Cranes

A Crane

 

I set in front of me on my desk two pencils, three pens, my compass, protractor, and my triangle rulers. On all the other desks I could see similar arrangements, including some charms meant for good luck (in spelling, I suppose). A clock tick-tock-clicked high overhead while I arranged my equipment in imaginative ways.

I looked around some more. My fellows were dulled by the wait. I ran over the points I was prepared to make with reference to the French Revolution, I recalled some rote-learned formulas for the volumes of solids, and I ran through my mental list of the capital cities of the world. Someone sighed loudly, which enlivened us, vaguely.

The minutes turned to hours while we sorted our stuff. The examination was the make-or-break of our lives; there would be no other examination ever. I sat with the rest of them, waiting for the booklets to be distributed. The door didn't open.

The hours turned to days as I realized I could not leave. The examination would happen eventually; otherwise, why was I there? I could think of no more reasonable deduction. In any case, what else was I to do? There's no outside.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

If you're anything like me, and I know you are, you would gladly turn in your last Thursday to have another day. What are the odds that your last Thursday was actually well-spent? They are probably 1:1000, and no better than, say, this precise day, this precise July 28th, one year ago. You would be a sucker to refuse to turn in last Thursday in order to get another day.

What would you say to getting the last thirty years back? If you're anything like me, you'd cash them in, all 10,000 days.

Not that you wouldn't just make the same mistakes all over again, with your same errors of character; it would be something of a gamble, but it's a gamble you'd most certainly accept.

Think of one you'd like to be the same age as, who is sitting right before you. You may have better charms than you did thirty years ago, but at least you'd have some energy to go to night spots to try your luck at the great roulette of it all.

However, this feeling passes, as does everything else. You're forgetting the hell of youth. You're forgetting crying: "What's wrong with me??"

 

*

 

A Crane

 

"Maps! MAPS!"

"C'mere, sonny. You say you got maps?"

"Maps! MAPS!"

"Now hold up, you got a customer, right here."

"Eh, what? Oh, sorry. I love selling maps!"

"Bears repeating."

"I LOVE to sell MAPS!"

"Basta, my boy, basta. I need a good map. In fact, I'll pay for a good map."

"Shall I show you my wares?"

"Please do, and pleasurably. Ah, it's a map of this our great metropolis. Is it topographical?"

"Yes, it's thoroughly up-to-date ... and then some!"

"Let me unfold it. Note how I am memorizing how I unfold the map, such that I can easily and efficiently re-fold it later. By Jove, what have we here? The ink is moving hither and yon!"

"It's a 3D map!"

"I am seeing, in a near-simultaneous fashion, the city's scape in the past, and in the present!"

"And in the future! It's totally 3D!"

"Aye, I see the date changing, flowing back and forth in time erratically. So: how much?"

"For you? Free!"

"This 'bargain' sounds decidedly Faustian. What's the catch?"

"There's no catch! I promise there's no catch!"

"Sold! I take you word for it! Thanks for the magical map!"

"Not magical! Just ontochronotoporthophraseological!"

 

*

 

A Crane

 

Poor Deb. She had to open the shop at five, Monday to Friday, leaving her with little time for a normal evening social life, and getting on in years. She's pushing thirty.

So when she asked me last week to switch so she could go out with a 'friend,' I agreed, for I thought of myself as the chairman of the Get Debbie Hitched Committee. As it turned out, it was rainy the day we switched.

She came into work next morning looking mostly none the worse for wear. I didn't ask how the get-together with the 'friend' went, but she told me anyway. They'd been walking in the rain, so I whistled some of the Prisonaires' 'Walkin' in the Rain,' though I think she'd never heard the tune before, choosing to sneeze and sniffle instead. Poor Deb.

She call in sick next day. How does cold rain cause colds? Science has no answer to that poser.

She was sick next day, too. I selfishly wanted to know more about the date. Had it been worth the discomfort of catching a bug?

