The snow whirled aimlessly as it
fell through the blustering wind on a summer’s day in Rio de Janeiro Brazil
Hawaii. A tall businessman wearing a suit three sizes too small confidently
strode into the conference room for what was sure to be the firm’s biggest
meeting of the year. He put his coffee down with a thud onto the conference
room’s conference table, which rested on the conference room floor between all
the other businessmen in the conference room who showed up for the conference.
There were eleven tables in the room, but they only needed four of them to fit
everybody. Still, they all crowded on top of, underneath, and around the one
table because it was the only possibility. Some of them laid across the
tabletop all sports illustrated swimsuit style, and others gathered around its
sharp edges and brushed up against each other uncomfortably, exploring the
limits of their neighbors sexual boundaries with their wandering hands.
“May I have your attention,
gentlemen, please,” the company’s CEO called out over the room as he unraveled
his third leg and hoisted himself up above the crowd with it like jellyfish
tentacles, or a fleshy jet pack, or a big pink kickstand, or a different fish.
One of the businessmen stood beneath him and cranked him up as if it were a car
jack for changing flat tires rather than his penis, and the CEO hovered above
the room, seven feet in the air above the other men in the room who were all
above him with shrunken wieners. He was planking on the pink Seattle space
needle.
“Two in the fleshy salmon, one in
my rotten tuna butt,” cried he to he and she, as she took him by the boy parts
and handed her to his wife’s daughter’s father’s daughter.
“That’s why I take my coffee like
the Ancient Greeks,” he said to her. He turned his head side to side scanning
the room, a huge smile on his face, hoping that someone would acknowledge him
with eye contact.
“Like the Ancient Greeks…” he
repeated, clearly letting anyone who would listen know that he was setting up
to make a gay joke.
“Cause they drink their coffee like
gays,” he blurted out the punch line, nudging the shoulder of the man next to
him who was holding his forehead in the palm of his hand to avoid eye contact.
Now he’s doing yard work.
Suddenly the waitress came to
their booth and asked if they were ready to order. The CEO ordered a margarita
and one-fifth of a syrupy pancake stuck to the prongs of a giant fork. “If I so
much as think that my pancake touched a plate, I will rub your rubber ducky
with a rubber-billed I know powerful people,” said Jeff Patrick Paterson, with
a familiar expression on his face that let everybody in the room know he was
ready to fuck them at the drop of a hat.
The room fell silent. Six plus
six equals seven. Suddenly all eyes were on Jennifer. She felt uncomfortable.
She turned to the waitress, but the waitress was gone. With everyone in the
room staring at her like she was growing fingers from her face, drool running
down her chin, saliva smeared across her foreheads, she squeezed her eyes shut
and thought of the waitress. When she opened her eyes, there she was.
The waitress broke the tension in
the crowded room with some racial humor. It worked. Corduroy pepper jack!
Everybody took off their shoes and put them on the table. The waitress came
around and poured free Diet Coke into all their shoes and left the businessmen
tips of eight francs per pound.
Inside the smoky restaurant the
sun was baking the Earth’s crust and women and children turning to dust and
screaming out praises to the sun god for bringing them life. A wet bunny hopped
through the plush meadow and a song of happiness rang through the clear blue
day of the day doo; which explains why the sun had been hoisted up near where
the sun was supposed to go at night, but not by the sun spots that made the
sunny briar patch on Uncle Becky’s ham shoulder. Sun.
Six buffalo later, the door
exploded into the business room, and forty business conference-goers lifted the
conference table up over their heads while their chief executive officers was
hovering above them, balancing on his wiener like a gyroscopic kick stand. Even
though the window was far too small to fit any kind of table through it, they
pushed the table through the window. Then they pushed the window back through
the table. Glass shattered into a bagillion empty spaces in the sky and the
sturdy oaken table plummeted world trade center osama bin laden to the ground
below.
The most important business
meeting of the year adjourned with a loud crack as the businessmen leapt from
the open window, screaming horribly as they fell and landed safely on the
window washing platform exactly one story below. The platform was six inches
below the window. But the window had already been pushed through the couch,
which was a table’s length shorter than the table that fell trough the window,
which was far too small for any sort of table to fit through it. It fell
exactly 792 inches, and then nothing happened to it. Not one thing. What this
was like can never be described to you because you have no psychological
reference point for what complete nothingness would look like. You can never
know what it was like when nothing happened to the furniture. You are a dick.
THE ERNB
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