As I was spinning about Hobbs with my parents today, waiting at counters for photos in Wal-Mart, and sitting stabbing at apathetic buttons in Zia Park casino, I was simultaneously in a Google hangout with Sir Christián Neumann. He needs no introductions. He is truly the excrement from the most foul of Swine. Still, one cannot choose one’s friends, correct?
Correct.
So, taken that given into consideration, I enjoyed our banter thoroughly. He is, at this moment, visiting his Bro in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. He informed me the other day that this city / town / village / burg / whatever is a, and I quote, shithole. I have personally never been there, but my trust is with this friend, no matter what transgressions he has in his past.
It is, after all, Xmas time, so even the downtrodden, poor, raped and beaten should be fed with scraps from the barrel. They may drink from the aluminum cat bowl. They won’t mind the sodden pet treats bobbing about the surface, slowly dissolving.
Back to the main theme.
My friend is staying with his Bro and his wife. The latter is from Poland, which is a small, ineffectual state somewhere near Mongolia. No wonder she dug for that gold, found Christián’s Bro, and bounded over stateside. Yes sir ee.
My friend wrote me the following.
So far, I have been informed that when I use the coffee machine, I should empty the grains right away, or else when she makes coffee, hers tastes like mine.
I am guessing that the Polish Wench has a very specific taste in coffee. Or rather, she brews her own brand. Maybe no one else is allowed to use her brand. This is a possibility. I know that Mr. Neumann is not that picky. Be that as it may, the clear solution is to do what I do and make coffee Turkish style in a pot on the stove. Yes! Burble it up nice and strong. I love the feeling when the grains are still stuck to the back of my teeth hours after my final cup.
Then…
Every time the Polish Cupcake is creating her own private concoction, and during the brief moments when she is distracted enough by whatever other housework occupies her tiny mind, spike hers with a bit of the Turkish mud. And every day, spike it with just a little more.
The process will be a slow one.
My friend is very patient, however, and he knows persistence is the true virtue in any magnificent achievement. As the days pass, the Polish Lollipop will begin to change. Turkish coffee takes its effect. Firstly, he’ll notice she has shortened minutely. Her pale complexion has darkened. The corneas yellow.
This is all a gradual process.
As Christián incrementally raises the dose, her subserviance will rise proportionally. Eventually, the posession, if I may call it that, will be complete enough that her demands will only bob about the shallow surface of her consciousness. She’ll not have the will to voice them.
And at last, they will dissolve completely.
Now for a photo of a creature living with the subject of this ponderous essay. For reference, a reflection of a houseplant can be seen on the shiny surface of the table.
I was nicely questioned on whether or not I opened the blinds in my room when I got up to let the plants have some light … Something she does every morning.
I suggest buying heat lamps. Position them strategically about the room to give the plants maximum exposure. Four or five per plant is recommended. Since the bedroom will become inadvertently suffocatingly warm, I’d also advise opening all of the windows. Tie them, or better yet weld them open to make sure enough fresh air flows through the room to counteract the effects of the lamps.
This procedure also has an additional advantage:
Wild animals can enter the room during the night. They will have a better opportunity to explore their relationship with humans and domestic animals (see photo above). I predict that their adaption rate will increase exponentially. Soon, the Neumann house will be a central point of symbiosis. Conservation scientists from all rounded corners of the earth will flock to Myrtle Beach to observe and experiment.
My friend’s enterprising spirit will come alive! Cottages will spring up on beaches, in alleys and amid ditches along the highways. The scientists have to have places to rest their weary limbs and ponder the complex interactions brought about by, originally, the Polish Jelly Bean’s house plants.
Then I was asked whether or not I wanted any hangers, as she laughed and watched me put my ancient t-shirts into the drawer. So, she said you’re gonna put your clothes away like THAT? YOU’RE GONNA LOOK LIKE YOU JUST CAME OUT OF THE DOG’S MOUTH!
Well, firstly, what exactly is so bad about a dog’s mouth? Sure, it vomits. Yes, and it masticates its own feces occasionally. I’ve even seen a dog lick up a human’s vomit. Ingesting a grand amount of bacteria routinely over time can be nothing but good for you. The dog’s body is surely more healthy than the average American’s. America!! Germ free America! The country of anti-bacterial gels in cars, trucks, and restaurant bathrooms. I’ve seen dispensers beside coffee machines in gas stations. I bet there are at least eight in the casino (and a small casino it is) I was in today.
The Polish Prickly Pear probably pretends the puppy’s playfulness is not so disgusting when the beast shows its affection by licking the Polish Bear Trap’s face.
Oh…. hangers. I also put my t-shirts in a drawer, usually. Well, in Boston, they were always in a cardboard box because I did not own a skřín. They were folded there, however, which is in the spirit of Christián’s method.
Then she explained to me that, you see, you don’t have to iron them if you hang them UP right as they come out of the dryer.
I don’t recall ever seeing my friend iron a shirt. I can imagine him doing it and in the imagination, he is wearing a sexy, orange apron. One of my exes, let’s call her Jana One because that is what everyone called her back in the day, had a mother who ironed just about everything. She even ironed kapesníky! Slap the shit out of me and call me a utilitarian as I stare up at you from the concrete floor wiping dribbling blood from my chin, but that just about out-anal-retentived anyone I knew at the time.
My solution here is for my friend to use the closet for his lettuce experiments of yore. Yes! I miss those days when I’d come back to Rostej’s flat (my flat, too, at the time) and be bowled over by the reek when I opened the door. Two huge vats of vodka were simmering on the stove. They also contained Lactuca Virosa or Seriola. Olfactory memory is powerful. I step back into that filthy flat as I type.