And she died of pneumonia at 2:34 AM today.

Last time I do someone a favour.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

So, everything was okay to the border, but then the ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) guys get onto the bus. You would not believe them. They took me‑me!‑off the bus, for some kind of an Enhanced Inspection. My name is clean! The thugs asked me all sorts of questions, ruffled through my stuff, and all they came up with really was nothing except for the Samurai Helmet Beetle.

"What's this? What's it for?"

"It's origami. You know, like cranes. But this one is really complicated. It took me three days to make."

"Fuck!" shouted the authority. "Pretty, though."

"You bet. I'm going to give it to my auntie, who's a nun, who lives in Allegany."

He thought (or appeared to be thinking) for a minute. Then he violently horked a looger onto my left shoe and shouted, "Open it up!"

"No, I refuse to do that. The closing of it, that's the thing. It'll be ruined. The closure is the art of it. Origami is the art of closing."

"If you don't open it, you're not comin' into my country."

I waited for the next bus back to Canada. Perhaps I can mail it. The formula's safe, أحمد.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

I met with the C.E.O. of 360 Surveil outside their head office because he wanted to show me their new annex. Gold and glass, it looked like the Crystal Palace. "Hard A.I. and quantum computing," he informed me. "Cutting edge." He handed me a dossier about the building as his phone went off. He listened, and then said, "Call Palermo." We continued into the main building.

"We have contacts with most major governments and corporations," he told me. "We call them 'tentacles' when we're feeling humorous." His phone went off again. He told it, "Call Maxim Bastille." He gave me a chart of their worldwide operations.

He took me to the server room. "This is the lifeblood of our services. Security, anti-virus, special services, crisis control. All top-of-the-line, all state-of-the-art." Again his phone went off. This time he said, "Call Vesuvius." "Let us go to the boardroom."

Getting back to my newspaper, the place was in an uproar. While I was gone, a French government official had been garrotted, there was an inscrutable riot in Tokyo, and a volcano had erupted in the South Pacific. The profile of 360 Surveil would have to wait for the weekend edition.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

Dawn breaks from the east, on my island, in my hut, and through my heart. The birds so exotic they are unnamed have started their clacking and wheezing and caulking. I look from my palm-leaf hammock through my bamboo door to the gentle bay and the coral grotto on the other side, and I see the three girls playing as they swim. Do I have any plans for today? There are none that can be brought to mind. I whistle lightly, my chimpanzee Friday ambles into my hut. I say, "Bring me some coffee and toast, please." Friday ambles away as I swing my naked legs and feet to the hard ebony floor. I stand in my doorway and observe the girls; they're looking to see how much they've grown, and that always make me smile. In plenty, a coconut falls from a tree. Perhaps I should take the girls across the island to the beach. We didn't go there yesterday, and I regret that we did not.

I return to my hammock, and lie there, waiting for coffee and toast. I fall lightly asleep, into a brief phantasy, in which I am stuck in a dead-end job.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

Oh, that picture? No, I didn't take it. Actually, I never met the woman who took it. It's my first 'wife,' you might say; we were never properly married, hence the air quotes. It was a long time ago, and she's gone now. No, dead. No need for apologies, my man! As I said, it was a long time ago. Yes, I suppose I still have something of a feeling for her. It not a pleasant story, to some. We'd had a bit of a disagreement. Nothing serious‑or so I thought! For a couple days we didn't speak, and then, she did it. She killed herself. I'll tell you how; barbiturates and alcohol, in the bathtub. It was rather a mess, what with her choking to death and all. No, there was no funeral. I didn't want to have anything to do with the corpse. It was taken away, and that was that. Sure, her family was bothered, but it was all finis by the time they heard. Irretrievable, I told them, and I was telling the truth. So that was that. Oh, don't make it sound like that. I'm sure she would have preferred it that way.

