The Sound of Sirens

Spiderman spills spaghetti and spinach on his expensive spandex and spits, speaking Spanish, announcing his annoyance about arachnid’s acne and aching ankles.  His uncle’s angle actually accentuates accurate accumulation of actions, bequeathing benefits to Beatrice and Benedick as Romeo and Juliet play Russian roulette and jettison their medicine and mangle their language, tangled in the anguish of forbidden ecstasy.

“Excellent!” says Mr. Burns, although he meant to tell Waylon Smithers that Wayne’s World, which he watched with Bart and Lisa Simpson at a Monday morning matinee, was excrement, his syntax tackled by a dent in a synapse, a moment of dementia.

Meanwhile, Homer droned about the tome Marge was reading out loud to her house plant about the importance of being Ernest Borgnine, autographed by Popeye Doyle, who couldn’t remember the name of the character the same actor, Gene Hackman, later played in The Poseidon Adventure, a priest who sacrifices his life for the sake of humanity after a brief, stern word with an indifferent and nonexistent God.

I didn’t realize at the time that the priest was suffering from schizophrenia; after all, aren’t we all?  Just ask Sting about the voices inside my head or Ray Davies of the Kinks about the lonely voices in the dark echoing in the subway as people secretly in love with everything lower their eyes to look at screens that screw their brains into place even as they feel out of place, hurtling like hijacked turtles through tunnels of hurt, building pyramids of pain paintstakingly with Legos and Pez candy, multicolored plastic and processed sugar-sweetened treats blessed by Perry Como and Mario Cuomo and meant to make mincemeat of your teeth, certainly not something you want to eat unless you want to surrender your smile to a wave of eagles’ beaks, those flapping feathered beasts deafeningly defeated by windmills’ wings as Don Quixote sings valiantly about Dulcinea, his decorated duchess, not knowing the poor princess is in fact a prostitute–who gives a hoot?–but he assures Sancho Panza and Adam Lanza she’s a chaste and fair maiden as he assails his adversaries with a lightning-fast lance, galloping gallantly on his grunting old pony Rocinante de la Mancha.

Eructating erections elect to erupt, massacred by sarcasm’s mascara, massaged by melancholy mandibles and Manichean manacles, derided by desire’s dizzying disease.  Gregarious gargoyles gander along glittering gardens of gargling dragons, gleefully glowing with glorious gluttony as they gloat on gargantuan glutei maximi.  Vituperative virgins vivisect vicious vipers vomited from vacuum cleaners in reverse.  Hirsute Hercules rehearses for a TV commercial in which he drives a hearse with a hernia through an abortive birthday party burdened with beautiful balloons popped by pernicious little pricks.

Helicopters adopt dilapidated velociraptors dappled with apple sauce and ponderous pandas applaud palpably, perplexed by the impossible performance.  Jack Nicholson’s cat, Alexander Baryshnikov, scratches Bryan Cranston as he crankily spanks the animal for pawing his cranberry-colored cravat, but the acrobatic cat learned a trick from Jack, stolen from the late stiff-legged hack John Wayne, “Never explain and never apologize,” which is exactly what the government did when the navy shot down an Iranian airliner over the Persian Gulf (“I will never apologize for the United States of America; I don’t care what the facts are”–thus spoke the first George Bush, although not the worst), and Jimmy Joyce’s father said if he didn’t apologize the eagles would pull out his eyes and sure enough they did, just as Oswald planted his foot on poor Gloucester’s face and blinded him for trusting in his bastard son, another victim of bullied gullibility, after the fear-fulfilled monarch turned anarchist, Lear.

Neither did the scientists who pulled off the Manhattan Project receive any rebuke from the insuperably duped Duke when the dude contracted cancer from the fallout of the mushroom cloud that sprang up in Alamagordo during a dress rehearsal for further funereal murder on the far side of the sea a little later while Mr. Marion Morrison was making a movie entitled Rio Lobo, another western, naturalmente, as he wouldn’t want to strain his constipated talent too much.

Of course, that was a long time ago, ho ho ho, back when leaders lied to people and kept a lot of secrets, unlike the transcendently transparent times we live in today, when no one needs adult supervision since the children run everything, and there’s no need to weed the garden if you don’t mind being overrun by a breeding brood of bad seeds.  Relax and enjoy the ratcheting up of tensions as you writhe on a rack or a Catherine wheel or an unmade Procrustean bed.

Or else resist and make a fist and say no thanks find someone else to drive your tanks and hold the phone on that flock of drones I don’t want someone to make me groan, but deliver it with a grin unless you don’t mind taking it on the chin.

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