Everybody grooved to lesbian haircuts, except the guy with the water-cooler face. We picked him out of the phone book. His last name was Dresser, and we had a furniture fixation. We enlisted him, made him wear pantaloons and drowned him in saxaphone squeals until he cried out 'my cuticles need moisturizer!' He must have mentioned it about fifteen and two-thirds times, before we sealed him a washing machine and made him deposit a nickel for another ten minutes. In exchange for his vow of silence, I surrendered my hairpiece. The damn thing needed new spark plugs, anyhow.
We headed West, but there was nothing there, so we headed North. Nothing but bits of rope and a musk-melon the size of a cantalope. We stopped and asked directions at the intersections of spit and polish, but found only an extremely petulant kid with lemonade cut with bitter laughter and chalk-outlines. Frank went all neon on me. Did I introduce you to him? The guy used to debase himself with sixty alarm clocks, all set at minute intervals. He always used to say: a man must be alert...there are oxen surrounding the doll houses. The guy had a point.
The part in my hair ran on for a cigarette break, and however I craned my neck, I couldn't see how badly I was dehydrated. Imagining myself heartsick, I convinced Dresser to break free for some requests. He chose frisbee, and went long, straight into an oil painting, where I never saw him again. I think he had a tryst with a checker board, but I can't verify the facts through the Yogurt Council. They voted me out when my stick figures splintered.
Knowing me, I can be reached at the following address:
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