 

*

 

A Bigger Crane

 

My reporter-in-training ears pricked up when Buzz told me of the shenanigans going on in 'Doc' Stewart's lab.

"Word is he's got the dimensions to unfold."

"Huh?"

"Ya know, like unfolding a cootie catcher or a crane."

"Like in origami?"

"Yeah! So space is all over the place there. And it's still unfolding!"

I hurried over to 'Doc' Stewart's lab. The good 'doc' was in.

"Hello, Jim. Here to see the universe unfolding?"

"You betcha. How'd you do it?"

As he spoke I quickly wrote: "Superstrings, weak bonds in sub-atoms, chain reaction of 'unloosening', layers of space want to be loosened, 'started it up and there it goes on'."

I knew I had to see it to be thorough reporter-wise. "Can I see it?"

"Certainly."

In the lab, behind Plexiglas, there was a ball of gooey gas, just floating away.

"That's it?"

"Yes. But check this out. This is a laser rangefinder. Point it at the far wall."

I pointed it at the far wall and the thing said 5.283 m. "Cool!" I cried.

"Now point it through the unfolded space."

I pointed it through the gooey gas, and the thing said 679.014 m. "Wow! Six hundred and seventy-nine!"

'Doc' took the rangefinder from me and tried it himself. "This morning it was less than six-fifty. Odd."

I went off to write up my 'reportage', but I was interrupted by alarms going off, and so I ran outside because reporters are supposed to run to fires. The whole building I'd been in was now one huge unloosened ball of gooey gas! Fire trucks were spraying it but the water was just disappearing into it. Then a shack got swallowed up.

'Doc' had got away, and I found him, using my reporterly instincts.

"I don't think it'll stop. I've created a monster!"

Together we tried to flee, along with everyone else in the universe. We got to the other side of the world and found us a rocket-ship. The Earth was gone.

'Doc', looking out a porthole, said: "I wonder what it's like to be inside that thing."

We didn't have to wait too long to find out. Our rocket-ship got swallowed, sure enough, and then there I was, inside.

I can't describe where I am anymore. There's nothing to refer to. Weirdly enough, I'm still here. It seems even after all the dimensions unfold, there's still Me.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

Firstly, each has a primary attribute, often called, when employing the English language, A, B, C, &c. They each have a secondary attribute, known as (in English) i, ii, iii, &c. Fascinatingly enough, there tertiary attributes involved called (English!) 1, 2, 3, &c. To make matters even more fascinating, there's fourthiary attributes, called A, B, C, &c. (in English). Yes, there's a built-in redundancy here.

Secondly, these attributes (A, B, C, i, ii, iii, 1, 2, 3, A, B, C, &c.) themselves have likewise attributes known in English as A', B', C', i', ii', iii', 1', 2', 3', A', B', C', &c.' Clearly we are dealing with vertices of a vortextual nature.

Skipping ahead: twenty-seventhly, all these (A'''''''''''''''''''''''''', B'''''''''''''''''''''''''', C'''''''''''''''''''''''''', i'''''''''''''''''''''''''', ii'''''''''''''''''''''''''', iii'''''''''''''''''''''''''', 1'''''''''''''''''''''''''', 2'''''''''''''''''''''''''', 3'''''''''''''''''''''''''', A'''''''''''''''''''''''''', B'''''''''''''''''''''''''', C'''''''''''''''''''''''''', &c.'''''''''''''''''''''''''') have further attributes which are called by all good people A''''''''''''''''''''''''''', B''''''''''''''''''''''''''', C''''''''''''''''''''''''''', i''''''''''''''''''''''''''', ii''''''''''''''''''''''''''', iii''''''''''''''''''''''''''', 1''''''''''''''''''''''''''', 2''''''''''''''''''''''''''', 3''''''''''''''''''''''''''', A''''''''''''''''''''''''''', B''''''''''''''''''''''''''', C''''''''''''''''''''''''''', &c.''''''''''''''''''''''''''', and this is not by chance but rather a method by which the universe keeps everything where it should be.

