Thursday, November 03, 2011

MEN WHO STARE AT GOATS

One of my friends is obsessed with 'Pigeon Man'. Normally other people's obsessions do not bother me, as obsessions are natural. And for anyone on the Asperger Spectrum, as I presume my friend to be, obsessions define normalcy.
I have obsessions too. You may have noticed a few on this blog. Food. Language stuff. Fine tobacco. The well-known perversion and degeneracy of small European countries. Other things.

Forwarding a video of Pigeon Man to a vast list of e-recipients, however, is a little disturbing.
Most of us are not that heavily into the whole Pigeon Man gestalt.
He does not dingle our bells. We notice him, but we do not dwell upon him.
Our feelings don't fondly encompass Pigeon Man's 24 hour aura.

But 'Agent Left Testicle' has an alternative agenda.
Of his forty seven recent e-mails, fully half have mentioned Pigeon Man.


"We dress like chickens, Sasha dresses like a housewife, Von Auter wears vintage suit and a bow tie. I've changed my fetching headgear so many times now I don't know what I look like."


His electric texts paint a picture of San Francisco that I'm not sure I am comfortable with. In his world, San Francisco is an unstable place, filled with dark forebodings, and inhabited by strange musicians, men who imitate Sean Connery, chickens, coconuts, bananas...... goat fondlers, and Pigeon Man.

When most of us are at the wall, smoking our expensive tobacco products like the true one percent that we are, the Left Testicle will sit on the ledge, drooling all over the butt end of his cigar and giggling to himself. Without warning he'll say something non-sequitorial, before once again lapsing into a cell-phone screen induced catalepsus. The smoker's minyan will pause briefly to digest the comment, before rejecting it as not-strictly-speaking-sane, then continue their previous conversion.
Does not compute.
It's just Agent Left Testicle.
No one ever knows where the Left Testicle is.

A day ago we were all at the wall when L. Testicle vocalized. Perhaps not strictly in reaction thereto, Mike E. moved away so that he could see the jogging blonde woman both coming and going. After she had passed, he rejoined the conversation with a beatific smile that made him seem years younger and boyishly innocent.
Never before has a man's face beamed so radiantly.

Agent Left Testicle didn't notice a thing, but blindly continued his stream of consciousness commentary on life, the universe, and everything: "... when he inadvertently rear ends the Simon Peabody car causing his own airbag to deploy, punting him out the back window. He crash lands on a Creepy Tim's open briefcase lodging seven Tiffany pens and pencils in his pasty nutsack. Photos of the injury later posted to his Facebook page look like a miniature albino bagpipe."

[That's an actual quote. I cannot make this up. He really said it.]



There's only one conclusion possible. Too much nicotine in that cigar.
He rolled out of bed at the crack of noon, and this is his third stogie - he's all wired and jangly now.
No wonder his butt ends up soggy as a sponge. Which displeases Pigeon Man.

If I have too much nicotine I may have hotly glowing cheeks.
Agent Left Testicle, on the other hand, starts gibbering like a monkey, and chivies the Pigeon Man.
You'd rather deal with glowing cheeks than a crazed testicle.


I mention all this as a cautionary note for the parents of young children.
Never let your offspring smoke cigars first thing in the morning.
They'll end up either like our Left Testicle, or Pigeon Man.
Both of whom have been missing in action for ages.
Instead, introduce them to pipes and tobacco.
So they'll grow up clean and wholesome.
You've really got to be careful.
Rambling Left Testicles.
A horrible fate.
Obsessed.




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