The Curmudgeon


Saturday, March 19, 2005

Spring has Sprung

Spring has sprung in all its verdant blunder; the winter's chill is banished from the air. Let boiling clouds of midges grace our pathways; let sunlight gleam on dog turds in the fresh bloom of morning.

Let lard walk the streets, hairy, purplish and wobbling; let lard drive about in open-windowed cars and pierce our five months' headache with mega-volume rap music. Let it broil and complain.

Let the air become heavy and sluggish, that our lungs may be all the more exercised drawing in the carbon monoxide, whose taste and texture are the more piquant for being heated. Let the roads melt, and let windows be opened to admit the joyous miasma of brain-retarding pollutants and mind-stomping noise.

Let insects flit and infants squall, for theirs is the kingdom of sunshine and they know not what they breathe. Let the surfaces of roads be opened with pneumatic drills, that the opening of our windows may fulfil its eternal purpose, and that we may be stir-fried in our traffic jams and the sauce of the disc jockey on the radio four vehicles upstream.

Let buds burst forth, ripe pustules on poisoned trees. Let pollen be cast to the scorching wind, to the motionless shrieking air, to the maddened mucous membranes of miserable hay-fevered millions. Let air-conditioners whine and desiccate; let children whine and bully; let adults whine and wobble, and be oiled and purpled ever more.

Let them cook on the streets; let them cook in their cars; let them cook in their trains made late by ultra-violet light. Let the ozone part and the carcinogens pour through in a cleansing wave, like detergent down a railway toilet bowl. Spring has sprung in all its verdant blunder. Listen to it sizzle.


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