Thursday, October 1, 2015
Off The Tightrope, Onto The Limbo Ring
My world has turned all Deep Space Worm Hole.
At heart, I’m a Thomas the Tank Engine kind of guy, drilled down on a track, chuffing and a-puffing, smiling out at the faces smiling my way.
I ferry stuff from place to place, often along a narrative arc; I pick people up, and I set them down, sometimes providing the same service for circus animals and contraband.
Whistles blow, steam billows into the sky, and everyone is happy.
Or they were — myself included.
Now, where once stood a furnace aglow with burning coal, a baboon anus vacuum has opened up to purse its lips and deep throat my current reality.
Certainty mutates into chaos, reliable shaving equipment prepares to morph into junk, and even the one cat in my neighbourhood who goes out of his way to ignore my advances has begun muttering, “don’t forget to pack fur-lined underpants, Whirl. It’s freezing cold in that there parallel reality, and I can’t bear the thought of your private parts shrivelling to the size of a caterpillar asleep on a walnut.”
No need to hire a precog on this one: I’m about to undertake a journey like no other, possibly wearing underwear with ursine exterior origins.
Should I pray to the Lord? Or Richard Branson’s stylist?
And when I emerge on the flip side, will there be curly kale to purify my blood and stave off scurvy?