Finding Fossil Fuels In The Bottom Of Your Heart
I stole a bracelet from my nephew. It’s one of those rubber bracelets that make people imagine you’re supporting a cause.
You’re wearing a bracelet. Which means that rubber loop is wrapped around your wrist instead of the neck of your local dolphin.
On my bracelet, there are dinosaurs. Nine dinosaurs on parade. So, I guess you know the truth by now:
Because life’s too short not to be what you are.
When I march into bars and catch people running down dinosaurs, saying things like, “Let’s make this an anti-dinosaur bar,” I order the biggest beer. I drink it using my most muscly arm, the “major arm,” which is for luring love makers — I glaze it in shine and flourish it in public places — and sometimes the arm is for intimidation work.
I lift the big beer with Major and guess what’s clearly visible?
This shuts everyone up, and I get an apology from the tallest, toughest alcoholic in the bathroom when we’re both peeing with everything we’ve got.
He shouts above his trickle and above the roar of my primal water-music, “We didn’t mean it!”
I make eye-contact until the rounded, sensitive, mushroom-like tips of our noses touch and smoosh — then I push my stream harder, cutting the urinal’s blue aroma puck in two. In other words, Your apology is noted, now get the hell out of here before I direct my stream at YOUR aroma puck, if you know what I mean, and he knows, so he runs away slipping on his trickle that’s still going, for his dignity and continence have been unplugged by fear.