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Edith is real mad. Some bitchie-poo knocked a clean, white bakery box sheltering a rich and satisfying, butter cream birthday cake right out of her hands. It went boom, splat, futz, all over the catefully swept brick pavers of Germantown Avenue. She hardly ever shops there. Can't stand the posturing phonies pretending to be boarderline 'society.' Them girdled in Mrs. Drysdales make her sick. And this one just kept right on going. Rubbin' her thighs together like Eskimo blubber sand paper. Hope she prickly heated herself to death.
Our well meaning, rather demure and motherly, Piney Woman considerately scooped up the debris and dumped it down behind a bush (they got lots a mini-parks 'rounnd here) for some bums, starlings and rabbits. It was not anyone's birthday. And Papa doesn't eat cake. Neither do the elves. Only she thought it would look nice as a centerpiece, right there in the middle of their never used diningroom table. All that fine Henredon veneer must be good for something. You know, make 'em feel like a normal family. She gets that way sometimes. Papa feels bad for her. He actually talks to her more often than Bob (I think that's his name), her husband, who is off right now fishing and crabbin' in some New Jersey, tidal estuary.
Papa could taste the sadness in her. Made him feel bad too. So he splashed a tiny bit a magic on that ersatz Miz Drysdale. Gave her a hot case a the Volga Shitskies.....right in the middle of the first row at the Kimmel Center...right in the middle of the Grand, Triumphal March, from Aida. Yep, she went marchin' all right. Trottin' would be more like it. Gave her pink domed, slack-jawed, mumblin' bastid of a husband a good excuse to crab his way out of the jammed, rarified splendor of the main auditorium, knock on the portal to the bastion of the ladies, collect his wilted (and slightly stained) big-boned flower and haul ass home just in time to watch the market report. Lucky he had a copy of The Philadelphia Inquirer in the back seat, 'cause he made her sit on that. The Nicaraguan, whoever she was, could clean it all up in the morning.
Later, after doing his good deed, Papa settled back in his favorite leather club chair (thank God for central air-conditioning.....although vampires hardly ever really sweat) and got that far away look on his face, as he sublimated into Jonathon. Now, of course you know I am speaking about his soul. The rest of him stayed right where it was, off to the side of our 'family room.' nestled deep in the wilds of old and semi-old money Chestnut Hill. I think he had on the market report too, since the 'Phightin's' (that means the Phillies) were unbelievably allowing the Houston Astros to win a game. I guess they must have been bored.
The vampire 'father' (looking out through his 'son's' eyes) saw everything. And he rose up with him, climbing the alabaster and moonbeam staircase we call Jacob's Ladder. Stars danced all about them. They passed through nebulas and long, empty voids. Acapella choirs produced breathy resonances in the distance. Chubby toddlers (another species of 'cherub') gave forth with that warm, chocolatey laughter known only to the very young.
Pious, reverent Hindu women, not to mmention truly spiritual aliens of all sorts traveled with them, for the righteous of all groups shall share in the World To Come. even the fifty-six eyed, bouncing, ice-cream head goonies from that place with the giant, fire breathing Yorkshire Terriers. They do make a good pizza on that world, though, I must say. But don't ask me what's in the pepperoni, because you would not want to know.
I'll desribe more of the sights in transit next time. Just know that Jonathon was soon to enncounter a very disgruntled Elvis and a pouting, heavy breathin' Jim Morrison. Seems they wanted to be resurrected along with Lennon. But God works in mysterious ways. That's why they had to stay behind up here, teaching three-legged shimmy-faced, hairy people how to do the hula......Ellvis remembered a little from Blue Hawaii ....Morrison just improvised some moves based on his 'obscene' gyrations in Miami, or someplace like that. But Sam Cook was happy, 'cause he was the next one goin' down.......
Our well meaning, rather demure and motherly, Piney Woman considerately scooped up the debris and dumped it down behind a bush (they got lots a mini-parks 'rounnd here) for some bums, starlings and rabbits. It was not anyone's birthday. And Papa doesn't eat cake. Neither do the elves. Only she thought it would look nice as a centerpiece, right there in the middle of their never used diningroom table. All that fine Henredon veneer must be good for something. You know, make 'em feel like a normal family. She gets that way sometimes. Papa feels bad for her. He actually talks to her more often than Bob (I think that's his name), her husband, who is off right now fishing and crabbin' in some New Jersey, tidal estuary.
Papa could taste the sadness in her. Made him feel bad too. So he splashed a tiny bit a magic on that ersatz Miz Drysdale. Gave her a hot case a the Volga Shitskies.....right in the middle of the first row at the Kimmel Center...right in the middle of the Grand, Triumphal March, from Aida. Yep, she went marchin' all right. Trottin' would be more like it. Gave her pink domed, slack-jawed, mumblin' bastid of a husband a good excuse to crab his way out of the jammed, rarified splendor of the main auditorium, knock on the portal to the bastion of the ladies, collect his wilted (and slightly stained) big-boned flower and haul ass home just in time to watch the market report. Lucky he had a copy of The Philadelphia Inquirer in the back seat, 'cause he made her sit on that. The Nicaraguan, whoever she was, could clean it all up in the morning.
Later, after doing his good deed, Papa settled back in his favorite leather club chair (thank God for central air-conditioning.....although vampires hardly ever really sweat) and got that far away look on his face, as he sublimated into Jonathon. Now, of course you know I am speaking about his soul. The rest of him stayed right where it was, off to the side of our 'family room.' nestled deep in the wilds of old and semi-old money Chestnut Hill. I think he had on the market report too, since the 'Phightin's' (that means the Phillies) were unbelievably allowing the Houston Astros to win a game. I guess they must have been bored.
The vampire 'father' (looking out through his 'son's' eyes) saw everything. And he rose up with him, climbing the alabaster and moonbeam staircase we call Jacob's Ladder. Stars danced all about them. They passed through nebulas and long, empty voids. Acapella choirs produced breathy resonances in the distance. Chubby toddlers (another species of 'cherub') gave forth with that warm, chocolatey laughter known only to the very young.
Pious, reverent Hindu women, not to mmention truly spiritual aliens of all sorts traveled with them, for the righteous of all groups shall share in the World To Come. even the fifty-six eyed, bouncing, ice-cream head goonies from that place with the giant, fire breathing Yorkshire Terriers. They do make a good pizza on that world, though, I must say. But don't ask me what's in the pepperoni, because you would not want to know.
I'll desribe more of the sights in transit next time. Just know that Jonathon was soon to enncounter a very disgruntled Elvis and a pouting, heavy breathin' Jim Morrison. Seems they wanted to be resurrected along with Lennon. But God works in mysterious ways. That's why they had to stay behind up here, teaching three-legged shimmy-faced, hairy people how to do the hula......Ellvis remembered a little from Blue Hawaii ....Morrison just improvised some moves based on his 'obscene' gyrations in Miami, or someplace like that. But Sam Cook was happy, 'cause he was the next one goin' down.......
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