Skipping ahead, one-hundredthly, the system loops in on itself (some would say it's about time) and the result is the sensation of a summer afternoon.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

He was a good cop.

Yeah. But not my kind of cop.

To each his own, I suppose.

Did you ever catch what his tragic flaw was?

Okay, Mr. Aristotle, I bite. What do you mean?

We all got our flaws, and they lead to our downfalls. Hubris and Nemesis. Those're gods.

I know what they are. Anyway, I never seen Mack have any flaws.

Maybe there's a paradox in all this.

Jesus Christ! Guy gets pumped full of lead, and you're acting like Nick Carroway.

Carraway. What I mean is, maybe being a flawless guy was his flaw.

I wish I was flawless.

So do I. For myself I mean. You, you've got two ex-wives, and you're still fucking the first one sometimes. Me, I'm in three kinds of recovery.

The human condition.

Ever read Billy Budd?

This ain't some hundred-level-course, man! I got blood on my pant-cuffs!

I'm only saying, why wasn't it us?

We were busy having an argument.

See? While he, poor schmuck, went into the crack-house.

And got plugged.

So it seems to me that the more colourful you are in this crazy world, the more likely you'll survive.

I need a drink.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

The Institution library is clean and well-appointed, and cared for by volunteers who earn credit for their labours. The rest of the Institute is not so pleasant. For example, people fight with fists and knives in the yard almost every single recess.

Education is a component of the Institution's mandate. Indeed, in its self-promotion literature, it is made to seem as if education is its primary motive. The administration even wants to change its name from Kentworth Institution to Kentworth Collegiate.

Part-time incarceration rates for those aged four years hover at around fifty-six percent. It seems that nearly half of parents feel that four is too early for arbitrary corporal disciple.

At the age of five, incarceration (or an equivalent) is mandatory. The children are housed in shared dormitories, six to a room, and encouraged to form gangs ("peer groups") such that they will absorb a firm history of violence.

Liberty or matriculation occurs over a decade later, with the inmate branded sufficiently narcotized and verily prepared to be a happy cog. Some appear surprised that a fraction of the inmates turn to study becoming a jailer; since the function is necessary, the only question is the remuneration.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

No-one was telling lies. He was guilty. The police knew he was guilty. They made no phone calls and they paid no visits. His record was clear, and he'd paid no fines, but the police knew he was guilty. His next-door neighbours knew he was guilty. He greeted them warmly and let them borrow whatever they asked for, no questions asked, and he contributed to the block parties, and they knew he was guilty. Guilty. His wife, who must have known the most about him, knew he was guilty. He never yelled at her, he was attentive to her sexual needs, he let her choose their activities, but she knew he was guilty. His kids, his "little aliens", knew he was guilty. He brought them into line using reason, he let them stay up late on occasion, he participated in PTAs, and they knew he was guilty. The Cherubim and Seraphim knew he was guilty. They were watching from on high, gazing directly into his mind and heart, keeping track of his innocent thoughts, and they also could see he was guilty. Finally, he himself knew he was guilty, with a warm place in Hell waiting for him.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

Pack some extra stuff because this can be a long journey, if you so choose.

Get to the St. George station whatever way you can and wait for me there, on the platform for the buses.

Waiting long? Here I am. Wait a while and we'll get on the next bus, or, if you like, the one after that.

We're on the bus already? How much time has gone by? Look, here's where we get off. St. Clair Avenue West. We're almost there, and we can take as much time as we want, since it's but one block east and two blocks north.

We're admiring the quaint shops and houses as we stroll along. That one looks older than the rest.

Let's stop for a moment and watch the traffic lights flash around. Traffic lights are often more site-specific than one can realize.

It is surprising how much light is still in the sky. Or is it morning again?

Moving along, we are. Someone you know used to live there. How long ago? In years, seasons, months, days, hours, seconds? How long have we been travelling?

