You are currently browsing the monthly archive for May 2007.
You know when you’re driving a distance on a highway and your eyes start to glaze, radio droning, a possible fog dampening the colors outside, on and on you go, then you shake yourself into awareness after devil knows how long and you think bajeezus, I could’ve killed someone, but I didn’t, even though there were curves to follow and slight braking to do on account of the A-hole ahead of you who just doesn’t understand the notion of coasting? Then you think, hm. If I could do that and still operate the vehicle perfectly well, while having productive thoughts about important things like how much I love Booby Muffin and how I don’t where I stand with Lisa and how Birky Binkus is just some dumb kid so I really ought to chuck that voodoo doll I made of him into the bay.
So if I can be this productive while driving (okay, fine Mister Stickler, I was flying, not driving) then think how much I could get done on my personal life while at work! While sleeping! I’m gonna write that book I’ve always thought about writing on my morning commute! I’m going to mentally put together Booby Muffin’s baby book while working on my weekly client reports! I’m going to take back this time that I sell to Corporate America and put it to good use. In fact, I’m going to start right now. My weekly market update to Binkus is going to write itself while I mentally compose the introduction to Booby Muffin’s kitten book.
Here it goes. (Of course I have to start out working. You know, one can’t drive on the highway unless they actually get into the car and go.)
BINKUS WINGS: Weekly Market Conditions Prospectus
May 30th, 2007
Prepared by Donkey Pegasus
Chicken stocks are up this week while Beef stocks have fallen slightly due to the fall in price of boullion. Chicken parts have come together in the markets, creating an opening for Binkus Wings’s DIY Excellent & Awesome Spicy Chicken Wings.
On the restaurant front, Hooters stock and weekly sales continues to fall, giving a green light to Binkus Wings to begin their penetration of the sexy chicken wing restaurant market. We recommend a close parallel of Hooter’s interior, menu options, and waitresses wearing easy to move in clothing that also happens to show off their Booby Muffin was born into a litter of sprite, spotted kittens by a loving but ultimately irresponsible mother cat. A chance but confusing encounter at the SPCA brought Booby Muffin and Donkey Pegasus together with 22 beers on tap, plasma screen televisions playing every sport game being televised, and a Binkus Mile High Mud Pie is highly recommended.
According to our research, flagship store locations include Phoenix, Minneapolis, and Fresno. Construction should be slated to beginning on the day Booby Muffin came back to the nest, she was playful and loving as a father could hope his daughter will be. She loves watching the sun set behind the Golden Gate Bridge just as much as she loves going for bumpy fly rides around Alcatraz on my back, though she digs her young sharp claws into her daddy’s skin just a little too enthusiastically looking forward to a partnership with Binkus Wings.
Hee-haw,
Donkey Pegasus
Righty-o, we’ll just get this off to Binkus… Save, SEND. Now I’ll just quickly jot down the ideas that popped into my head for Booby Muffin’s kitten book so I can get to work on that. See what I mean? Dual processing baby. What a timesaver. Check ya later. This is the only way to do it when you’re knee deep in the hoopla.
Got this in regards to my pending suit of Egregious Veterinary Imprisonment from my attorney Barry Berry, Esquire. I know, I know… never trust a guy with two first names.
…
DP,
Looks like I hit a snag with our suit. Turns out there’s really no precedent for animals filing suit against humans. Since you somehow have a SS# though I might be able to get around it. Creative Phrasing is what we call it. Also, do you have any visible signs of abuse? If so, get your digicam and document it Pronto. Same for the kitten. What’s its name? Boob? You’re such a pig DP, I love it. When we gonna hit the town again? Remember when you lost it all over that girl in white after all that tequila?
Oh man, you are an animal! Hey, maybe we’ll swing this around into an animal rights case. I always knew you were gonna be my golden ticket man, I always knew.
Catch ya,
Barry Berry, Esquire
p.s. Did you ever bag that babe in the office?
Animal cruelty galorus majorus. I’ve just returned home from the most ghastly experience of my life. Dr. Lynn has me double-booked next week about it. The mayor will be hearing from me, as will the papers. Let’s just say that veterinary heads around San Francisco should get ready to roll. They’re proctors of evil I tell you.
