(A Difficult Hour)
Sad Lola, destitute on our show today, could you say something about the quality of the present?
It is bad, the present, but that's because of the chips I've got on my shoulder that render the present, well, all sorts of colors you wouldn't imagine.
Is that so? Lola, would you tell us a bit of the life it's taken you to get here, to this place, to this station?
I've been through a dozen things, it's not easy to say everything because...
I know, Lola, just be a brave proud woman and tell us the things.
I'll say the first things, the things involving my father. An offshore dilettante, he amassed quite a good fortune by convincing others of the value of welfare.
Welfare?
Yes, and he passed himself off as extremely likely to be the next victor in the fight between those in favor and those opposed, even though he was neither.
Opposed to welfare?
No, to the fight. He was brave and extraordinarily beautiful.
Describe him.
He was nearly seven feet in height and his stature convinced a great number of people that he was the one to take over a great number of things. Involving him in some talk on Baudrillard was a task. Some things a girl doesn't outlive.
Describe yourself, Lola.
I'm five-foot-eleven, three hundred pounds at conservative estimate, a landslide in my esophagus every night, a brain for a stomach and vice versa....
And your son?
My son ironclad in his glow of just-pretty, a real nugget in hell--something you might want to lead about by the nose, say, or give to the neighbor to assure goodwill.
Very nice! And me?
I am going to slaughter you, render you, quarter you, dissect you, give you no stridency in the channel to life, put guts of you down on the floor.
That is so! Tell me about your parentage, Lola.
I thought about this a lot one night. A thousand of me sprang from the bog, menacing homeowners, flaunting a cheesecake of suddenness and the throughway collapsed and a flight of dissemblers aroused them till more, more, more were the numbers of same treading same, and so on.
A genial flit! Perhaps we can go on to sturdier measures. How would you prefer the thoughts of the audience--cozy or wicked?
Wicked, as it is only the wicked who march.
Yes, folks, it's only the wicked who march, and you're tuned to "Only the Wicked Are Marching." Next week: flaws in the creaturely studies of Blake.