Having an Average WeekendNathan Logan
Alfalfa up the nose? Absolutely. Nothing else can explain that scent and the cattle groupies. The sky, a leaky, bloody, overeasy egg, drips over the city. That seems natural. The highway breathes loudly, like it’s being rammed against a janitor’s closet wall. Downtown, no one picks up after pet rocks. Art gallery patrons discuss portraits with glued on beavers: the dam building ones and the kind that sometimes rent out space in pants. But is it art? But is it postmodern fluff? All the poets gather at the monument for losing wars and recite Tate. That seems natural. Apples are served, but there’s no nutrition in something you plug in. Moose give a shit about nutrition. They eat pizza in the alleys and don’t object to anchovies as long as there’re papers showing low amounts of mercury. That seems natural. Nightlife requires a familiarity with Russian literature. “Russian literature” means dry humping. Christmas lights are left on all night – come tornado, come pestilence. That seems natural. Cellphones edge out birds and no one asks how. Their songs are easier to sing; everyone agrees on that.
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