By seven this morning, I had done the housework,
prepared the officer in command in charge of the math’s breakfast,
written a good two hours-
we don’t sleep much here due to the constant noise
of the ever-expanding “biggest job provider in the region”-
the Frankfurt airport-
and decided it was just about time for a decent cup
of the brew that lifts the spirits,
and can be also used as furniture polish-
I’m Irish-American- we like our tea that way-
when I made a serious faux pas-
that’s French for slipping in the fake butter-
sorry in advance to Mel of francesays,
and anyone else out there who actually speaks French.
(I learned mine in a Marcel Proust course of reading for rocket scientists.
I kid you not.
Unfortunately, I am neither.
Rocket scientist, nor French speaker.
Between the Proust, though,
and a theater course in pantomime,
I do know the correct way to swan.)
So anyway, there I was,
overly large soup cup of stiff black assam-nilgiri,
just barely over the expiration date,
when I pas-ed most faux.
I turned on the news.
Oi yoi yoi yoi yoi,
as they say over here in Gutenberg land.
And au wau wau wau wau.
(That’s the chorus.)
For the chicken noodle network,
our only source of “international news right from the homeland.”
And if you believe that, I have this bridge for sale….
So there I was, trying not to scald and boil at the same time,
and, amazingly, not even from the news,
when the thermometer marking went over the top.
“Not even from the news,”
because, source of said early morning
temperature raising hoo-ha
had to do with an in the middle of the news ad.
About a cow.
A very scientific cow, in fact.
A cow that was now wearing a very newly designed
and recently developed, apparently,
The kind of collar,
that shoots death rays-
as if the bovine digestion emissions weren’t enough-
that aim at a certain satellite, which,
when passing overhead,
flashes back to earth the message that:
the cow is well,
needs hay and grass,
has fallen over,
or been pushed,
or: is ripe for hamburger.
And this, as I sat and tried to still my quaking tea holding hand,
so that I didn’t end up having to drive to the emergency room
before I reached a series of serious bovine deliberation conclusions,
made me realize that there was definitely a much larger situation here.
On a global scale of one to ten, a cow and it’s needs is perhaps a one,
or even a two.
(Or higher, depending on the state or country you are in,
and the social relevance of the cow.)
But now consider the larger, non-bovine consequences of this situation.
There you are, in a big city,
during the noon hour,
with little time away from the office.
So you spot a place on a park bench, keep it in sight the entire time,
and head for the local small hotdog stand.
Where your veggie imitation tofu dog, with curry sauce,
has been now outfitted with a small collar.
To tell you whether the dog is: cooked, needs mustard, needs catsup,
needs a coke, is about to explode,
needs to cook longer to boil off the fat.
And of course, that the price of the dog has already been moved,
by satellite ray,
from your credit card
to the electronic cash register.
So you may as well sit down and eat.
And all of this, while the Starserver satellite collector
is taking down data.
Are you paying that much for a dog, and where did you get the money?
Have you eaten so many hot dogs this month, your insurance rate should go up?
And should you,
forget to remove the little silver sender
from the dog,
which you gulped whole,
because you still have to pick up the one hundred percent pure cotton shirts
you have left to be ironed-
because they are one hundred percent pure cotton,
and if you didn’t leave them,
it would take you,
a single ironer,
well over three hours and six tries per shirt,
not to mention the boredom factor,
even if you are watching some kind of vampire show,
or police documentary,
or a show about someone who has swallowed one of those small silver bands,
and is now on the road,
being tracked by a satellite,
as he fights his never-ending battle
to peacefully eat a hot dog,
without having to cross a field of angered cows,
who someone has messed up the statistics of,
so that they have been fed salt, cola,
and tofu hotdogs with a small silver band around them,
as he desperately tries to find a safe house,
without social engineers,
or life commentators,
in the hope that he can:
start a small fire,
boil some water,
take out twelve packets of Nilgiri-Assam tea,
and finally write a blog.
With no cows,
no satellite signals,
no morning tv news.
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