Sometimes I feel like a tiny gnome in a hostile enchanted forest. Feel? Am. I am teensy, weightless, here to be tossed in the pre-dawn murmuring hollows. One wakes from illusory gulches, starts one's day, and notices that between passing dust specks parallel universes tolerate one another like Fred and Ethel Mertz. The sense one is clinging helplessly to a floating air molecule is, in some ways, an emotional handicap.
This in not completely congenital. External forces over time steep in the hot water that is our environment. I'm leaving Mike and Doris out of this, for now, since they are blood kin to the Spuke Dynasty, and me and Rosy are on just dandy social terms with both individuals. It's not their fault they are related to a zillion pieces of shit. I'm still a registered democrat, and Rosy won't hear of any kind of intolerance towards people on the basis of them being one type or other of low life asshole. Rosy, and some other people down this way, have helped me appreciate how drug dealing takes a lot of harsh judgments out of helping hands.
With the exception of our dear friends Mike and Doris, members of the Spuke family are deviant slime, and are extra-ordinarily fertile. They pop out as twin slip and fall attorneys. There are sets of triplets that repo tall buildings. Quintuplets that all collect bad debts. They've produced octuplet bail bondsmen. There are many reasons why the Bible has a whole chapter on Numbers, among them, the proliferation of Spukes. Hundreds of Spukes work for the city or for a partnership of tax exempt organizations which, in aggregate, guarantees no one gets anywhere in life delinquent of Spuke tyranny.
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