Glasses and Bustards

I really like my new glasses I really do don't get me wrong. But sometimes I freak out and think, Ahh! I'm going Blind! The diabetes finally got me! Ahh! But then I realize, oh, my glasses are just smudged. For some reason, even though they are great for protecting against glare (not glares of people though), my new glasses really smudge easily. People glaring at me doesn't make it harder to drive at night though. Or does it? I'm not so sure now.

Here is a one sentence poem thing or whatever that my writing teacher made me write through assigning an assignment. It was really fun. The teacher man said it was "brilliant" but I'm not trying to toot my own horn here or anything. I think he probably writes that on a lot of crap. He is one of those people who uses really big words to describe things but then reverts back to the same old words over and over again when he obviously just likes something because he likes it and not because he has ascertained through close critical analysis that it is any good. Words like, "brilliant," for instance.

Anyway here is my thing. I call it, Blood Letting and Bustards and Beaks.

This train will not stop and I am trying to sleep, giving me nervous turning and erectile dysfunction and a train is so giving, a train is, because it just keeps going from town to town giving whatever it is that trains carry these days (grain? toys?), but right now this train is taking from me an important thing which is my sense of calm and nighttime and crickets and blood and my own, this damn train, damn train, and so I get up and have a snack which is a small meal that people often have between meals and sometimes too late to be considered between meals or even a small meal and so is mostly referred to as a "midnight snack" but it is three a.m. damn train, damn it, so the turkey that I decide to snack on is so thinly sliced that I think why don't turkeys, pheasants, and their allies fly, since their meat is so light and airy and since their average life span is just 10 years, but then I remember then that not all 10-year-olds fly, just the ones that I think of from books and movies with kids in them and most of those kids are actually Australian Bustards and not turkeys at all, and I am made unsurprisingly less hungry for turkey by this discussion of turkey meat being like child meat and child meat being like bustard meat and bustard meat is only found on trains in Australia, I suppose, although I've never been and I only know that when you gut and bleed out a bustard, even in America, its blood runs down the drain counterclockwise even though the Coriolis effect doesn't actually affect the way that juices flow down drains, but the blood of a bustard isn't like water down the drain, like money, it's more like a hurricane, more cyclonic in nature, and so bustard blood flow is changed by the position of the moon and by its proximity to Australia and also by its female friends, these three things together being determining factors in which direction bustard blood will flow down the butcher's drain during the blood letting to keep the Aussies waist deep in thinly sliced bustard meat and their trains filled with grain to take to the bustard farms and toys to take to the emu farms and sand to take to the ostriches so that the burgeoning tourist commerce is kept flowing and growing in the "funny picture taken of an ostrich with his head buried in the sand" picture taking business, bad business, all this business, it's no good, I say, very bad business indeed, for the ostriches should have their long legs leashed, their necks wrung, their bodies splayed, hung, good business, since they have the best feed to weight gain ratio of any land animal in the world and the strongest commercially available leather so you've got to skin its skin, save its skin when you let it, the blood, but just above your garden so that the excess blood might fertilize your garden grows, with silver bells and cockleshells, and sexy French maids all in a row, but the MOST viable business plan would read "For Sale: Pets or Meat" not "Take Pictures of Pets or Meat, Tourists," because that would be very bad business, berry bad business indeed, because you can sell a bird as a whole for one price, say, one hundred dollars, or you could sell the feathers (the farming of Ostriches for their feathers does not harm the bird) for a fancy ostrich feather duster for your sexy French maid outfit (Good Business!) and then you could sell the hide for your leather bars, and other useful byproducts are eggs and offal, both of which can be used for hilarious pranks, hi jinks, terrorist hijacks, and ostrich-chip throwing contests, leaving the meat to eat and eat and sell and all of that could double your money or more which is much better business and also we can say that we are more environmentally sound because we used all the parts of the birds like the Indians and the buffalo but we'd have to find something to do with the beak and I think maybe jewelry would work, trinkets we could sell to the aborigines for their desolate land to build train tracks on so that each car on the train could be filled to the brim with one car having the ostrich legs, stacked on top of stacks and another car having hundreds of feather dusters, and then beaks, and eyeballs, and toes, and necks and so on and so on forever on this damn train, damn train.

By the way, you might feel bad that you don't read my things and stuff but my mom and dad do, so you can just go F-off! And when my mom and dad die I'll honor their wishes but probably not yours. I won't even be at your funeral!

Just kidding, America.