Viscosity

Viscosity is generally the first leg of pubic development. After that, the class wars usually start. Typically, Mary throws the first punch, then Ed launches a paper satellite. Adam invariably starts trying to pound Truth into people whilst Yolanda flinches. Joey lunges, stopping himself mid-air like an Adobe Acrobat. Meanwhile, the primrose version of Self crumples as Ra, the god, just hangs there, suspended, stupefied. I used my dumb finder earlier then discovered I was still lost, much to my chagrin.

Viscosity also gives one impetus to simulate woodland creatures. For example, the nascent hyenas, lounging in a synthetic compound of jugular mishaps, cry with one united breath, “Look, Madge! We’re basking in it!” And then there’s that most unhappy occurrence of excrement in the jet stream that led to a meltdown in the nation’s mid-section. Blindsided, the elephant heralded a forthcoming age of Jell-O mongering. Outside the polling place, a zebra caught my eye. I took it home and felt bloated the next day. I did not eat for a fortnight thereafter. When the next election came ‘round, I encountered a giraffe outside of the polling place – a learned and gregarious giraffe. We talked of the missile crisis, chalupas, exercise fads, a Buster Keaton resurgence, the merits and otherwise of the Pissed-on Phonics craze, bling, a small section of the Louisiana Purchase (a vivisection to be precise), linguistic noodles, giant pandas, the zeitgeist and its relevance to hindsight, and the preponderance of penis-shaped objects. In fact, we bantered so long that we awoke the next morning much to our surprise outside the polling place – still. It’s a wonder we weren’t robbed, mutilated, or otherwise ostensibly violated.

To be sure, viscosity is curvy. Not all linemen are offensive, but trouble lurks within the closet. Ignatius roars, “BEHEMOTH!” Meanwhile, tenants cringe, hiding ‘neath counters and bookshelves, all the while clinging nervously to their slipshod monkey wrenches. Julia maintains a strong disbelief in viscosity whilst Cynthia channels in the corner, yelling, “SPIRITS, COME! DON’T EVADE ME, YOU ASSES! I AM CALLING OUT TO YOU. WHY DON’T YOU COME?”

Viscosity marks Time. Time marches on the front lawn. The protesters are all prosecuted, one by one. The prosecutors are then violated. Then remove the tray from the oven and set it afire. Now you’re ready to entertain with more than a dishrag!

When all else passes away, Earth included, Viscosity will remain. Viscosity is at the fore. Viscosity will see you through. Viscosity will.

The Hen’s Confession

She was no longer capable of hiding a vague sense of shame. It had started sixteen months ago when the Ox had come to visit. Sure, there were obvious size differences and his strange snorting always became a source of confusion. Sometimes it became a kind of language. Sometimes it was a series of emotive outbursts.  She seemed to understand the Ox after a time, though. So, a romance blossomed. Yes, she loved the Rooster. That had been since before the egg-laying days, but the Ox had a male mystique that drew her to him, forbidden and foreboding.

When the Ox would go out to the field to work with men, she knew he would come back to the pens wild-eyed and exhausted.  She often wondered why the henhouse had been set so close to the Oxen pens, but no matter. She found it relatively easy to slip out for her nightly visits. The Rooster slept soundly and only knew the call of the sun, upon its daily arrival. She relished this time. A luscious freedom. Beyond the Ox, beyond the cool evening air. She thought of her feelings, her memories as a kind of guilt at first. Then a kind of obsession.

She approached the Pig, to seek her counsel.  The Pig shook her head. “You have big dreams, Hen. That Ox has no good intentions. Rooster is no working farm animal. He tells the time. When he calls, the whole farm starts their day. Ox – he’s a hauler. Half the time you can’t understand all his snorts and snorts.”

“But I love Ox.” She heard herself say it as she thought it for the first time. “Rooster is a fancy barnyard animal, for certain,” Hen said, but for all his strutting around and big talk…” she let her thought die away.

“No matter about love,” Pig interrupted. “You’re a barnyard Hen. You belong to the Rooster and that’s that. Enough of your crazy thoughts about that Ox. He is not going to give you the right kind of life.”  Pig paused for just a moment. “And… hey… why are you not setting on those eggs of yours and getting them to hatch?”

“The eggs will be fine,” the Hen said.

“Sure they will Hen. Sure they will.” With that Pig closed her eyes and luxuriated in the many little nipple tuggings of her suckling piglets. “Good-bye Hen.”

“Good-bye Pig.”

For discussion:
1) Do you think that the Hen continues to see Ox? Using only evidence found in the story, explain your answer.
2) Do you agree with Pig’s logic regarding Hen’s relationship with Rooster? Explain your thoughts.
3) Can barnyard animals talk? Explain your answer using only academic sources.