Sunday, August 2, 2015

266. Similes

Oh, please just tuck me away somewhere like an ugly sweater received as a gift from a color-blind aunt. C.W. is practicing his similes again. For some reason they fascinate him like a piece of fuzz stuck on a cat’s paw.

Oops. It’s catching.

“Why?” I asked.

“To make money,” he said. “How’s this one?” He stared at my computer screen. “His two strands of hair slide about the top of his head like a blond tumbleweed balanced on a greased basketball.”

I couldn’t find the words to respond.

“Or this,” he said, “He stopped and thrust a water bottle in his mouth like he was a member of a NASCAR team gassing a racecar.”

My mind began to sink like a bowl of unleavened bread.

“Here’s a beaut,” he said. “His horn-rimmed glasses, bought to make him look smarter than he is, wrap around his empty head like a training bra on an eight-year old.”

“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

“What’s that?”

“I am aware,” I said, “that the first presidential debates are happening this week.”


“Cut the stuff,” I said, seeing through his ruse. Actually, the fact that he had assumed a shape perfectly imitating that of legendary political guru Karl Rove had been my first clue.

“This week?” he said feigning surprise. “Then they will need similes like a Kardashian needs a photo op.” He stopped and typed into my computer.”

“And you?”

“I,” he said, “will sell the candidates similes through my new company. He scrolled the computer. “Here it is: Similes To Facilitate Understanding.”

“Uh,” I said. “Have you thought that name through?”

“Check out this one,” he said, ignoring me. “He waddles up to the microphone like the Pillsbury Doughboy approaching a hot oven.”

“Or this,” he said, reading again. “He slams his Bible on the Constitution like a blacksmith pounding a U -shaped metal plate nailed to a horse's hoof to protect it from being injured by hard or rough surfaces.”

“I think,” I said, “that you might do well to run that through your Galactic Universal Translator again.”

“My GUT works like a finely tuned sausage grinder,” he said. “Now here’s a good one.” He read again, “He hates government like a drunkard hates a rehab clinic.” He smiled. “Good, eh?”

I didn’t say a word.

He continued. “He avoids mentioning his brother like a man with a strange woman’s name tattooed on his arm.”

I raised my eyes heavenward. “Is this ever going to stop or am I stuck in a loop like a bad computer string?”

“Listen up,’ he said. “You might learn something.” He read, “He stands out in that crowd like BeyoncĂ© at a DAR convention.”

“Would you please stop?”

“He has that wild crazy Nouveau-Texan look in his eyes like a dog locked up in a butcher shop with no place to go to the bathroom.”


“He traded away his soul to the Koch Brothers like an ad-man selling a jingle.”

I really don't get the clown simile.
I thought clowns were supposed to be happy. - C.W
I stopped and thought. “You know,” I said. “Of all your crazy schemes, this one might work like a bridge over water that is roiling a foaming.”

“Hey,” he said. “I like that. Maybe we’ll use it. Now for the clincher.”

“The clincher?”

“You all remind me of a group filing in for a Chuckles the Clown Memorial Service.”

Click some ads. I need a new computer like a TV evangelist needs a new airplane.
Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

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