THE SOUND OF A WET SQUISHY IMPACT

For years my apartment mate has called me "The Toad". It's meant affectionately, and in jest. There was something about me that seemed to her somewhat bloated and self-satisfied, like a brazen squatty amphibian surveying 'his road', 'his park', his fabulous 'dinner of coffee crunch cake with a hot caffeinated beverage'. This started long before she found out what had happened to my car when I still lived in Berkeley. And I am still "The Toad".

So it was with considerable quirked interest that I read that people smoke toad venom. Which is a psychedelic drug harvested from Colorado river toads (bufo incilius alvarius) and refined.


"The Toad’s whole purpose is to reach your highest potential."

"The Toad has taught me that I’m not going to be here forever."

"The Toad strips the ego."

"It takes you to a higher level. Once I tried it, boom!"

"You have to listen to the general; no second guessing."


------Mike Tyson


Apparently Mike Tyson is a notable toad freak.
Who knew?

No, I shall not show the article to her. She'd promptly accuse me of using my Dutch American jumbie hoodoo to twist the boxer's mind. Or bribing him. Because the toad is an irresponsible sort, with too much chutzpah for his own good, and she can see me doing precisely that.

Of course I didn't. But I would have.

The Toad has your best interests at heart. I am aware of calendars and time. Egos need stripping and repainting. Altitudes, and explosion or combustion.
As well as the sounds of things falling.
Listen to me. Ribbit.



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