How to Philosophize with a Hammer
Inside the trunk of Modélina’s sparkly gold corvette, I lay inside a large yet tightly sealed sack, and from the feel of it, upon my cheeks and temple, it was most likely a potato sack. Inside the sack all I could sense amidst the darkness were the tight tugs and turns upon the streets, the occasional set of breath-taking bumpy speed-bumps, and all the stalls and concurrent loud groans from Mode’s wet lavender lips at halting red lights.
I was deeply afraid for many reasons.
But funny enough, none of the reasons were for the sake of my own self.
Modie, what a wonderful woman she was; though through her crazed, neurotic will, she was in the middle of breaking the law, by adultnapping me, yes. But she was only in this mess because she may have been a little busy — as the reporters are telling me right now, or rather, critiquing me into saying: that she was essentially busy dancing with Mother Nature.
And wee — I was subtly aware of nature’s causal hand in messing with a mood such as Modéline’s, while lying there face down in that (assumedly light-caramel-brown) potato sack. Normally, the girl was well-tempered, calm, considerate, even rational; but even small phenomena like a hot wind or the crying of a newborn babe, however marginal, however minuscule their nuisance may seem to be, they truly are capable of affecting even a brash temper like that of her current state. Thus: “Mother Nature is often wrong and wretched and completely unaware about what’s really going on! Nobody has gold in their mouths nor minds,” I spoke out from within the (assumedly) light-caramel-brown potato sack, inside the trunk of the sparkly gold corvette, as Modé continued to use only her left hand to grip onto the 10 o’ clock — you could just feel that she was only gripping the wheel at the 10 o’ clock, her pinky wiggling in the cold air, just the way the car was moving and jarring — as she continued to gun down upon the gas pedal, briefly punching her heels on the brake at tugs, turns, and speed bumps.
I understand women, I thought to myself, panicked, faced down in the rough-stitched light-caramel-brown potato sack, as my fat nose crashed up and down against the soft wirelike floor of the golden corvette trunk, as my body crunched back and catapulted forth in a compact shock, like a baseball tossed between a calloused palm and a mitt of a god. I understand women, certainly: I know all about how their appearance innately appears brighter than ours; how they say _____ instead of _____ on Tuesdays; how they all want to be liberated from a “logos” of cock . . . or a logocentric of phallus . . . or something, something, like a phallogofuckboycentrism . . . or some such first principle of virile socio-politco power-structures of knowledge; oh! and how they unfortunately lose gallons and gallons of dirty witch blood every month; how the fibers of their dollar bills are worth 75 cents less than the ones on the average dollar bill received by men; or how they need to sleep for 30 hours every night, wrapped in soft and silky blankets of baby alpaca wool — only Peruvian baby alpaca wool.
Mota, Mota, sweety, I truly underSTAND women!
Which is why I continued my thoughts aloud for her to finally hear:
“Mother Nature’s a bitch, Motélita! I get it. I get it. Honestly, as an advocate for all who live, suffer, and go through all the mess of it in one long cyclical headache, I get the angst and confusion you’re having and . . . and I get that I shouldn’t . . . erm . . . refer to you as a girl or call you “baby-girl” without your consent, and . . . we all as men can, can — I mean to say that we don’t respect you girls as you become women enough for what you go through everyday: all that catcalling and being told to uhh, ya know . . . “smile” or whatever . . . and, and, whenever y’all say something smart, yeah, or when you discover something smart! — Yeah, y’all do do that — how that’s overlooked, and then some guy comes around and he takes all the credit. That’s friggin’ irresponsible on our part — my Apollogies. Betch, we men really are degenerate ogres!”
The car pulled a hard right turn and pushed forward in slow, little pumps. It pulled in reverse, in a curve, stopped, backed up, pulled up and braked. All this I felt through the flattened stump of my nose. I then thought, Okay: “Either this is Motélina’s home and she’s gonna run up and check in on her three girls and I have a chance to make enough noise in the trunk for someone to hear it and help me get outta here. Or, this is where Mota intends to dump my body — and as she pulls me out of the trunk, I’ll havta use all my efforts to knock her and whatever goon out that she’s gotta have helping her. Since she didn’t tie my arms together, I could just pull ’em out the sack, swiftly, and elbow her and that goon both in the face, and then run off in the goddamn wind. Oh God, oh Jesus Christ on a gnarled dogwood cross, here she comes. I can hear the jagged steps of her navy blue strappy stilettos, with frilly tassels on the front leaping up and down in each step, stomping on winter-fallen dead leaves on the street, crunching each and every leaf in her strut toward the trunk, strutting with an evil grimace upon her face, grimacing down toward us.”
A beep.
A clunky click.
And now very thin, meek slivers of sunlight poked into our eyes as the light-caramel-brown potato sack was tugged upward.
Okay — you and I clung together and thought — okay: “Let’s go, we’ve got this.”
“Sir,” the pig told us, while pulling the rather loose brim of our potato-sack prison down our heads, “as I’ve told you time and time again, you can’t keep doing this out here. This is a school zone.”
“UNSHEATH ME YOU BEELZEBUBITCH!” we screamed. “OINK-OINK!”
“Yepp,” the pig muttered, calmly proceeding to tug the sack below, underneath and off the soles of our feet, then gently pulling us upwards, by the cuff of our arm pits, up out of the shopping cart.
“YOU CREATE NOTHING NEW, BUT — oww — MAINTAIN THE CONCEIT OF THE LAST MAN!”
“Yepp,” again, the pig only muttered as he set us down onto the sidewalk.
The-end-of-seventh-period bell then rang. Soon trickles, turned to floods, of young panther students poured outside onto the wide, verdant front lawn of Lakeside High School: into yellow busses; into parked and waiting automobiles whose motors purred like melting cats underneath the placid azure sky.
“Sir . . . erm, Herr Dionysius, please, I don’t like having to be aggr — ”
Man, wasn’t it so bright and hot out during that summer afternoon?
“But if you don’t leave the premises right away then I’ll ha — ”
It was, ha ha, wasn’t it?
Let’s return to our cave.
