You Rock Me Like A Pharoah

Pondering meaning and effect and so forth is not easy when you are small and covered with fur, but even an aggressive Nairing won’t necessarily clarify things. I worry that my life’s acquired knowledge may sum up to “Don’t scratch that.” It won’t look great embroidered onto pillows my great-grandchildren will cherish, which causes me to wonder if my grandparents considered such things – for instance when Grandpa took Daria and me to Unberto’s, pointed to a magical spot and said, “That’s where Joey Gallo was murdered, girls. Let’s sit at the bar and get calamari.” If Grandpa hadn’t joined the Choir Invisible 28 years ago, we might’ve learned a great deal from him, like why this particular murder rated a lunchdate with his tiny granddaughters, and whether there were other New York City crime scenes where we might get a decent sandwich.

This morning, Dad emailed the family at large this holiday decorating idea. I personally can’t see myself making up one of the wire molds for only one use. These things take up so much room in the closets! But they’re reusable, too, and I grudgingly agreed these cornucopia molds will come in handy as hat forms in the time to come when we skip due process altogether and return to burning unpopular persons in the public square. Even I can’t argue with that kind of versatility!

Section 1. Full faith and credit shall be given in each state to the public acts, records, and judicial proceedings of every other state. And the Congress may by general laws prescribe the manner in which such acts, records, and proceedings shall be proved, and the effect thereof.

Section 2. The citizens of each state shall be entitled to all privileges and immunities of citizens in the several states.

A person charged in any state with treason, felony, or other crime, who shall flee from justice, and be found in another state, shall on demand of the executive authority of the state from which he fled, be delivered up, to be removed to the state having jurisdiction of the crime.

No person held to service or labor in one state, under the laws thereof, escaping into another, shall, in consequence of any law or regulation therein, be discharged from such service or labor, but shall be delivered up on claim of the party to whom such service or labor may be due.

This morning, Chuan appeared as if by magic in my cubicle doorway. Poof!

Chuan: Have ever sued anybody in small claims court?

I love this question! This is such a good question I’ve never asked anyone before but now must ask everyone. It is yet another thing I do not know, and I must!

Tata: Oooh, we’re asking personal questions! Okay, um, I feel a little unprepared. How about: On your last tax return, did you check the box that donates your refund to wildlife? Because they don’t have pockets –
Chuan: My former landlord isn’t exactly refusing to return my security deposit but they won’t give it to me, either.
Tata: While it was much more fun for me to ask pointless personal questions, I think you should phone the Housing Coalition in New Brunswick to get answers to real ones.

Oh snap! It’s like I learned something at last, though it surely wasn’t enough, because again today I visited New Jersey’s shining bureaucratic achievement Motor Vehicle Services for – what? – the third time this year, and for the third time I was told I was not adequately identifying myself. And now I want a cheeseburger. I can’t explain that. This time, I know something for absolutely certain: the individual screeners at the different offices are making up ID rules as it suits them, and I’m contemplating a complaint.

This is a very serious thing. It is a fact of life in New Jersey: Motor Vehicles will fuck with you. If you fuck with Motor Vehicles, you’d better be prepared to move out of state. I have to think this over a bit because – seriously – other than Manhattan or Provincetown, where am I going to move that pitchfork-wielding mobs won’t smell me from miles away?

Yesterday, Miss Sasha informed me of another serious thing I hadn’t heard before. Maybe it’s true, I don’t know. Mr. Sasha’s in the Air Force, so she’d certainly have better information than I do about All Things Care-Packagey, right? One thing they really need is OB Tampons, she said.

Tata: Even the boys?
Miss Sasha: Especially the boys. Tampons get stuffed into bullet wounds.
Tata: What? What are you talking about? Is that really a good idea?
Miss Sasha: Mommy –

All married and everything, she still calls me “Mommy.”

Miss Sasha: – it’s like in high school when wrestlers break their noses someone stuffs a tampon up there to stop the bleeding.
Tata: I will never look at The Rock and not wonder if he likes the plugs with plastic applicators.
Miss Sasha: And it’s even more important with bullet wounds to stop the bleeding really fast.
Tata: Okay, then. My Marines get the last tampons left over from before my hysterectomy because I’ll never need another one myself! Ha ha ha ha ha!
Miss Sasha: Bitch!

She calls me that, too.

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One response to “You Rock Me Like A Pharoah

  1. Pingback: Promote the General Welfare And Secure the Blessings Of | Poor Impulse Control

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