I, Donkey Pegasus, was imprisoned against my will for two days at a local veterinary clinic when I arrived for a routine inoculative visit for Booby Muffin, my newly adopted kittenchild. My evil prison must go unnamed for now due to a pending lawsuit (enthusiastically endorsed by my attorney though personally, I’d rather wage a more physical type of warfare.)
It all began quite innocently. Booby Muffin was nervous, I sensed it in her tremulous pseudo-purr as we flew into the city for her appointment. But as usual I was in too much of a hurry to think clearly in the moment. Binkus, Lisa, Sales Reports, Tourist Season—all my daily hauntings crowded my mind as I pumped my wings over Market Street. Hindsight is always such a bitch of clarity. Damn me for not tuning into Booby Muffin’s bestial insights. It’s your fault America. You are warping me human one gram at a time. This empire must fall and I’m beginning my personal crusade of social annihilation at the vet’s office—the first gate of Hell as far I can tell.
We arrived to a nearly empty lobby aside from the fat slob behind the counter who was hoovering Cheetos—foul cheddar amalgamations—through her orange-dusted lips. Her name is also Lisa. Funny, how two things with the same name can be so different.
Chester Cheetah: Uh… Bob… will you come out here?
Me: Hi, this is Booby Muffin (holding up my little girl to the window) and I’m Donkey Pegasus. Booby’s here for some shots.
Veterinary Assistant Demon: Bobbb…
Me: Who’s this Bob character Lisa?
She-hemoth (she’s fat): Oh my God it knows my name!
Me: You’re wearing a name tag. Look, I think you might be confused…
Ugly Lisa: Bob, tranquilizer stat, we’ve got a 242 situation on our hands!
Me: Ugh.. what’s a?
(enter Bob)
Here is where my memory dissolves into a thick black fudge. I woke up to the sound of my sweet little Booby’s frightened meows in the pitch dark, a sharp pain piercing my forehead, and the horrendous realization that I was in a cage. What on Earth did Bob and that horrible Cheetoh freak do to me?
Shortly thereafter I fell once again into a deep awful slumber. I dreamt of Alcatraz, of Binkus in a giant Chicken suit pouring wing sauce over Booby Muffin, of chomping bell peppers only to realize they were filled with ground sirloin. Nightmares, need I not point out, pervaded my first night of imprisonment. I was drugged, bound, and made to sleep on a mildewy concrete surface that smelled of swine and chlorine.
…
Artificial daylight puttered on with a buzz—my God I hate fluorescents—and who do you think stood before me but Bob, in some asinine getup. Image a gay male dental assistant who livens up the office by wearing the most outrageous printed smocks available. This is Bob, but Bob has a mean streak and seemed capable of bench-pressing a Prius. Bob, my captor, spoke to me but in the way that people talk to their pets, a tone that suggests they expect neither comprehension nor response.
Bob: Feeling better after a good night’s sleep you crazy beast?
I tried to tell him to go f*%k himself with a Swiffer WetJet but it came out like this: bwooohlaaayyybwaaaahhh. It didn’t even start with F. The drugs, obviously, still had their grip on me.
Bob opened a small door in the larger cage door and lured my drug-addled self towards him with a carrot (uninspired, I know). I reached for it with my jaw but suddenly, he had my entire snout in his inescapable muscleman deathgrip and there he was, shoving some giant yellow pill down my throat with his gloved hand and then laying a water hose on my tongue and spraying that sour pill down down down down, and I was down for the count once again.
…
The previous day repeated itself so exactly that the only indication that a new day had dawn was Bob’s animal print smock (yesterday’s was bicycles.) How cute: the animal torture chief enjoys wearing his trophy pelts. I once again attempted to speak by alerting him to the fact that my attorney was most likely lighting a charcoal spit with his name on it but it came out like this: ssshchwaaaahhhhhh.
Dammit.
I was starving, but not even a Pink Lady Apple with peanut butter could convince me to open my mouth for another of Dr. Bob’s power pills. As my senses sharpened throughout the day I observed my captors’ patterns:
- Cheetoh took a break every 20 minutes or so (she’ll certainly never be promoted with that work ethic)
- There seemed to be two rows of cages to my left (but none above me, my cage was most likely the largest)
- Booby Muffin was alive; I saw Dr. Bob carry her by her scruff to a scale, where he weighed her, stroked her nose, then fed her a half-can of tuna
This information? Useless. Like in the movies, I looked for a key. For a dozing guard. For a friend in the next cell over who could tell me of a secret brick in my cell that, when removed, would reveal a map, a large magic emerald, and a sword. None of this happened, but the fact that I could conceive of it showed that my mental acuity had returned. Bob strolled past and I spoke.
