Small Town Grievances 42: Forgive us our poison bulbs
Small Town Grievances 42: Forgive us our poison bulbs
Swimming season is finally upon us with the announcement that above ground pool manager Patrick Y. has managed to get the entry hole in the wire fence big enough that most swimmers can probably squeeze through without getting so scratched up they go blind the second they touch chlorine. Visitors are again advised to only enter via the fence hole and to avoid the front gate unless they want to witness the kind of spider that’s only meant to exist in cartoons.
Uh oh: the community college over in Hindenburg has updated its list of regional mutant weed species to be avoided by all but the most internally devastated, endangering the fate of many of town’s iconic edible plants. Road Pudding, Wet Husband, and Toxic Hedge join a growing list that already includes Dry Husband, Christian Poison Ivy, King Henry’s Surgery, Disaster Strawberry, Catastrophe Plumb, Colostomy Grape, New Boyfriend’s Agony, Lonely Mrs Spike-me-not, and Venus Fly Trap for Birds. Proponents of town’s foraging economy have denounced the report, saying our unique plantlife is responsible for much of the region’s character including why the air smells like that, and advises the college to stick to more pressing concerns such as overhauling the aerial acrobatics course that doesn’t mention you need to bring your own silks from home.
Mayor’s bid to make town the shiny tombstone capital of the world is in jeopardy now that the federal aviation authority has claimed that light pollution from our insanely reflective cemeteries, half of which are yet to be polished up mind you, may explain how come there was an almost record amount of air show disasters last month. Town hall says it’s aware of the situation but is yet to open any emails about it on account of you can already tell it’s bad news just looking at all the capital letters in the subject lines.
Unsurprising end to the emergency meeting called to discuss what to do with 125,000 gallons of surplus tombstone oil. Mayor, who was alleged to be napping, burst in to rally an armed struggle against the aviation authority. At least a couple of the anti-aircraft militias got predictably worked up about the idea and there erupted a ruckus which only ended when custodians managed to corral Mayor between two enormous cold panes of glass and squash him gently to sleep. Nobody went home feeling good about the situation. There are few paths by which our pride may be restored. We know that whatever we end up polishing must go underground unless we want to remain the target of unkind editorials in Pilot's Widow Magazine, but nobody wishes to hide their creations in the dark, far from where god’s great stickers of approval may reach them.
The annual Festival of Entrancing Farmyard Mechanics is set to go ahead this weekend despite protests that the convention has drifted too far from its origins as an agricultural trade show to become little more than a stage for immoral farm vendors pushing overpriced equipment built to bear beautiful human curves. Quint F. of the secular boysenberry guild said the festival has basically become Woodstock for people who need an excuse to lay with their tractors, and that many are tired of seeing their neighbours lose themselves over a truck with a big pair of red lips bolted to the front, or a harvester whose tits fall off the second they hit gravel. Of course, this is easy for Quint F. to say considering his wife looks about as close to an angel as a human can get without it setting off some kind of alarm bell in the control room of heaven, while Quint F. himself looks and smells like something you’d find at a second-hand bookstore. Festival organisers released a statement noting that nobody living can know the heart’s true compass, that love is primordial and uncompromising, often cruel in its suddenness, that there is too little light in the day to spend it questioning desire, and that while nobody wakes believing they will offer their soul to a crop sprayer that looks like it’s wearing a corset and knee-boots, is it not more foolish to believe we may dam fate’s red river? They also remind attendees that no minors will be admitted unless they can prove they were born with hair on their heads or look like they aren’t going to get a job that matters anyway.
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