by Stephen Ground, 3.49am March 10th 2022
Exploring our Cosmos and the Nature of Truth from the safety and comfort of a cold shitter
the rigid seat screams style and comfort after I’d munched the P.B. and magic on sourdough roughly in the middle of a time that no longer exists, and maybe never did. now I’m suctioned, funneling the Unknowable Mysteries of the Quantum Beyond™ in an alien kidnap-beam of every conceivable colour deep into the downer realms of twisting pipes and sewer sludge, connecting the sunken realm to the Magic Mystic Valve™ cracked open on the end of me by bitter, potent caps and chewy stems. but when it pours, burbling sewage infected with the Ultimate Cosmic Wisdom™ of my prismatic evacuation will flood the crumbling streets till clouds crumple into nothingness like withered, forgotten grandparents abandoned in discount nursing homes – ways given for the Sun and its extendable, re-usable plastic straw to drain grey-green floodwater backwards into the sky for future crash landings onto ears of corn, dripping down and soaking deeply into desperate potato eyes and carrots cultivated specifically for prize-winning snowman noses. and everyone will feast on the Wisdom of my ass. and then we’ll all find our answers.
The Blob is the Lassie of Godzillas in the Slimeverse
I wish I was the type of slime that rolled & globbed & terrorized. In fact, I wouldn’t entirely despise the notion of shrieking townsfolk scattering to summon the National Guard & experts in every cross-related field [plus a bunch of people who just wanna help any way they possibly can, because I’d be the existentially threatening type of slime – in the pants-shitting, species-unifying kinda way we only see in the cornballiest sci-fi c-films]. The frantic, fragile humans would combine their collective, encyclopedic knowledge of their known universe to advise on the best way to destroy the miracle of science & evolution that’d be me, leading the scientists & army men to hunt me down & spray me with fire extinguishers, I guess, or, if they’re hateful & halfway smart, a freshly concocted miracle solvent designed to end me for the humble crime of posing an existential threat by existing, with toxins they’d created, in a military lab, for the express purpose of my utter & complete dissolution. But to their frustration & dismay, I’d be able to sense their vibrations as they stomp closer through the ground beneath me, & I’d squirt & slide across the floor & down a dust-caked grate or the broken bathtub drain, escaping unscathed & heightening the threat of me to Code Red, or maybe a secret, scarier Code the governments of the world don’t tell their general populations about, so as not to needlessly frighten the faceless citizens of Whocaresville, Central Armpit, or its global equivalents, about things so much greater than them & their puny, simple lives, particularly when said issues of planetary doom & fate are beyond anyone’s imagined control. I’m not that kind of slime, though. I appear by surprise, jiggle & puddle suddenly & stain your couch, your pants, then dry up before you hustle back from the kitchen or washroom with something to smear me away, leaving nothing but a crusty, milky, blob-shaped splotch on your upholstery & your favourite pyjamas, & an unpleasant, unidentifiable but lingering stench.