Me: Bob, there’s been a mixup. My name is Donkey Pegasus and I am not a pet, I am a functioning human-like animal with a career, my own home (well, shelter), and a small kitten named Booby Muffin whom I entrusted with your care two days ago. Instead you drugged me, imprisoned me, and as soon as I am released you will suffer the wrath of my vengeance.
Bob: Liiisssa.
Me: I doubt she’ll be able to help. She’s got the smarts of the shoelace.
Lisa came in, shoving gummy bears into her trap, and said, “See see, I told you I wasn’t lying! I knew I heard him! A talking donkey with wings! We’re gonna be rich!”
Me: How ugly and typical Lisa. Looking to profit from my talents. Look, you can call my office for verification but I command you to release me at once. And Jesus Christ, don’t you imbeciles read the paper? I’ve been profiled a bajillion times in there. My God, I would have thought there was at least one responsible literate in this hellhole facility. Dunces. What do you have whipped cream for brains?
They left, looking halfway hurt. If daggers I cannot throw them daggers of words I will hurl through my cage at them! Hours passed, and though I heard the droning muffle of activity, phone calls, doors opening and closing, I can not tell you what process they may have followed to confirm the truth: they had incarcerated a celebrated figure of the community.
Bastards. Well, needless to say they let me out. Our farewell was tense and I told them to not even think about billing me. It was nightfall yesterday when I was able to finally stretch my wings and kiss my sweet Booby Muffin, and take off towards the safety of our island sanctuary. Even in the city you find these degenerate idiot people.
Egregious Veterinary Imprisonment: This is my charge against them. If I have my way they will be raided, strip searched (I feel sorry for the poor fellow who’ll be assigned to Cheetoh Lisa) and delisted as an operating veterinary clinic. I have emailed the Better Business Bureau and submitted my review on Yelp.
This is not the last you will hear of this matter. Not even close. Perhaps you didn’t know this, but donkeys are not easy to forgive.
Well paint me a sculpture, isn’t that something. All my early morning bathing and primping turned out nothing but a medium-to-serious case of dandruff (for which I am told I must buy a new shampoo). What’s with the major influx of this gooey fragrant glop into my life?
And Lisa noticed none of it. Remember when I was on the brink of asking her on a date? Remember all the bumps and barricades the cosmos hurled upon me as I tried to coax my sweet assistant into my wings? Well the cosmos won.
I gave up. Screw it. I hate everybody anyway, so why shouldn’t I just go back to being lonesome and bitter (those are Dr. Lynn’s words, not mine) and hate Lisa too?
Or wait, I thought, as the sun was rising over my Alcatrazian nest this fine Sunday past. Do I really need to be lonesome? I asked myself. And by not being lonesome could I, perhaps, avoid being bitter? What I’m suggesting here is that I had an epiphany, and it had nothing to do with Binkus or Dr. Lynn or lavender essence shampoo. It sprang into my churning mind as a simple vision. Smaller than a bread box, cuter than a button. No guesses? Don’t bother, I’ll tell you. A kitten. I adopted a kitten.
Her name is Booby. Actually, her name is Booby Muffin but I can only guess that once we’ve become more acquainted that I’ll just call her Booby, or Boob, or Boo for short. Cute huh? She’s named after the Blue Footed Booby—my favorite feather-winged beast besides myself—a species that I had the pleasure of resting amongst one summer as they nested themselves somewhere on the Galapagos where I made a desperate trip, on winged tip, in search of a man named Swan, but also in search of myself. It was, for me, the equivalent of your clumsy backpack trip through Europe after college. During college? Whatever you selfish lump. This isn’t about you.
It’s about Boobies. No, actually, it’s about one Booby. That kitten, she’s got me wrapped around her finger already. She is a complimentary cotton candy in a place where you never suspected cotton candy might be. And it’s a giant cone, a spool?, whatever, and it’s fluffy and fun and it’s all yours and every time you look at it you giggle and let fly a jubilant smile, because you know that today is a good day. Are you following? This only works if you really like cotton candy. No? Yes I know that sugar rots the brain. Shut up and live a little malorkus.
Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I loved Booby from the moment I saw her. Ah yes, let’s get to the part where I adopted her, thus saving her from an awful indoor existence, scratching the carpet and eating little X-shaped pebbles of yuckfullness all through her sad life. Booby is not going to be covered up every day. No, she’s going to live out in the open, feel the ocean breeze, and bounce around the Isle of Alcatraz, helping me tend to my garden and throw rotten vegetables at the tourists and watch the sun set behind the bridge. Maybe even Booby can come to work with me… who knows, I do command a nice slice of respect around the office.
A visit to the SPCA, I knew, was going to be a bit confusing for all involved at first. You see, the people there are not used to… ah… not used to talking to a donkey with wings. They were very polite, but I must say that I explained myself one too many times. Each time I revealed a new level of domesticity (he speaks with words!, he’s got a credit card!) they grew both in astonishment and acceptance. Okay, they seemed to say after ten minutes, So a Donkey Pegasus wants to adopt a kitten and take it to live with him on Alcatraz in his giant nest at the top of a tree and when the Donkey Pegasus is at work at the advertising agency, the kitten can romp around the island. Okay, that sounds like… a good life for a cat. So I was in, and I must say that I used my animal instincts to zero right in on my little Booby.
“That one,” I told the staffwoman. “The tabby right there with the heart on her back.” Isn’t that precious? Booby Muffin has a little orange heart on her back, and little sprays of apricot here and there. Her ear tips are black and her nose is pink. Her paws are like deep grey ankle socks, and I swear I see the faintest little orange tiger stripe all around her torso. She’s going to be a gymnast and a hunter (it’s okay, I understand that she might take out a bird now and then) and she and I will be very happy together forever and ever amen.
So what’s the deal with the title of this blog? Ah yes, glad you asked. So I flew home with my new kitten’s neck scruff clutched gently in my jaw and when we arrived she fell into a fast peaceful sleep that lasted until nightfall. I fed her some shredded chicken and carrots and then we settled in to listen to the tree whistle with the wind. This morning I told her in no uncertain terms that she was not to leave the nest until I returned for lunch at noon. When I arrived she was hanging from a branch above the tree and I relented when she effectively suggested that the branch was a mere extension of the nest so she, in fact, had not left it. Little devil. My Booby is adorable and intelligent.
And here it is… the moment you’ve been waiting for. When I came back to the office from my noontime check on the kitten, Lisa noticed my serene smile and little piece of Booby’s white fur hanging on my wing. “New girlfriend DP?” Lisa asked, flirtish I do believe.
“More like a new daughter,” I told her. “I adopted a kitten.”
“A kitten! A little baby kitten? Oh my gosh Donkey Pegasus, you have to let me come over and play with her! What does she look like? What’s her name?”
It didn’t even occur to me. I am an accidental genius. How curious that Booby is ultimately what attracted Lisa to my nest. We have a play date set for this coming weekend, I do hope it’s sunny. I plan to make a giant delicious salad, and Lisa and I and the kitten can start behaving like the family that we’re destined to become.
I spent the entire day after my first shower ever itching and scratching like some diseased cat. I guess 90 minutes of soap and lather threw off my delicate donkey pegasus ph balance. Thanks for the help friend, no really, I appreciate you setting me straight. Jerks.
Good thing us modern mammals know who to trust in times like these:
http://www.wikihow.com/Take-a-Shower
http://www.wikihow.com/Enjoy-a-Shower
http://www.wikihow.com/Dry-Yourself-After-a-Shower
Interesting reading actually. I bet there’s something you’re doing wrong every day. But I digress, the question is… do I get the girl or not? Well, let me give you the 411 (I just learned that from Raul; it’s means info, the scoop, the haps on the craps. Gross, I said crap.)
Anyhow, this morning I anticipated that my little spring duckling might finally be feeling up to snuff, so I once again rose in the early dawn, stretched my wings, and flew south from my sweet Alcatraz to San Francisco’s modest but lively financial district. At this hour, the glassy windows were just beginning to reflect the new day’s solar kiss. The moon was fighting its sleep as it hung like an old hat in the West. Not even the zombie lawyers stirred in the building, so with two towels in tow (close observation of step #1 in How to Dry Yourself…) I stepped into the shower room, determined to use only a modest dollop of my new shampoo/conditioner mix. Pantene Pro-V this time… slightly more expensive but it gives a glassy shine so say my sources.