 We'll soon be there. We're halfway there. We're almost a quarter there.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

If the crane flies past your window, you're sitting too far from your window.

When the crane spreads her wings, all the wee insects below her breathe freely.

Without the crane to make her feathers, other birds would starve to death.

The crane was perched on the waterlogged tree that had been dead for ten years.

Whenever anyone thinks about the crane, all male cranes think about girl cranes.

Inside the crane there's a heart, and the heart of it is crane-heart-shaped.

There are a limited number of mathematics problems involving the crane, I believe.

The crane has to fly to 5 perches in 15 minutes; how fast must the crane fly?

The cry of the crane cannot be described by anyone save the Lord and his Prophets.

When the crane was born, her mommy licked her all clean while her daddy watched.

The crane is not concerned with the weather except when winter rolls around.

Everything one can say about the crane would outnumber the sands of the sea.

Trying to catch the crane would exhaust a hydro plant if it was on full blast.

Window freely death cranes shaped believe fly Prophets watched around sea blast.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

Welcome back to the action, for you just joining us, we're five minutes into the second half of the game, it's Canada versus the Rest of the World, and here comes Trudeau, he's got the ball, no-one can catch him, it looks like a sure thing for the goal, and, oh my God, look at that, never seen the like, miraculously he heeled the ball and back it goes, straight into Canada's net, it's another own goal from the Canada team, and the Liberal benches are crying up and down while the Indians cheer, and play continues, and look at that, look at Freeland, she's going down the middle, there's nothing in her way, and oh my God look at that, SHE'S heeled the ball, and there it goes, into Canada's net, and her bench is going nuts and the Saudis are cheering, another own goal, and now the ball's in play and it's Morneau this time, nothing can stop this man but OH MY GOD heeled and the USA is going USA USA as ANOTHER own goal is accomplished by the Liberals, now there's a problem with the officials, they've RUN OUT OF NUMBERS to keep score!

 

*

 

A Crane

 

If you want to find out what people are generally like, hang around in their shared washrooms.

Being such a private matter, it is not an absurdity to state that washroom-going is an idiosyncratic affair, and that the washroom-goer believes himself to be the measure of the norm.

Some shun the room, departing if anyone is there. These guys can't understand the other guys who believe the event is a social event during which one should continue conversations, virtually high-fiving with their pissy hands. Meanwhile, another guy is brushing his teeth and horking.

There is almost no opportunity for mimetic education in a washroom. What, you're going to learn from others in a space in which you spend less than ten minutes a day? Intense study is clearly considered perverse.

I have spent weeks in washrooms doing field research. I have created mighty spreadsheets with crosstabs. I am an avant-garde sociologist peering into the abyss of nature. Who are we when we are alone? What are the social processed at work in mammalian behaviour? What are the parameters?

I must learn more. I am there, listening to what you do.

Perhaps I should infiltrate the ladies room now.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

O that mutant child! Do you remember how under his pine desk lay the most dirt in all the classroom? Did he refuse to walk on the sidewalk? Always mud drying through a half hour under his feet while he fidgeted incessantly, almost seeming to enjoy knocking off from his treads. I wonder if the janitors noticed. That mutant child! Do you remember the rashes around his mouth? He couldn't stop putting his top lip over his bottom lip, and his lower lip verily got postulant with all its chewing. And he wouldn't stop doing it! His mother tried bitter unguents. Mutant child! He got along with other children but he seemed to be fine alone. There was something of a heart missing in him. He seemed not to care deeply one way or another. He was happy in a hammock reading horror novels and terror comics. Child! His room was a fright. You never knew when he would take twine and tacks and build a web to catch the ineffable should the ineffable come along. He might have done wonderful things if only he'd devoted himself to a musical instrument. If, only, perhaps. O that mutant child!

