Shipwrecks in the Harbor
(or, The Ugliest man You’ve Ever Kissed)
A votre santé, © 2017
Before you I was a quivering sunken mess.
That is to say, a real nervous wreck.
Thanks for shutting that shit down.
Love always, FJT
Youth has been spilled over wobbly barroom tables
amber rivulets dripped into socks
Youth has been scratched out on cheap motel pads
with fuzzy soft core on motel TVs
And now an old man bounces back down South.
Ambrose Quibodeaux was sipping Old Crow and chicory from a mason jar and alternately toying with an old police service revolver when he first met Ambassador Alacazar, the elite head of the Board of Science and Ontology from the Planet Mungo.
Earlier Ambrose Quibodeaux had been fingering an old song on an even older accordion and debating on either playing “You Are My Sunshine” or the “Mardi Gras Mambo” as carnival season had descended upon St. Martins parish once again.
However, he had come to the notion that the old groanbox had seen its last fais-do-do probably years past, and wouldn’t play anyhow.
Ambrose Quibodeaux instead began loading and unloading the revolver as he debated the merits of either loading all six chambers of the weapon or just one and spinning the barrel, before placing the rusty old thing to his fevered temple and pulling the trigger.
However, refilling the glass with a sigh, he came to the notion that damned thing probably wouldn’t fire anyhow.
So he set it next to accordion.
That was when, upon looking up, Ambrose discovered Ambassador Alacazar across the table from him, peering quietly over the edge.
No, Ambrose was far from surprised by his visitor’s campy, elongated, green head, silver jumpsuit, and colorful spangles.
This was because the mixture of bourbon and boredom had counteracted the shock that might have naturally have arisen in Ambrose.
In its place, he quickly decided the little creature was an early entrant for the Krewe des Martiens de Saint-Martin Parade.
Meanwhile, the Ambassador reached for his universal translator, which was located on a big, glittering box on his chest.
The Ambassador turned the translator dial from Mungan (his own dialect), to Earth/Acadian.
As Ambrose raised his jar in the air, laughing “Bonsoir mon ami!,” the Ambassador opened a lipless gray slit in the center of its face to speak:
“How’re y’all doren’, cher?”
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FRANCIS, wearing an unbuttoned Boy Scout shirt, comes up behind the fence from his adjoining yard, and peer’s into ANDREA’s place.
He leans over and drops the beer he is holding.
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Revenge is a dish best served table d'hôte... But they never put out enough snow crab legs and the succotash is lukewarm, and the bowls are not big enough for the soft serve or a decent salad. And the "house dressing" is labeled simply "house dressing" on the ladle, but its a congealed viscous mystery yellow. And there is a loose crouton stuck to the brisket. There's plenty of beets. The meatloaf's a bit dry but tastey nonetheless, slathered in a crusty tomato paste. Its so much better than gnawing the cold chicken legs for a scrap of meat. The cookies are hard, some oatmeal, some choco-chip, I dare you to guess which is which, have a white frosted cupcake instead and remember kindergarten birthdays as the diabetic coma ensues. Glypicide, you lifesaver. Mashed potato, mashed potato, mashed potato. Fried okra, greens and mac and cheese. But the sneeze guard works, I just tried it. Also the best revenge is to live well. As is, tired and alone down at the crossroads in Anytown, USA, cut brake lines are also not beyond the pale. You’re on the road seeing the odd parts of America and its buffets. But there's still new weepy crap every day.