I didn’t quite make my goal of 15 minutes, but I shaved off 20 minutes from my previous record and used my towels for drying instead of the hand dryers in the men’s room. This shampoo smells nothing like flowers; instead it has a light masculine musk reminiscent of sandalwood which I’m sure Lisa will respond well to. At 8:30am I was at my desk, prancing around like a freshly groomed poodle, only not as weird. Poodles are weird. There, I said it.
Lisa: Hi Donkey Pegasus, you’re in early this morning.
Me (hovering over her desk, swaying back and forth a bit so my fresh scent might waft into her nasal awareness): Good morning Lisa, you look healthy today.
Cherub Face: I’m feeling much better, thank you for being so understanding.
Me (rotating just slightly back and forth so the translucent lights would adequately shimmer onto my shiny coat): Well I care about you Lisa. I mean, I want you to be happy. I mean, healthy. Happy too of course, but I’m not entirely responsible for your happiness. I mean, I’m sure I could do things to make you happier at work, but at home, well… you know, I’ve never even been to your house, not that I’m fishing for an invitation, but you know… maybe we could eat a salad sometime together. At night. Or on the weekend. But I don’t mean at your house… unless you wanted to actually make the salad. Do you like salad?
Lisa: Of course I do. Um… gee Donkey Pegasus, a salad sounds like a really—RING, RING, RING—oh, let me get this, (stupid phone) it might be Sherry from Reebok about the blue shoelace recall.
Me (no longer swaying, no longer rotating in the light to look shiny): Sure, go ahead and get it. We can just pick right up where we left—
And then she picked up the phone and started talking, for a long time. And then I had to go to a meeting in SOMA for a client pitch. And then she had to go do a press check. And then I was in my weekly finance meeting, and it ran late and I saw Lisa walk out around 6pm and I was still caught looking at spreadsheets (I’m a wizard with the Boolean stuff).
So… to be continued I guess. I thought of maybe calling her later but I don’t have a phone in my nest. Suppose I’ll just bring it up again tomorrow, maybe not the salad angle though. I’ve never even seen her eat a salad. ‘Um… gee Donkey Pegasus, a salad sounds like a really’ is what she said. Really what?
Really wonderful, like the best idea ever why don’t you just take me in your wings and kiss me now, ask me to marry you, and worry about the animal husbandry later (maybe we’d adopt)? Or is it Really retarded that you’d think I’d want to eat a salad with you. I’m not a donkey, I eat your distant cousins. I eat normal human things you wild maniac, get out of my face before I vomit. Which one is it? I can’t keep this shower schedule up for much longer. It’s killing my sensitive skin and I’m exhausted by five.
Does she love me or does she just work for me? Je ne sais pas.
Today I woke up at the crack and flew into work early so I could take my first shower, ever. Look, don’t think I’m some disgusting animal. I just ordinarily don’t need to do a lot of washing. Unlike you smelly humans, my skin and coat form a Super Twins activation to fight oiliness and dandruff, naturally. And I don’t smell either, which is more than I can say for you dirty modern homo sapiens after a day without a bath. Sickos.
Well, sickos except for one. Lisa, my beautiful Central California sunflower who just happens to currently fill the post of administrative assistant to one Donkey P. Egasus. That’s me, of course. Which is why I decided to take a shower today. I thought maybe an extra sheen to my coat and the fresh smell of Lilac Morning Breeze (Walgreens, $5.99) might awaken in Lisa the latent desire for me that I’m so hoping she harbors within. Lisa. That long-legged, sometimes clumsy but always there for me Lisa. We’re in love. At least, that’s my plan.
At 6:15am my downtown financial district high rise is a sleeping giant, with the exception of the caffeine-soaked workaholic lawyers who are always in their offices, no matter the day or time. The undead, they must be. So I decided to use the shower facilities on the floor before the living dead arrived for work. Nobody uses them. Except for the lawyers. I’m pretty sure they live here. Zombies.
