Man walks into a bar. The bar is the font Comic Sans, the most popular font in the world and also the stupidest. The guy walks out and shoots himself with Colophon, a font that smells like fresh tennis balls. There is a circus passing through town, but all the circus performers are bottle caps. Their heads are bottle caps, and their kidneys are the little rubber discs that line bottle caps. The man thinks about pooping, but he thinks twice about it. The incumbent mayor throws a tomato made out of the idea of a tomato at his opponent, and when the tomato hits the weird Republican opponent, the weird Republican opponent becomes human. His heart, which had been an amalgamation of stolen tools and rape, starts pumping real human blood. There is hope for him.
The poet Charles Simic once wrote an essay called Don't Squeeze the Tomatoes. It's about some corporation's diabolical plan to engineer a square tomato. You can find the essay in a collection called The Unemployed Fortune Teller. An unemployed fortune teller walks into a dress shop, then turns immediately around. (a) he's unemployed. (b) he doesn't wear dresses. He's into pants. Plants and pants. He only walked in there because he'd heard a rumor that they crank their A.C. The rumor proved to be false. The place was fucking hot.
I am about to travel to New Mexico, Land of Enchantment, but I need your help. Please keep your ears tuned to this blog in the coming weeks to find out about "clicking the six." Basically, I'm gonna stay in six shitty motels as I travel out west, and I'm looking for some support in footing the bill. Much of the travel will be along the Mississippi river, and the bill needing footing will be a U.S. Marshall dressed up like a tomato, except in this case the tomato will smell like ripe methadone and love. No! Wait! Never mind that bullshit. I'm serious about this. Stay tuned to find out how you can help transform this blog into a road trip phantasmagoria. Coming to a computer near you in mid-September.