Wednesday, February 16, 2005


In the Waiting Room

The crow flew into the Ding an sich as if it was a simple crossing from one county into another, an invisible line crossed.

Of course, others had attempted such crossings, not crows, but others. They were, of course, immediately subsumed. There’s a special corner of the Ding an sich where the husks are stored, in fact. Not that they’re not useful, these husks. In fact, a pile of them are being used to prop up the stage for the Jesus and Mohammed tour. They’re a little crinkly underfoot, sure, but they’re sturdy.

The cockroach rode on the crow’s head. Roaches and crows, taking the sustenance derived from eating those poor dear boys to our dear Sanctiblogger, now sitting in the waiting room for a meeting with Jesus and Mohammed.

The roadies were collected in the waiting room as well, and they were tired and sweaty and drinking beer. Sanctiblogger wanted a beer, but he was suspicious about the brand, Monad Light.

Inside the dressing rooms, which of course were delineated by lines of reasoning instead of semantics of individual words and word strings, there was an argument going on. Sanctiblogger was aware of the voices of Jesus and Mohammed, but there was another voice that he couldn’t place. A soft Southern drawl. Some deity from Alabama or Mississippi?

Not likely.

That was when the crow arrived and plopped on Sanctiblogger’s lap. The roach puked up the bits of meat that were the boys not so long ago.

“Boys!” he cried. “So glad you’re here. I’m starving. I thought I’d been forgotten.”

But of course it was at that moment that Alfredo Gonzales scuttled into the waiting room with Michael Chertoff riding him bareback, whip in hand.

"Well, well, looky what we got here," Chertoff croaked.

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