… founder of a family dynasty
“Finding the beginning of a family dynasty is like following a duck, bobbing in the wind-tossed waves of a reproductive sea,” Han-‘Sel Vethersloom wrote in 1846 in a letter to his friend and publisher Becktorn Land.
“And the way the damn thing moves, from high to low, front to back and left to right, makes it seem as though the reproductive sea is playing one long shell game with our verbal skill at steeping time and space, to read the tea leaves of our social expectation.”
By which Vethersloom meant, in the high leaf piles that formed the bulk “ad-nor-‘a-tum” of 19th-century winding prose, that ascribing a beginning and an end to social metaphor was less a science than it was something closer to the act of putting a penis in a jar, and mailing it to an address that you’d found at random in the phone book.
RESIDENT TONY: What’s in the box, Babe?
RESIDENT MELINDA: No idea. It came addressed to “Resident” with the mail today. (smiles) And I left it for you to open.
RT: (picks up box, excited) Because you know how much I like surprises. Thanks, Mel.
RM: Don’t mention it.
So it was apparently no surprise to some when the 1980s American TV series “Dynasty” became a hit for ABC, as receiving a weekly penis in a 1980s’ TV box soon became the latest TV ratings formula, repeated in various story developments throughout a season’s run, with several network vice-presidents rumored to have donated their own surgically-removed units to their employers, just to keep their jobs.
POLITICAL NETWORK VICE-PRESIDENT CHENEY: (looking at penis in jar)
V-P AIDE: So, your thoughts, Mr. V-P?
V-PC: (sly smile, turning jar) Eventually the flesh and all-too-infrequent rush of blood, becomes just a metaphor for a socio-economic-political penis that, if handled right, can stay hard for decades. And without the need for pharmaceutical enhancements. STD treatments. Or legal antibodies against a plague of paternity lawsuits. (looks at Aide) Really — social penis metaphors are the best thing we brought with us, from the cold and brutal beastie night.
V-PA: (lost, then lightbulb on) Oh. You mean cold and brutal — like winter in Wyoming.
(V-PC puts jar down, shaking head, then turns to door. The dialogue continues in voice-over recording off-screen, as the chars exchange thoughts out loud.)
V-PC: If this truly is the beginning of the end of the super-dude social hour, I pity the new, lack of metaphor and mother-fucking-less world.
V-PA: (turns) Whatever.
V-PC: Whatever — what does that even mean?
V-PA: Oh, go soak your head.
V-PA: No, literally. Put your head in bucket and fill it with the caustic liquid of your choice.
V-PC: Young people are such children.
V-PA: Old people are such zombies in a diaper.
NARRATOR: (voice-over, as each char walks out a separate door) And people continue to wonder why we all can’t just get along.
(Cut to black, silence. Then slowly increase the sound of 100 robins, drunk from eating fermented Brazilian pepper berries, and squabbling. Fade-in as dozens of robins try to access a 12-inch diameter, 2-inch deep bird bath.)
GUY IN HOUSE: (looking out window) The robins are back.
GIRL IN HOUSE: I’m sorry, but I just have no freaking patience for robins behaving like a gang of drunk 12-year-olds.
GUYIH: (still watching) They know not what they do.
GIRLIH: Sure they do. They love pushing my buttons. Where’s the shotgun?
GUYIH: The police took it.
GIRLIH: Where was I?
GUYIH: In a police car, on the way to the station. After you shot out the tires of the mail truck, after the mailman pushed your buttons by delivering another clutch of ads for investment seminars.
GIRLIH: (looks at him, pause) Go ahead, say it. You think shooting out the tires of a mail truck won’t solve the problems of a culture in collapse.
GUYIH: The tires knew not what they had done.
GIRLIH: I’m not so sure. Tires get around. They probably know a lot.
GUYIH: Maybe getting around, and knowing, are different things.
GIRLIH: Words of wisdom from a guy apparently not that cool with living in the land of AARP(eePee).
… versus evolution with a grade of “D”
(photo montage from misc text and gimp)
(2-bit comments from the Internet peanut gallery — you know, top balcony in the very back, where the seats are just a quarter and the WiFi is sketchy on a good day.)
BALCONY GUY: (looking at notebook screen) I’m thinking poor WiFi reception might be what inspired the Impressionists.
BALCONY GIRL: (looking at notebook screen) It’s possible. Also possible that poor WiFi is what convinced our early ancestors to leave the forest, for better reception on the savanna.
B-GUY: That would be a strong, adaptive motivator.
B-GIRL: Did you see the story by the Corvid Lady? About how Canada jays got and lost and got and lost and got their name?
B-GUY: Yeah. Going back to “Wisakedjak” — Algonquian-Cree for a trickster who helped create the world.
B-GIRL: 10,000 years later and the tricksters who are fucking up the world, are really ugly animals. Is that evolution?
B-GUY: Yes, but with a grade of “D.” (closes notebook) I’m going downstairs to the lobby, to the big stain on the carpet just to the right of the popcorn counter, to see if the WiFi’s any better there, today.
B-GIRL: (closes notebook) Okay. I’ll come, too. I need to check if we still have a government. (pause) And to think, I used to not worry about that at all.
B-GUY: Yeah. For some reason the political process is running like a ’57 Buick with 3 wheels and no engine.
B-GIRL: Which is a shame. They were such great, internal combustion dinosaurs.
B-GUY: (smiles at her) Coming from a girl who once said they’ll have to pry her mountain bike from her cold, dead hands.
20190304 11:23 Mon (1033 words)
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