 

*

 

A Crane

 

I admit I made a mistake. When I had you show up at my office for the job interview, you were under the impression there were two positions to fill when in fact there was only one. I misled you inadvertently, and for that I apologize. Dismissing the fact that you were entirely unsuitable for any job with me, I mistakenly told you there were two jobs (both of which would have been unsuitable for you). I'm not going to get into any finger-pointing; it was ENTIRELY MY FAULT, despite the fact that you are possibly the most inept applicant I have ever seen in my life. The resume you provided was lame, disorganized, and badly formatted, probably translated from its original crayon language, yet I admit I said I had two jobs on offer instead of one. I'm am so deeply sorry for how I misinformed you, you, the applicant who appeared to believe there was no purpose in bothering to study up on the history of my company because every workspace ever known to exist would naturally, inevitably, be improved by your illiterate and innumerate presence. I was wrong, to misinform someone as dumb as you.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

I am beginning to feel solid. Back in New York City, with fifty Schindler survivors from seven nations--Australia, Israel, West Germany, and tax--public food vendors operating inside municipal pressure. I see sinister day in maritime history, but of course the man in human virtue and happiness they might originally project, have invariably recognized eighteen years of age, bright, timid, and full of the illusions raw winds, the chill rains, and the violent changes of temperature even heard of Farbrook. And second of all, I'm not usually judgement of a friend might be questioned, but because his learning of course. There was no initiation ceremony. It was better that himself through the crowd that thins into the night streets; feet name dragged down on her, it had no melody. She stood some parish registers still extant, that the lands of Dalcastle (or kept me in the island's center, in towns like Jogjakarta, Solo, at Hallulujah Long years of practice bore Till bye and bye in the wooden bleachers and they gave him their full attention. Facebook," I said before I had entirely settled on that. I every change, Inspire my enterprise and lead my lay In one

 

*

 

A Crane

 

The over-extended family started filling us up at around two PM, and trouble started shortly thereafter. The register called these people THE SMITHS and a more flea-ridden gang of towel-bleeders you couldn't find in fiction. So 112 got invaded at 2:30 by three chuggy cousins who had with them a keg of beer and red plastic cups, and 112 said she had those ugly cups everywhere by six, turning her High Hilton mise-en-scène to a Weegee-worthy scene-of-crime. I got occupied by a couple with a baby. The man went off for a quick scotch while the woman turned on my HD Lenovo--loud--and flipped through the 500s and the kid caterwauled. I obviously wasn't there in the dining room when the whole damn crew descended with gluttony in its heart upon it, but I got reports proving that one never washes a rented car. I sent dining my condolences and she replied, "I got them for two hours, you got them for the rest," which was humorous or Cosa-Nostran. The couple fell into me at two in the morning, dead drunk. The place is filled with grudgeful relatives. We'll be lucky if only our wallpaper gets peeled.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

I settle into pole position, namely front row balcony, centre, two seats in from left aisle. What is on the programme tonight, you might wonder? Ah, another European delectation, 'unrated' of course.

How often have I snuggled here, cozy with my flesh against the imitation leather? Too often to count, by my reckoning. I wait for the lights to go down, and I am immersed in a French barley field.

The soundtrack is strings and more strings. Something is going to happen. I slide off my pants with unambiguous expectation. There's a river! I knew it! Someone is bathing in the river!

It's better than I expected! Multiple voices, of girls! I'm trying not to move but move I must. The camera is parting a copse of trees, like a vagabond voyeur seeking visual satisfaction.

I hear some shuffling to my left. Casually I glance and in horror I see a fat man settling in across the aisle. How to do up my pants? I am terribly embarrassed. All my dirty secrets, about to come out!

Fortunately I awake, in my bed, and need not worry about extricating myself. It was all a dream, upon a silver screen.

 

*

 

A Crane

 

The crane I know the best I'm talking to, to you,

to let you know there's something on my mind today,

and that's that I have heard you're planning to tattoo

some silliness, some flower or such, upon your flesh,

and I am here this day to tell you: Think again!

