How many cucumbers might it take to kill yourself? We may soon find out. The croaking of frogs is our book at bedtime, sounding more and more like Richard Clayderman each night. Somewhere along the line perhaps ‘Last of the Summer Wine’ got mistranslated and then forgotten about. The road here is near-perfect for tin bath karting.
Enthusiasm is the key that unlocks the sliding door. Watch your slippers boy, your heels are dragging like a dog with worms.
A man appears and turns a blade of grass into a grasshopper. With a flash of embossed business cards he is gone. In awe we talk quietly of David Carradine, forgetting where we are. Minutes or hours later you may wonder if somehow he origamied your brain also, folding it tighter and tighter until all it can do is flap like a crane with a broken wing.
The cucumbers return in new costumes of vinegar and mayonnaise, their subtle poison bears a salty garb. Our new friends keep bringing them for us. What began as a gesture of kindness now turns sinister: the keener eye notices the spikes of the skin.
My feet work backwards. The hole in my arm proves it. I dream of flies sucking off the scab. Thank Buddha for Savlon.
Messages filter back that we are lazy. Tomorrow we must become the house of the rising sun. We misjudge it and wake the village with our morning salutations. A policeman arrives and sticks up two fingers. “Fuck you smiley man”.
Golden liquid flows like water from a mountainside, turning your mind to a blank pit of inanities and misjudged sentiment. There is only one way out for it. I wake with a vague memory of vomiting on my face.
D.I.Y. is a balm. The struggle for a right angle takes the mind to other places.
We have enough Apple Macs to land an entire continent on the moon. Soon we will figure out how to work the rice maker.
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