Monday, May 8, 2017

fiction: You Need Nocroaka

I had been doing this act where I walk on stilts and juggle chainsaws.    There was an accident.  Chronic pain.  I'm retired to a cabin near Pymatuming, the power chair, the fishing poles.  I like to joke that floods improve my chance of fishing.  Some people get pissed.  Some dear one's bungalow might have washed into French Creek.  By now, their floor boards are clogging up the Sesquahanna.

 Had they never thought of putting a trailer farther away?  One marvels at how mobile homes transform first to a house boat, and then a submarine.  At times I think the Law of Occum's Razor is an Avon Bottle.  

Either people set bad priorities, or they don't have need to establish any.  A fern is not able to ask the government for fertilizer.  I'll cut any soul a wee inch of slack if there's constitutional barrier to simple common sense, like choosing to get the fuck off sea level in Pymatuming.  Still, the simplicity I live by is not on the menu in some of dumps up the pike.  People insist on sustaining the standard of living that made them obese and diabetic.

That's really enough crying about man's inhumanity to his own dim-witted self.  I'll spare comment on the way they pump their own nervous  incapacity to comprehend into my carefully attained certainties, like I was being hard to get along with.    I became a hermit for this and too many other reasons.

I'm talking about chronic pain from a stilt juggling accident, and the pain doesn't go away, it hangs out and uses up your stash, leaves dirty dishes lying around, makes snide remarks.  The only thing that helps each and every time is a double shot of Nocroaka.  It has just the right shit in it.


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