My Cardboard Balcony

Lingual Vomit by Belinda Roddie Hitching two hitchhikers with a screwdriver and pair of spoons that glinted with a light that drove an old man on the corner crazy. Stop the presses, it's an otter breeding in the sad Pacific, tired as Hell but procreating for the sake of dead witnesses, purifying life. Oh, bother, don't forget the cheapest olive oil from the run down grocery store that withers gray like cornmeal. Take a hint from Old MacDonald, had a farm 'til he turned fifty and keeled over from a super stroke of luck in his cornea, kicking tables. Cows are eating burgers at the Five Cent Diner, licking grease off their splintered hooves, never minding stares from patrons. You can act like you understand every word that I am saying, but you can't fool anybody, so relax, don't bruise your cranium.

"Why don't you pay a visit to your Uncle Larry?" "Because he's a prick." "Dana!" "He's an alcoholic prick! Why do you expect me to like him?" "Because he's lonely," explained my mother. "And he enjoys having you around." I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, as long as he has the right quantity of Bailey's in his glass." "Dana." "Or is it a White Russian? Shit, something with Kahlua or Bailey's. Or both. Maybe it's both." "You should see your uncle!" "No!"