John Cage was on the telephone. At first neither of us said anything. Then an operator broke in and said, “For the worldly wise we use regular ink. Spiritual contracts, however, are written in blood, or in some cases in red ink intended to simulate blood.”
Stimulated, I started a succession of “Who Dat?” and “Who dat say who dat?” and “Who dat say who dat say who dat?” etc. until there were an infinite number of “Who dats?”s On reaching infinity, John Cage broke his silence.
“Honey, the man is here to repair the whirlpool.”
“Good, see if he can do something about these tornados while he is at it, and if he doesn’t do tornados, ask him about rip tides and windows. Or mirrors. Mow the lawn maybe? Poach an egg? Clean out the garage? Fold the laundry?”
The repair man was a member of the Benevolent Patrolman’s Association. He was imprisoned for low IQ.
“Lawn mowing is $1 per meter.”
He has his own tape measure. He warns that it is his habit to throw cigarette butts on the lawn and to charge extra for removal. Unauthorized removal is subject to severe penalties.
It is late now, and the rainbow is gone. The windows in the Eldorado are glowing like little bits of radish in the reflected sunset. It is unavoidable, I guess.
Henceforth, discussion of data-mailers will be held offline.
The Petrel Gazette 