mighty mercy, Mr Grime was more than a bit surprised at this unprovoked outburst.

When Heavy arrived on the scene in the face of Mr Grime seconds later the smile had all but disappeared as hhe watched the effects of his words center the situation.

There was a long drawn sigh outside the vehicle...Petersville had always proposed a peaceful community and anyone with half a hedgehog knew Heavy harvested crop in that very bush annually, so what could be the sense in speeding? Just for the sake of a surcharge?

Mr. Grime, precise by rote and routine, would not take the bait of being spoken to in a manner befitting a chimp and busied himself to fiddling with calculations..it was always about the numbers...it may not be too late...will they wait...I can make this dealine if it kills me...

Before offering aloud to the officer, "I'd been trailing that very clunker rightaways, when the first rays of shine set me free from the road..."

"Wait one cotton-tailed minute Son! Easy Mr Free, we aint wide-eyed looking for a sucka. Tell me how'd jew git in fraana the ten ton? Theyse no break in the action down these parts. We gonna need to see, License and registration."

"He pulled into Mydream-"

"Noo-eeeh didant..Mistah...Grime! That street aint near big enough for that type a truck!"

With that Sargent Heavy, Seymour Grime, information in hand, disengaged, the officer dodging the passing traffic across the street, who have now begun gawking at the misery of Mr. Grime. A thousand clouded lives, each thankful their vehicles were free to go.

It was those lasting glances, if only for a fleeting second, that really burned Seymour, who was beginning not to believe in the notion of justice. Listen to all those voices...look what you done to your day... sucka...betta look for a new job...try to combine a vast array of skills with that person on an updated resume available immediately...


----Stay tuned for the 2nd edition in the Fishbowls and Shaz