I turned on the faucet and the ceiling started raining so I slowly stepped beneath the water. It took me three minutes in the shivering cold before I realized that you guys take warm showers. La-di-da. Look, when I do bathe it’s in the Bay just off Alcatraz and let me tell you, not all California beaches are the sun-soaked shallows of the world’s imagination. That tub is freezing. Warm water, got it. Score one for you humanoids.
I took an hour and a half shower. That sound about right? I laid down for about 30 minutes and let the warm water fall gently on my back, like a waterfall. Then I lathered up. So, showering is expensive. I mean, if you use a bottle of shampoo every time you shower, and you shower every day, and the shampoo costs $5.99, then showering’s no penny event. But worth it! I like the bubbles. Man, there’s a lot of em, heh? The lather and foam filled the shower and I stood there for awhile, encased in a 6-foot column of suds. Interesting, but strangely enjoyable. After about 40 minutes, the water started to melt down the foam and bubbles and I began to rinse. That took the remaining 20 (it’s not easy!) but when I turned off the water, man… I felt fresher than a giant mint. I smelled like a flower grove, and my coat… soft as a fur seal.
Drying was a little more difficult. I shook off for about twenty minutes and was still wet (and exhausted) so I hoofed it from the shower to the men’s room down the hallway and dried myself under the hand driers for another twenty minutes. People were starting to get to work. I could hear their morning chatter and was getting antsy and then, all of the sudden, the door flew open.
Raul: Whatcha doing Donkey Pegasus?
Me: Oh, just drying off from my morning shower. Great facilities here Raul. Ever use em? My coat look shiny?
Raul: Yeah, uh… Donkey Pegasus, you know that you’re supposed to use a towel to dry off, right?
Me: …..
Raul: Right?
Me: Raul, get to work. I want your reports 30 minutes early today.
Raul gave me a sour look and left. Towel, got it. How silly of me. I got to my desk, checked my email, and looked around for Lisa. The little muffin top wasn’t there yet. Then the phone rang, and I considered not answering it but my mood was so lifted from my first shower ever that I picked up at the last minute.
Hello, Donkey Pegasus speaking.
Oh, you’re in early. Hi, it’s Lisa.
Oh, hi Lisa. Ahh, where are you?
I’m at home. I’m not feeling so hot. Do you think it would be okay if I stayed home today?
Uhh, oh. Well… that’s… sure, of course. If you’re sick, you should be home.
Thanks DP, I really appreciate it. See you tomorrow?
Sure, uhh, yeah, of course. See you tomorrow.
Great. A whole bottle of Lilac Morning Breeze and she’s not even coming. I’ll have to go get another one and take the whole God damn shower over tomorrow. Maybe I’ll just use half a bottle. Eh, the old Donkey P’s innovating here, huh? Bet you nimrods never thought about the half-bottle. It’s called conservation… think about it.
So my assistant is absent today. Great, good help is hard to find. Maybe tomorrow I’ll scare up a towel and cut down my drying time too. Man, you people must get up early if you shower every day. Peace out foolios.
Eh… feeling sorta itchy.
Oh you glorious, devilish sun. You came out on Thursday and took from me the will to blog.
You looked at me straight in the face and said, “Donkey Pegasus, this life isn’t just about work. It’s not all about bearing your sole through your blog or trying to save face with Binkus. It’s not all about what you’re missing out there on the road with Vook and Pepé. It’s about lying back in the park and letting me warm your furry face. It’s about observing mama birds coaching their young on the fine points of flying. This life, it’s about resting atop a bit of soft green grass to spy two black butterflies playing the game of chase until they too tire, and rest silent on a calla lily.”
That’s what the sun said to me on Thursday about 2pm, so I obeyed and haven’t touched the computer since. Because if I am not obedient to the sun then it must mean that I am a slave to the moon. Okay, that’s not true. Actually, that’s just silly and retardedly dramatic. Yes retardedly’s a word and if it isn’t, then I shall make it my personal mission to make it so.
I am giddy, can you tell? Can you detect that spring has reached me? Touched me deep down where only the humble season of the earth can touch a donkey? At his core. Or maybe… oh, I don’t know… just maybe it has something to do about love.
Lisa.
L is for the way you look at me.
I is for the ingrown hairs on me.
S is very very sentimentalirary.