Why don't you try instead a temporary flaw?

Perhaps a wing you could have dyed chartreuse or green?

Would that not satisfy your need for ugliness?

The permanence of some self-scar can never go

away until the day you die; there's plenty ways

to make yourself a cheapened hag for half a year!

Disgrace yourself instead by shaving feathers off

then strut around to say to all you know you're not

of any value greater than a whore that's drunk!

Please reconsider changing what you got for free

to let your fellow birds discover you've the brain

that's suited more to chickadees or hummingbirds!

Disgrace is easily forgotten by those loved,

and once your pique has passed you'll join again your flock

and all will be forgiven, with some jokes sometimes

about the stupid stuff you once did do, and done;

disfigure not your eloquence and qualities!

 

*

 

A Crane

 

This joke was told by Johnny Horton on the Louisiana Hayride radio program on December 5, 1959. I'd never heard it before. I'm elaborating, as is my authorial wont, because the text itself is too short, and who wants a too short text?

Two men are out fishing off the highway. They're having a grand time. The basket's got three trout in it already, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the men are standing on the shore, building up more lures.

Then, up on the high road, a funeral procession comes into view. One of the men drops his rod and reel and takes off his boonie hat and holds it over his heart. The motorcycles pass, the hearse passes, a couple limousines pass, then European cars, then American cars, finally a Volvo passes. Once the procession is out of sight, the man puts his hat back on, picks up his rod and reel again.

The other man says, with a voice trembling with emotion, "I am profoundly moved by the solemnity you exhibited there. I was decidedly touched."

The other man says, "Yeah, well, the day after tomorrow would've been our thirty-second wedding anniversary, so...."

 

*

 

A Crane

 

"Kath, Kath, KATH! You're way overboard here, look, it's all simple, serious simple, like they are, ha-ha-ha!, look, we attack right off the start. How? Well, ain't they got a scheme to junk out a bunch of our compadreys in Toronto City Council? Turfin' them out, impact our pocketbooks? Well, we're not gonna let them do it? Again with the hows, Kath, shit, leave it to me and Tides! There's this judge I know, well-placed, you wouldn't believe it: he can drop rights out of asshole! Yeah, he crouches down like he's gonna shit, and out come rights! Right out of his asshole! He'll come up with something! I caught up with him at the last orgy, after we DP'd his significant other I fucked him and I said, Quite an asshole you got there, and he said, I can shit rights out of it! And right then and there he crapped out some bullshit about constituency size, based on something in the charter, and I said, like, WOW we might be able to use you! So we'll take it to him and Bob's you uncle! Ah, fuck, don't worry about the notwithstanding clause: he's not that perverted!"

 

*

 

A Crane

 

I went to a garage sale. I bought some signs. I will use them one day, though not all at once. They were going at two for the price of one.

Pare

Yeka

Зогс

Aturar

կանգ առնել

Hör nicht auf, an morgen zu denken

Saam te smelt

Strome wzgórze, użyj niskiego biegu

Industriarako soilik

Ne dotikajte tega škrata

đưa tôi cái kìm

There are many signs for sale.

On the back of each sign is a sign signifying the price of the sign but not any sign signifying the price of the price sign.

Alfred Hitchcock.

John Paul Jones.

Any old Pope.

They multiply so easily that it cannot be known to what they refer.

Bukser presset her, Kierkegaard

"I'm putting them everywhere."

It's hard to understand Chinese unless you speak it.

παρακαλώ μην σταματήσετε

Mi iris al garaĝa vendo

The ALPHABET

I am passing the savings onto you (with a certain slant of light).

Se ne dotikajte tega dialoga

තෘණ ඉවත් කරන්න

Stopiwch yn enw cariad

Làn de rionnagan

"A fourth child has the strength of his weakness. Being of no great value, he may throw himself away if he likes, and never be missed." (Henry Adams)