Wish I could say I’ve been vacation, or spending another wad of viduries with a few Taligorean whores. Sadly, that is not the case. Just working this brain numbing job, carting universal low-lifes from one miserable quadrant to another. Why can’t people get in a cab and want to go somewhere interesting? I mean, is there some rule somewhere that says if you get in a cab you must only take it to the most drab, dull and existentially boring place you can imagine at that moment? Do you know where most of my fares want to go? Coffee Houses. There seems to be some inexplicable taxi-coffee house tour of the ultimate universe going on.
It doesn’t cost appreciably more to go some place exotic and interesting (where you can loiter until the authorities run you off their planet) than it does to get dropped off at a dingy little java dive four quadrants over. So, please, people! When you call a cab, do the driver a favor and think of somewhere awesome you’ve always wanted to go. My cab can get you anywhere, where you could do anything! Don’t waste that kind of opportunity just to listen to open mic for bad poetry night on Bzertan or squelching on Tret. Your cab driver could be a chauffeur to the adventure of a lifetime. Stop screwing around and enjoy it.
Unless you enjoy bad poetry. Or you enjoy not enjoying bad poetry. If that is your thing, then carry on, I guess. Just, please stop reciting it in the back seat because I’m going to start choosing the worst and then share my misery with the rest of the collective sentient life forms in the four tenses of the universe. I should not have to suffer alone.
This week’s poem is by some bloke that wore black clothes, too much eyeliner, had a dour disposition, paid all in loose change and did not tip .
My life is pasta: I was made, then dried, packaged and sold, only to be boiled again and eaten. We are all pasta.