(Previously, a self-employed recycling activist was saved from having to make a tough decisoin. Today, a couple down on the human race goes down with the human race. Read on…
Today’s gratuitous photo is wild grass in the wind by a body of water in the wilderness on a sunny day along the bike trail.)
“And here’s to the penguin cubs starving in the full moon light on a continent drifting off into the oceans.”
Their glasses clinked. This was a matter of great importance to Waylon. Wine glasses had to clink. That was how you knew they were expensive crystal glasses. Clunking didn’t cut it. Clunks were for cheap Dollar Store glasses with cheap blunt-tasting wine. Waylon didn’t drink from cheap glasses that said, “Clunk.” And he didn’t drink cheap wine. The glasses they drank from contained expensive French wine and when Waylon’s glass touched Jenny’s glass, they said, “Clink” with an Austrian accent.
“Poor little penguin cubs,” said Jenny. She sipped gracefully from her expensive cut crystal wine glass and savored the smooth fruity wine as it slid over her palette.
Waylon smiled and as he reached his glass towards hers. “Here’s to the human babies being blown to shreds by humans with bombs strapped around their bodies.”
“To the babies!” said Jenny as their glasses said, “Clink.”
They sipped and smiled.
“I think we were a mistake,” said Jenny.
“A miscalculation in the abacus of evolution,” said Waylon.
“A foul package left on the doorstep of an unsuspecting world,” said Jenny.
“But the world took us in,” said Waylon. “Took us in with a trusting heart.”
“And we betrayed her,” said Jenny. “Like an apple filled with razor blades.”
“Like a fortune cookie laced with arsenic,” said Waylon.
“We are ebola to Mother Earth,” said Jenny.
“Here’s to the last tree in the last rain forest,” said Waylon, and their glasses clinked in cut crystal harmony.
“I wonder what they’ll do with the machines when there’s nothing left to cut?” said Jenny.
“They’ll look for new things to kill and build new machines to kill them,” said Waylon. “And they’ll leave the old machines to die from rust in the forests they stripped to the bone.”
“Bastards!” said Jenny.
“Bastards!” said Waylon.
Jenny thrust her glass towards Waylon’s. A few drops of wine slipped over the rim of the glass and landed on the chesterfield. She giggled. Waylon giggled. “To the bones of the forests,” she said, and their glasses clinked expensively. It was almost like a “click” with an undertone of “ink.”
They laughed and sipped and Waylon said, “To the air getting thick enough to swim to the stars.”
Click with an “ink.”
“To the disappearing coastlines and the cities and villages soon to be underwater,” said Jenny.
This clink brought to you all the way from Austria.
“To the primordial viruses newly awakened and ravaging the living of another time,” said Waylon.
“Oh shit!” said Jenny.
“What?” said Waylon. “You didn’t read about the…”
“I’m out of wine.” She held her glass high and almost doubled over giggling. “I’m out of wine.”
Waylon looked into his glass. “Me too.” He laughed as though he’d just told the funniest joke in the world. He bent over and lifted a bottle from a porcelain bucket filled with melting ice and refilled their glasses, spilling wine onto the chesterfield. “Fuck,” said Jenny. “It’s all so…”
“…fucking pointless,” said Waylon.
“We’re so…fucked,” said Jenny, and they both laughed. “By the way, what was I supposed to read about?”
Waylon thought for a moment but nothing came to mind so he thrust his glass towards Jenny’s glass and said, “To all the flying insects that seem to have left the planet and the crops they left behind to die.”
Their glasses clinked hard and more wine soaked into the chesterfield. They bent over with laughter. “Oh…oh…oh,” said Jenny. “I have one.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Waylon.
Jerry sat straight, almost to a sitting attention stance, and lifted her glass solemnly. Waylon followed suit. In a mock serious voice, she said, “And here’s to blowing up in…” just as the nuclear tide tore through the living room and carried their particles off into a world bereft of flying insects.
For more crazy writing by Biff Mitchel, visit Amazon.