THE SLACKJAWED MASSES

The western fence lizard sunning on the walkway at work is a naturally skittish creature, keenly aware of the facts that crows overhead might see him, and the Karenesque bozos in the backroom are entitled, attitudinated, and largely unlikeable. Plus if they stayed at home, their wives would exile them to the compost heap whenever they light their stogies.
Because they become more so, and it stimulates their horse puckey glands.
Juices!

I feel a kinship with that lizard. I know how he feels.
Never-the-less, I am paid to be a Christian.
Which is not my nature.

[Heck, without the dollars, I would not even be there.]

I look forward to spotting him when I show up early every day.
And I think he may reciprocate that feeling.
I am not hungry like a crow.

And unlike two pea-brains recently, I am not stoned on ganj.
That's an hour and a half I'll never see again.
Marinites+therapeutic substances.
How perfectly ghastly.

At least the western fence lizard can believably pretend that he does not speak English.

So I'm also quite jealous. I blew my cover on that score years ago.

He can turn away and scurry into the twigs and leaves.

I must, sadly go "hello ... Newman".

Then Newman drools.



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