ABOUT THE BEANS

by J.D. Brayton
An angst written one-legged dog farmer pastes a picture of his crop in a colander on his FaceBeak page:
“Let me state in a forthright and un-humble manner: These are the FIRST BEANS from my garden. And I’m not sharing. Sorry. Notice, though they are different colors and descriptions, none complain…because I will EAT THEM ALL, ecumenically and with butter. As if I were God.”
Back in Reality: Gumby and Pokey shrug, take a hit offa bone, and wonder when everyone will fix everything else on the agenda. Finish un-polluting the ocean for one… Climate? Anybody? (crickets) Gumby exhales, Pokey needs some Chips Ahoy and Ginger Ale…in the distance a car alarm sounds. The number 6 bus is late…the price of eggs skyrockets as hens everywhere go on strike…Cover bands and dogs howl unified in B Sharp Minor…Beethoven smacks his forehead,staring at the one-legged dog farmer’s colander- “Why is there no butter in disht Howze!!??” The bean lay there…the graceful beans, whom complain not…for they are beans… the ghosts of the Marx brothers -Groucho, Chico, Harpo and Karl seize the reins of the four horsemen of the Aporkalypse, eat chicharrónes by the bagful and belch in unison. The sunset over Detroit causes mass panic. The National Guard is called out. They have not been issued pants. In a moment of Motor-City type genius stoked awesome ingenuity they choose, instead, to wear togas left over from their college years. The local chapter of the Daughters of the Daughters of the Fall of Rome strip hysterically burning their pictures of an over-ripe Marc Anthony… a military porn star last seen in Egypt dancing the hootchie-koo with some over-accessorized Greek ingénue who strokes un-named snakes……

                                                                      —> Pause the DVD <– –
“Can purty much tell its a rainy day, folks”, says Gumby as he burns his thumb on the roach clip.
“Well aren’t we just a fair weather activist” mutters Pokey loosing a marvelous and prodigious plop-pile of wet self-hardening clay on the terrazzo tiles.
“Cynic.” Rejoins Gumby, trying to put out the red-hot hemp seed that has fallen between his bendy blue legs. “I wonder if you can even hear yourself sometimes.”

It isn’t Metaphysics I’m suspicious of, or the irrational fear of Artificial intelligence- it’s religion codified and inserted into politics- much like serving chocolate on raw meat- THIS construct sends me up the philosophical wall.

“At least we won’t rot.” says Pokey, grunting slightly from the strain as Gumby hops on his back.

When all is said and done and watered and smoked- human life isn’t worth much more than infected yeast on the Cineplex Big Screen.
Cue Jimi’s “Still Rainin’ Still Dreamin’. Really Fuc’n LOUD.