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Crossing the hatches

Pasteurized for June 22, 2008.

“Ooh, da, da-da, doo.”

You probably thought I was about to say, “I sang that to myself today,” or something equally as predictable and stupid, so I won’t say that. Instead, I shall make something up… something clever, new, and even… effervescent. I shall say: “My dog Yappie yapped that at me today.” And indeed he did, in a contralto that rivaled even the best chess players this side of the sublime plenum.

“Now, on to more important things,” I muse to myself self-importantly—as if anything of any import were likely to ever cross my path or cross my hatches.

My hatches are crossed?! Oh, dear! They are! They are! No, no, not my crosshatches!

# # #

On Friday, having discovered my hatches had become crossed, I set about uncrossing them, via any means necessary. After all, a crossed hatch is serious business, so only the most violent and blunt methods were used. Suffice it to say, such methods proved successful, regardless of the collateral damage they caused, including the six deaths and sixteen-hundred other deaths no one noticed (the victims were entirely cockroaches—golden cockroaches of the highest order). Having completed that heinous matter, I set about smashing the latest crop of ceramic lawn gnomes to have cropped up in my gardens and palisades overnight—I don’t know how they got there, or why my gardens and palisades happened to be in the neighbor’s yard, but there it was… they needed a-smashin’, so they got a-smashin’! Smash, smash, little lawn gnomes! Smash!

Feast, feast upon the sight of thousands of tiny gnomes, smashed to pieces! Or, better, yet, feast upon the sight of Alyssa Milano’s bare, bare feet, capped with ten slender toes apiece, painted golden blue, the entire delectable ensemble sparkling creamy white in the brilliant sunset beside the cool orange waves wafting across the abortifacient skies! Feast, as she dances, as she prances upon the waves, her nimble feet twisting and curving to the Earth-pounding noise that slams into your eardrums like wide streams of consciousness as told by an idiot! Feast upon her long, luscious toes! Feast, feast upon the visage of her toes splayed in the air, hydroplaning festively, dazzling with sparklers and bells a-whistle: A thistle, flowers between her glorious toes! Feast—watch, transfixed!—as the gleaming green kudzu encircles her toes and envelops her feet! Feast upon the hallucinopathic wonders that spray across the notebook page in front of you! Upon Alyssa’s daintily bare feet! Upon her ankles, her porcelain-white soles, adorned with ankles and twenty-five toes apiece! A peace! A peace! Bare toes, bare feet, tiny, naked toes twisting and writhing in the sunset beneath the cool orange waves, erect and engorged with digital delights!! Feast, feeeeast!!

That’s better. It’s even in the proper tense now!

But—no, no, not Rogov!

“Ooh, daa, da-da daaa… ooh, daa, da-da daaaa!”

Hatches thoroughly uncrossed, I set about reminding myself never to cross the Rubicon, either. Nasty business. And don’t cross the streams either—total protonic reversal is bad for your health. Something about every molecule in my body exploding at the speed of light, if I remember correctly. (Wasn’t there a movie about this?) Hmm, this calls for a good buttflapping, doesn’t it? Flap, flap, flap!

“Ooooh, da-da-da, daaaa… da!

Alyssa Milano’s feet? In my web glob? It’s more common than you think!

Fight the future, barefooted little missy… fight the future.