Part One: Golden Nuggets of Wisdom With Toast
The coffee spoon donut latch egg smell undulated vicariously down to the brief dimension. No one could forget. Not because of emotion but because of the overwhelming of the senses.
“Fie! Fie!” The old homicidal man cried, spitting into his cereal. “This nonsense does not conform to the previously established brittles!”
I laughed. (So hard I almost lost my bonnet). He rose and came to where I was seated and stabbed me six times. I had to wait for the last one since it was so dramatic. He had used super slo motion and I just had to sit there waiting for the plunge. The pain was not as bad as I expected given that it was all happening in a strange reverie. After a brief mental visit to a metaphorical hospital later and plugged apolapsy viaconic I was right back there for lunch. He still had a queer look on his face but gone was the knife. I was disgruntled but jovial, for I knew the punch I had just given him would knock him out for the rest of the day. Then a voice interrupted my thought, like a peal of lightning. In fact, everyone heard it.
The voice said this: “Please fasten your seatbelts. You are now reading a Dadaist piece of literature.”
A can of corn beamed down ala’ Star Trek right into my right hand. I looked on the label and there was a description. It read: ‘Contents: Corn.’ Then, to my surprise, there was a warning label with a skull and crossbones. Though, when angled at a certain degree it shifted to a picture of a green face which was scowling and putting its tongue out, as if saying “Yuck!” He looked mean. The warning label read, in very small print, “Any and all reference to violence in this piece of literature are meant to be figurative. No intent to harm anyone is contained in this work nor is it meant to be threatening in any way.”
“Except for one thing!!!” The voice of a swashbuckler broke my concentration from the corn. Not just that, but the fact that the ceiling had caved in and pieces of dry wall and some form of insulation had landed on my head.
“And that was it!” the swashbuckler said, waiting for the rope he was swinging on to slow down a bit so he could jump off. And jump off he did. I offered him some tea, but he said he had another impromptu ceiling bust he needed to accomplish this afternoon and was already late.