NOTE: This history of everyman only more so begins
at the following link. Please go there if you have not come from there:
28
After harrowing the hail of hot enough fer ya?s at the loading dock, we enter the warehouse smelling of wet cardboard, rotting wood, and spicy, landlocked sea salty Crazy Clayzey chemicals. Arrived at the far end, we mount the creaking wooden steps to the office packed with toys and stuff he trafficks in, hand holdable cubic clumps of the London bridge, Teddy Roosevelt piggy banks, Wibblers, hoola hoops, scattered with aging signage reminding that, for instance, HARD WORK IS THE KEY TO SUCCESS.
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| Bonnie, Barbara, Carol, Judy, Jackie, Janie, Nancy, Jeanne, Betty Ann, Marianne, krVs, Kathy, Marybeth, Peggy Being the littlest of eighteen cousins of tight clan compounds the revolutionary urge typical of youngest siblings. We get plenty of love, but no respect, and one day just can't take it anymore. Time to overturn the current paradigm and take over the world! |
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| Kenny, Jimmy, Johnny, Neil, representing, overtly, the formidable, patricidally inclined opposition to my novel paradigm, where the Shear Hirsch numbers are on the she her her-sh side in number and shell only; some are surely turncoats to our cause. |
29
I've only got half his genes, am only eight years old or so, and am hard pressed to rise to the booming, wonderful wizard's superheroic standards. After he yells his head off at me for messing up the invoices after and before yelling and then yelling his head off some more at her comrades, the apparently equally incompetent Jerry, the blasé secretary who just keeps puffing on Harry's or her Pall Malls, and Solomon, the cartoon accountant who shows up every few weeks to rummage theatrically through the towering, toppling stacks of yellowing papers, he releases me to enjoy her boxed lunch with the factory girls, about six corpulent middle aged ladies in one of the cleared out storage rooms below. After lunch the girls and I march over to a converted classroom with a big hole in the ceiling, and stand around a table with a conveyor belt. The classroom smells pleasantly putrid with the aforementioned scents, including our sweat, which, as it evaporates steams up the leaded windows.
I've only got half his genes, am only eight years old or so, and am hard pressed to rise to the booming, wonderful wizard's superheroic standards. After he yells his head off at me for messing up the invoices after and before yelling and then yelling his head off some more at her comrades, the apparently equally incompetent Jerry, the blasé secretary who just keeps puffing on Harry's or her Pall Malls, and Solomon, the cartoon accountant who shows up every few weeks to rummage theatrically through the towering, toppling stacks of yellowing papers, he releases me to enjoy her boxed lunch with the factory girls, about six corpulent middle aged ladies in one of the cleared out storage rooms below. After lunch the girls and I march over to a converted classroom with a big hole in the ceiling, and stand around a table with a conveyor belt. The classroom smells pleasantly putrid with the aforementioned scents, including our sweat, which, as it evaporates steams up the leaded windows.
30
Suddenly, at the ribald rumbling, as it approaches the hole, of the big blob's tumbling innards and outers, they all lunge forward to grab and pack it, as down through a chute loosely latched to the hole hurls the very unformed, yet super-substantial Aristo-Playdohnic ideal itself! It rains down like giant clumps of manna from heaven or, by the angry force of it, shattered tablets of the law, and piles up on the belt, higher and higher, as the bready, salty fishy fumes augment. As skinny as the others fat, the foreman Louella, a tiny old lady aged about eighty, has mixed it up in a vat on the floor above, then come running down to help the girls on the line stuff the stuff in cups fast enough or get buried under it in the sweltering heat. Sometimes even Harry will help.
31
Harry, a potter of sorts, also spins up, on a giant wheel in his fabulous factory, Flubber, a flagrant, shameless imitation of silly putty. By her early intimate acquaintance with these toys, one too a tool for cleaning rare books, the blobs of bread batter rainbow bright as disembodied light, Crazee Clazee, which it won't kill you to eat not too much of, which crumbles when dry, which cleans the very mess it makes, and rubbery Flubber, which you can print comics on, and which both bounces and melts...
AND NOW SOMETHING THAT FEELS LIKE ARMS HAVE GROWN NOW PRESSING PRESSING OUTWARD, CREAKING, CRACKING, THEN AN EARTH RENDING WAIL AS THE COCOON TEARS APART IN A BLINDING FLASH OF LIGHT!
continued in next blog entry at
once again, as you plant in your mind the seeds of this story,
organic fertilizer can be found at
