Superlativest (!)

Just because on the gore-splattered sand in the Gladiator Arena of life -I’m the dozey nit-wit brandishing a pointy bifurcated twig while vainly attempting to make a twine-net look menacing (the astute among you are likely nodding your head at this point and knowingly murmuring: “ah, he’s talking about Love…”) who always ends up tripping and tearing open his own femoral artery- doesn’t mean I don’t have time to prattle on all about it. But today I do don’t have time to prattle on (it does bore me so), so I’ll talk about something else.

I am prone to psychic cramps. They tend to occlude the world and the planet (which one’s more interesting?) and panic me some… It’s just like not being able to see much of the concert, because you’re too busy trying to dodge the sweaty dreads of the giant hippie looming in front of you. Except in this case - for the purposes of this ridiculously obtuse simile - the hippie is me. In any case, the hippie must’ve eaten some moldy hummus or pine-resin or whatever, as he just rushed off towards the bathroom leaving me with an unobstructed view. Just in time for the intermission.

So, good thing I had such a good contingency topic in store! It’s good! After Tuesday’s interview, I realized how much gooder writing in italics is.

Aquariums:
Are they pets, those fish? If the word ‘pet’ implies the soothing practice of enjoying frequent physical and proximal friendship, that would prevent the term from being used to describe fish. In which case they should be call ‘feeds’. Or, in use: I have two ‘pets’, Snickers and Wooboo, the bi-curious hamsters and four ‘please-don’t-dies’, Larry, Curly and Moe. And Larry2. So then why, I wonder, as I glance out the window (in this case, I suppose I could awkwardly truncate the sentence into: I wondow why) do we keep fish?

Perhaps because we like the window (but windows, I think, by definition should be openable… wind-door?) It is strange practice removing an organism from its environment, and transferring it to a reinforced tank. Imagine the reverse, like the Porno For Pyros tune, if we were hauled into the sea, and put into upside down glass tanks and sometimes get sucked into the air filter or die of ear-rot or eat each others’ young or walk around with strings of poop from our poop-holes. It would be pretty frightening. Especially as when we put fish into a jar, there’s not too much foreknowledge as to who’s going to prey on whom. Our selections tend to be mostly aesthetical and largely ignorant to the jostling links that make up the food-chain… akin to us being snagged and slung into a cage with a tiger with neo-conservative leanings or an unstable, long-fingered clown with daddy-issues. Yes, I’m obviously still talking about Love.

All this to say:
If I were a fish, I’d swim upside down, as I’d be more afraid of something eating me from below, than above. Or definitely try and immigrate to a small pond or fish-tank, if only to fulfill the aphorisms: An immigrant fish in the pond is worth two native fish in the flusher or Give a fish a man and he’ll be fed for a day. But teach a fish how to man and he’ll be fed-up for life.