A is even better than a fresh and juicy red bell pepper.
Love, is all that I can give to you…
Nat King Cole? Ever heard of the love minstrel? Well anyway. Don’t tell Lisa, but it was on Thursday, on that very patch of green grass that Madame Solar commanded me to rest upon that I realized, in my tranquil hazy dozing sleepiness that Yes! I surrender! Take my truth and play it on a harp! I carry my torch for Lisa. She who brings me coffee. She who counsels me after a nasty Binkus episode. That blond buxom beauty who likes to watch Desperate Housewives and puts three sugar packets in her coffee along with about a half cup of cream. The one who wants grilled cheese sandwiches and french fries, not a nicoise salad with extra rare ahi or a complicated crepe, every time I buy her lunch for a job well done. This simple ballerina from Bakersfield. This keeper of the cupeth of my love. LISA. Pretty huh? Say it with me. L i s a.
I’m thinking of asking her out on a date. Like a real gentlemen. I may not look like a hunky pool boy but at least my love is true.
Dr. Lynn. Germ. Pest. Plague I tell you! And to think, I sort of missed the dame. I trotted down the sidewalk to the doc’s building, signed in, then waited for an empty elevator to take me up to the tenth. Janice, Dr. Lynn’s receptionist, for whom I hold a certain distaste due to a particular incident a few weeks ago, didn’t seem to address me with any regret or apology. She simply smiled behind her little desk and buzzed Madame Scary to announce my arrival.
Germ: Donkey Pegasus, I missed you last week. I hope your business trip was successful.
Me: I don’t wanna talk about it.
Pest: Isn’t that what our meetings here are all about?
Me: I didn’t realize my work was in need of dissection too.
Plague: I don’t especially like the word dissection. Exploration is more accurate, and your work is indeed something we should explore in our sessions. You do devote a lot of time to your work, do you not?
(Kill me now with a dull ice pick. This woman can be so boooring.)
Me: Did you get a new perfume or something? Or, did you spray for bugs in here? Sorry, it’s just that I can’t concentrate. I’ve got a very sensitive nose.
Madame Scary: I’ve also got a very sensitive nose Donkey Pegasus… for hidden things that are bothering my patients. Won’t you tell me?
Me: If you beg.
Dr. Boring: Excuse me? I don’t think that stinky attitude of yours belongs in here.
Me: Why not, it stinks in here.
Dr. Mad: That’s enough.
Me: Sorry.
Dr. Lynn: So what’s the matter? Be serious.
Me: You’re gonna think it’s stupid.
Dr. Lynn: Do you really think I will? Try me.
Open, honest, going out on a major limb here Donkey Pegasus: Well, I went to see a movie last night. And the trailer for Shrek 3 played in the coming attractions, and…
Dr. Lynn: Uh huh… go on, it’s okay.
Me: … and there were a whole bunch of baby donkeys with wings flying all around! I mean, what do you think it means? I thought I was the only….
Dr. Lynn: You thought you were the only what?
Me: I thought I was the only donkey with wings.
Dr. Lynn: Isn’t Shrek just a cartoon?
Me: I don’t know doc… it’s hard to tell what’s real these days.
Dr. Lynn: Donkey Pegasus, I know you don’t want to hear this but I think I know why this bothers you. Because seeing little beings that look just like you makes you think about where you come from, doesn’t it?
Me: No.
Dr. Lynn: I think it does. I think we’re getting close to being ready to explore your mother area.
Me: My mother area? What the hell is that?
Dr. Lynn: It’s the area of your psyche that deals with your maternal attachments, or lack thereof. That lacking can bring about major psychological upheaval later in life for people—
Me: I’m no person.
Dr. Lynn: and for donkeys. Do you know anything about your mother?
Me: Only that she was likely a close cousin to Medusa the Gorgon.
Dr. Lynn: Come again?
Me: Look, I thought we covered this in my first session. I’m a donkey pegasus. You’re familiar with the donkey, so that’s that. Pegasus was the son of Neptune and Medusa, who was sprung by his father’s command from the blood of Medusa’s head, which dropped into the sea after it was severed by Perseus. I mean… I’m not sure what’s not to get here Lynn…
Dr. Lynn: I think we might be confusing mythology with reality a bit here Donkey Pegasus, don’t you? I mean, do you suspect some similar event happened in your case? Was your father, say, the king of the plain and your mother was a desert gorgon, and from her bloodshed you were born?
