Paul Siegell


 

*WE'VE COME FOR YOUR REMOTE CONTROL*

 

Blazing chimera chimichangas!—Taking New Orleans to new
extremes: on a Super Bowl of old en Español—Playing catch-
up tackling blue corn tortilla chips, Roger Waters' mouth goes
dry: Tequila?—Si! Click to a small college crowd cheering up
an epic ping-pong battle. Action-packed scavenger hunt. Wild
rivals sweating in the unpredictable. Who'll win? In my expert
opinion: "Yo no sé, no sé—" yet the drop of rain that's dancing
the Salsa as a splash upon a mountaintop does, however, know
from the oceans: reckon Frosty the Snowman, or Henry David
Thoreau. Fresh-caught fish tacos. And as fluid as another news
show covering the Gulf of Mexico, but showing where another
nor'easter is set to strike, before a bored Waters flips it back to
the game, the subtitle tips: "to how hurricanes get their names." 

 

  

 

*WE'VE COME FOR YOUR PROSTATE EXAM*

 

Why not? It's not like any of us are doing anything anyway.
A yellow lab named "Boomer" steps outta his yellow snow.
Bald spots shimmer in the lights at the concert. By the time
she reached the age, she said, that songs were something to
be desired, the only vinyl record in her mother's collection
that wasn't opened, still in cellophane, was Crosby, Stills &
Nash. "The promoted," the box office pops, "is reality now.
Deadline is upon us." Happy Birthday scavenger hunt. All I
can think of is Young, but of all the kidding about the down-
pour of pressure that's produced when, o, a finger gets stuck
inside the situation—Up we woke and went to the bathroom.

  

 

 

*WE'VE COME FOR YOUR COURTESY FLUSH*

 

And it goes like this: Dude on his cell phone: "I don't give
a shit!" Laxative scavenger hunt. "OK! Effin' A—Whatever.
I’ll see you later." On a protestor's sign, "I AM NOT YOUR
ATM" reminds me that some people just simply desire desire.
I edited a PowerPoint presentation on it once. Idea being that
there's always at least one asshole around, anywhere you go.
Was kind of a "Muchas gracias, Captain Obvious!" moment
, but so true at the same time. All the same, I'll take time out
to time take out vs. dine in, but never dine in a place that puts
the toilet paper on the toilet paper holder all wrong. Flushing,
Johnny Cash plays quid pro quo with Don Quixote: "Around
and around we go! Here's to all our Hungry Hungry Hippos!"

  

 

 

*WE'VE COME FOR YOUR SUPPLY & DEMAND*

                                                            —for Lloyd Dobler

Bestsellers. Driving the Jersey-succession of strip malls,
our roads cart like supermarket aisles. Shelves a chronic
collage of proper nouns. "However," notes the radio, "it
is still unclear if ingesting that much Pepsi actually lead
to the victim's epileptic episode." Turn signal. Seriously
, how much of life attaches to a tag? (My big toe itches.)
Don't ask—Store manager scavenger hunt. I change the
station: "And she's buying a stairway to heaven." Weird.
Indebted. I mean, how much did my birth cost? It's as if
the grand total of everything that a servant of our culture
needs must be paid for. But, from pre-sale to sold out, if
I owe, then how can I own?—Watson thot Sherlock was
applauding… but all it was was him packing his tobacco.