any longer would have been too long, and any sooner and we all might have died, had that nice young lobster boy not plucked us from the boiling water with his steely tongs a-plucking. we were all grateful survivors of that fateful titaniac expedition into the pot — the edges of sanity growing closer, hotter, a steamy reminder of human tolerance. but where was he now? dropped on a reflective plate, his pinchers a meal for a sleazy porno couple on valentines day? where had he gone in such a hurry, our liberator, our big kahuna? and when the chefs speak in quiet tones, their raunchy french dialects muddying up the crossroad, do they speak of us and our superbly american deodorants — the dressing for their ghastly, uniquely french salads? and why eat the immaculately cleaned and polished american headmeats gone topsy-turvy like a funny clown car spilling out a dozen or more of the big-shoed bastards? the answer is simple — it's supply and demand.

there are several excellent restaurants in the seattle area alone that cater exclusively to dinosaurs. and why shouldn't they? there is a market for good foodflesh made rosy by boiling, scented with various grasses and herbs — colonel sanders watch your bags because there's robbers on the loose again. then we'll see how secret that recipe remains, posted on the internet newsgroups at alt.chicken.secrets or e-mailed to friends and friends-friends so that even regis philbin knows all 11 delectable gems and how to use them when he's having the whores over for a slinky debacle on a tuesday night, completely oblivious to the quality entertainment provided by his and other networks.

he baywatches his nights away, old limp pickle in tow — whiling away the hours with cagney & lacey or simon & simon or knight rider, rolling down deserted highways looking for the secret truck the government doesn't want you to know about. Where all the morals and decency in american subculture have gone — i can remember the days when an anarchist would say "excuse me sir" before robbing you blind, he and his droogies speeding off into the night in a limo pinched from the music industry's biggest new thing. you can tell the biggest new thing by its name alone — never monosyllabic, always conjuring images of motorcycle lads or expensive cigars in a cubano speakeasy, wasting hours and hours people-watching, trying to imitate the dialects. japanese businessmen performing hare care on the third floor in a private grotto by the lagoon, paid for a year in advance with gold bullion, skipper and gilligan long gone, mary ann on her knees praying for goddamn midwestern values and another slice of coconut cream pie. ginger slinks around the joint stinking up the place with her crabapple voice ringing out hello — ginger residence — how many?

so many sluts and liars that they're stacked like cordwood on the far wall waiting to get behind the velvet ropes that guard the uniquely cubano experience, a nightclub for people who know the value of a tommy gun — those who drink martinis when they're just getting started and can light a match with just one hand. these kinds of bastards always make it big and end up dead, eye sockets picked clean by crabs and vermin, seagulls adding hair and scraps of $23,000 armani suits to their nests. a dog with your favorite silk tie fucking a bitch with your girlfriend's prom corsage wrapped around a telephone pole, long distance buzzing help me! i'm trapped in a fortune cookie factory in chinatown. these things all melt away when freedom's at stake.

we're not letting our countrymen fall by the wayside — packed up like a furrier's daily roll of pelts, traded by the locals for eight bucks worth of cheap hooch. the trains pull out of town, our beloved citizens caged and washed with large hoses, their filth spilling out and running toward lower ground — no! we will not stand by while little boys are kept from their rightful owners by ogres who only eat on odd days — and when you hit the 31st, you know it'll be awhile. longer than normal, at least if there is a sense of normalcy when it comes to the scaly ones, their bagpipes blazing danny boy while the secret truck's contents are sold downriver by manny deevers and his crew. stand up friends and neighbors — that utensil you flip the crackling meats of the world with may be your best defense! fear not, for the giant e-bombs.com will save you from yourself, convenience and sloth rolled into a single chicken finger's bitesize pizza thing — a uniquely american idea — if it's chinese food you're after add soy sauce to the chicken finger. french? ham and cheese to the chicken finger — indian? curry and chicken finger. thai? just add peanut sauce and lemongrass for chrissake!!!

what do we expect from a culture that has over 14 million ways to deliver pizza to your oven, micowave, toaster in the form of bites, pockets, streudels — for god's sake why go on? instead of delivering alternative pizza foundations why not find a way to protect us from these goddamn dinosaurs that seem to be taking back the world all of the sudden?!

what is it that makes the once-great leaders of government and industry return to the ways of street thugs and mafiosos — the great stone eagle has fallen from its monument, leaving a cracked wall and a gilded shadow — spotlight searching but unable to pick out the crooks amongst the crowd. jim jones smiling, patron saint of tainted kool-aid, at last making post-mortem appearances at shopping malls and destiny showcases throughout our "you ess of aye," esse. jim jones' monologue: "you who are stupid pissants and reptiles and lower than the primates can makee hoopee if you want, but your hoopee makee me sickee. and so you can make your hoopee while i do something far more significant. i got me some big plans. both here, there, and everywhere. got lots of plans."

a great televised showdown between butch cassidy and barbara walters, the winner awarded a lucrative position on prime time television, the other a quick skin removal by a batch of fresh piranhas, both contracts signed with same pen. the pen of reason, well-being, and harmony. the pen of gin and tonic and napalm raincoats — you'll never feel the rain on your skin again, i swear to god. it's about being in control of your situation. getting out there and fighting for your god-given right to be owned by someone else. to scratch and claw your way up to working for someone who is at least better than those guys. those same guys who grind up baby gerbils with a cuisinart and serve them at sporting events to drunk guys named duke or gary. those same guys who feed the homeless hot dogs full of razor blades and cyanide. yeah, you know the ones — the ones who paid you to slam your dick in the refrigerator, paid you to eat dogshit so they could write a really funny newspaper article about it, the ones whose names have been changed to protect the ridiculous. when it was all over there was a big meeting.

what went wrong? the first one asks as if anyone cares to tell him he's on fire and has been for quite some time.

kevco didn't slam his dick in the fridge hard enough, the second responds. he's staring at a very bright light and his eyes are being chased by his glasses' focused beams, it's a shame really. he was so young. the ants had a better chance to make it out, being in tiny ant crowds and all. iced tea makes better ant-icide. drown those little bastards and take all their dirt, you'll be rich soon, son — so don't worry, dickhead.

kevco, being a man of reason & principle and gin & tonic, has a veeeery different blue-dick idea. he thinks everyone should go to hell and fuck themselves. wouldn't that be fun? so kevco got his walking papers and a half week's peanut supply to feed 17 horses and the mouse farm he inherited from the guy who died at his desk, before it was his desk. the mice have been eating their offspring, which isn't that uncommon in the wild, but in this case they were giving birth to loads and loads of fire ants, which was odd.

and then giant pianos started raining from the heavens above, a deluge of grands, baby grands and uprights, and then the player pianos began, playing with themselves all the way to the ground. old macdonald and dinah won't you blow your horn and coming round the mountain, a bloodbath of epic proportions. exchanging polaroids: yeah, remember that day — it was raining pianos like a motherfucker — oh god, i'll never forget that day. the smell of freshly fallen pianos in the trees, in the grass. goddamn, that was the most beautiful day ever. i remember it because your neighbor gary was running around in his boxer shorts playing in the pianos, throwing the keys up into the air — i swear to god he was on x or something. later that night i remember he was looking at himself in the mirror and dancing. i bet five bucks he was tripping. we should ask him — do you guys talk anymore?

of course you don't talk anymore, gary was eaten by allosaurs while jogging on vacation in florida. right outside of disneyland, as you recall. or maybe it was tampa.