Me: I don’t like your tone woman.
Dr. Lynn: I don’t like your escape to fantasy when it comes to dealing with your origins.
Me: My origins are pure fantasy! And no gawky spinster psychologist is going to squash that! That’s it, session’s over lady! If you think I’m just some birth defect from Oaxaca you’re wrong, and maybe I’ll just prove it. Maybe I’ll go find my mother, my father too!, but I don’t need your nagging—hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw—I don’t need you!
And then I stormed out, galloping and snorting to the elevator, down to the lobby, and back out to the salty street. God that woman boils my blood. King of the Plain. How bout I show her the King of Pain?!
Oh, that hee-haw thing? It’s a nervous tick, I don’t wanna talk about it. Shut up loser, I know what you’re thinking.
Dr. Lynn is officially on notice.
I’m officially disconnecting myself from the Binkus stink. That big hog-handed bully can’t force himself any further into this week. This week is mine. Onwards and upwards. Forward Ho. Giddyup. Back to the Future. That’s my attitude. I think I’ll read mysef a little Chicken Soup for the Workaholic’s Soul tonight.
Yep, things are looking up. Especially with such good news having been delivered unto my nest yester eve. It was a letter from Vook on behalf of Pepé, whose search for his wayward survivalist mother has bared some tasty fruit. Roaches… they’re always running.
Turns out, the last time Gary, a bartender at the Reno John Ascuaga’s Nugget heard (the guy makes a killer bloody mary; I mean, imagine seventeen tomolives skewered on a pink plastic pirate sword and celery stalks so crunchy it could melt your heart), Dolores, Pepé’s mom, had jumped a ride in a fruit crate with a papa roach named Daddy on a truck that was headed south to Arizona. Good tip, and Gary’s a guy you can trust.
Dolores is a case if I do say so. Never been the type of mother that Pepé needed. She heard about these spa towns popping up all around Phoenix and went to sniff out some work (she’s a massage therapist by trade). But she’s also a compulsive Keno player with a bad nacho habit, so she may try to play it straight in AZ for a bit, but it’s only a matter of time until she finds herself cutting the smoke in some half-rate gaming hall on an Indian reservation gorging her small exoskeleton on processed cheese and olive rings. Those natives sure are making a killing. But I digress.
So here’s Vook’s letter:
Yo DP, gotta be brief man.
This little roach is running me all over the interstate looking for that crazy madre of his. Last night, we were tanked on Blue Hawaii’s at the Nugget and Gary, out of nowhere, tells us that Dolores had been sitting on that very same spot at the bar near just two nights before! I guess she hooked up with some old burly roach named Daddy (Gary said the guy’s got ten thousand kids and a potato chip habit that won’t quit) and they were planning on jumping on a truck the next day and making it as far as they could go.
Little Pepé (who was tanked you can imagine) nearly lost it. Two days! Two days and he would have been right there with his mama. What a crime. I guess I don’t have to tell you where we’re headed next hombre.
We’ll write when we hit Arizona. I’m looking forward to hanging with some real loco armadillos. They cruise the highways looking for parties you know, and parties is what they will find.
Keep it real ese,
Vook
Yuck. I can’t wash the fowl taste of chicken from my tongue without extracting it with a Wusthof. I can’t erase the memory of Bev Binkus’s boobs without poking my eyes out with a barbecue fork. And maybe even then the black essence of last week in Binkus Territory would remain lodged in my soul forever. To top it off, my favorite wing feather was plucked by some ugly mutant kid at the airport. The feather was special because it had a tiny speck of pink on it in the shape of a star. I used to look at it all the time and wonder if it meant I was marked for something great. And now that’s it been plucked, is that greatness no longer possible?
I bit the mutant child and snatched the feather back, but it didn’t make me feel much better. When I got home, I wove my special feather into the part of my nest that I lay on when I’m watching the sunset. I feel empty way down low at the bottom. Want the rest of me Binkus? You’re gonna have to come and get it.
It’s times like these that I wish Vook and Pepé were around… I wonder how those two are doing. I hope my feather grows back. I wish I had an avocado. Fuerte. Those Haas ones taste like soap.
The People Say: