Sunday Comix (Journal Entry the 7.5th)
2000-08-15 - Written: 2000-03-05
Thoughts:
As I lay me down to sleep, give my trench my soul I keep...
Once there were three trench coats, the papa, the mama, and their little girl trench coat, and they lived in a little apartment in New York. There the papa worked in entertainment, as the stunt double for Keano Reeve's trench coat, and the mama worked for a small corporation of "money relocation experts", who lived in the Bronx. Despite the commute, they were all quite happy. So one day, while the little trench coat was off terrorizing small children, a mini-skirt (who was quite ditzy) had gotten lost in the apartment (she was working with a pair of boxers on one of the other floors). She got tired rather quickly, and soon stopped at the apartment of the Trench's. She washed herself off, dried herself up, and went to sleep. When the trench coats got home, papa trench said, "some asshole used my washer!". Mama trench soon exclaimed "oh dear, some fuckhead has used my dryer!". And after some searching for a little while, the little trench screamed, "someone's sleeping on my coat hook, and the sluty-little-whore is still there!" THE END
"How are you feeling, Jimmy?" The teacher asked.
"Like...there's something swimming in my stomach."
It was true. Jimmy did have a rather squirmy sensation in his belly, and it was making him sicker just thinking about it. He went home that day, and lay in bed, agonizing that there was something swimming inside him. His mother told him not to be a pansy, to take it like a man. His father was worried, and called in a doctor. The doctor made his examination, and informed the parents there was nothing to be worried about, that their son was in perfect condition. So Jimmy lay there, sickened and starving (for he would eat no food) for several days. And then, he felt it, very strong this time�he had located the thing that navigated his insides. Hesitation was not a possibility, he had to get it now, and no one else believed in it. He'd show them. There was a spork on the bedside table, which he plunged into his abdominals. Jimmy quickly reached in and grasped a long slippery coil. It squirmed from his grasp and jumped out of him. The swimming thing was very long indeed; when he thought it would end, it just squirmed more of itself out. Then he passed out.
Two hours later, the doctor finished with Jimmy. Nothing more could be done for the boy. The doctor went to a sink just in time to spew out his expensive lunch. It was a sickening case. Not three days before, he had given a check-up to this child, and not that child lay dead on a hospital bed, his intestines pulled out, supposedly by himself.
"How are you feeling, doctor?" one of the nurses asked.
"Like...there's something swimming in my stomach."
M U D
My favorite season has foreverlong been Wet Mud Season. As most people in Maine have heard a garzungel times, Maine has it's own unique seasons. Frozen Mud season, known to most of the world as winter, is when the mud freezes, but snow is not required to fall. There is also Dry Mud season, commonly known as "summer" in which the mud dries up and transmogifies into what we call "dirt". Wet Mud season constitutes the many forms of mud between the aforementioned extremes. During this time of the year I had the most fun, especially with my sister, Sarah. She was addicted to the sticky brown goo which could be found in abundance around our house. Whenever it rained, we were outside, jumping and laughing in our treasures of mud and rain, shinning like gold and diamonds. It was heaven, if only a dirty one. As we aged, we became more civilized, as seen by our new use of mud, mud fights. In Siberia, I hear they have things called snowball fights, and I imagine it is very similar to the one-on-one battles we had. (During frozen mud season, snowballs are seldom used, because someone will eventually get a chunk of frozen mud in with the snow, and hollerings of "I told you you were going to put someone's eye out with that thing" ensues.)
My sister and I also had a tree house, and a secret club, which we called SNOT (an acronym for little Sisters Not allOwed Today). When the water was low, we would go skipping down the stream on the rocks by our tree house, and purposely slip in. Then we'd float down the stream, scaring each other with stories of leeches and snapping turtles. Our mother always wondered why was came back dripping wet nearly every day. Eventually we installed a higher "lookout platform, with which to drop water balloons on little sisters from above. It was never really used for that purpose, because my younger sister never came out to see the tree house. But it's the thought that counts. The lookout was used for fishing, for spying cars on the dirt road, for watching the sun set before hurrying back for supper. We wasted away the hours, quoting from Disney movies and playing Crazy 8s. In our tree house, Sarah and I only had each other, but it was more than enough.
Now she sits in college, deprived of mud and my company, wishing for large gooey puddles and sticky handfuls of watered dirt. Would that she could go puddle jumping one more time, it might save her sanity. "I just want us to go back to when we had nothing we HAD to do, and we could fall in the stream and go for a swim. Or go fishing in the mud hole all day, and go night crawling at night, and camp out in the field and you could keep the fire going. Please. *Tears* I don't want to grow up..."
