Forever Baloney

Warrick warbled weekly at the wobbly moon. "What for?" he asked the giant ball of tasteless cheese. The whiskey water was wearing off quickly and his head was a foot taller. "I need a little head," he chuckled to the thumb print on his empty glass.

Just as his mom had taught him, he was saving his corn for a rainy day until he realized that every day was a rainy day. The girl in the want ads turned out to be more than just fishnet stockings. She didn't think a ten percent drop in body fat in three months meant that she had to sell her Kmart stock.

Warrick paused for a moment but only for dramatic effect. It didn't work. Someone in the room 306 snorted. Room 882 was right off the elevator and he nearly stepped to his left before he realized that wasn't where the country was headed especially with the nomination of another envelope licker ("you lick her you brought her!" he shouted) for the Court of White Supremacy.

She moaned and wiggled a bit. Warrick sat being lonely and he knew what that meant. It had been too long since he poured a little mustard on his bologna sandwiches. That had always put him in a ripe mood. Mandy needed love. Just man enough, he sure did.

Truth be told, as seldom as it is, it was more sad than true that in his 41 trips around the sun Warrick had learned but one thing; if you don't have any hair it isn't a good idea to ride hatless on the convertible (BDP) ride back from a lodge up north in the blaring sun especially if the jazz is playing and you know that the inside secrets and jokes and asides that you share with the driver with curled toes no one else quite gets and that is why she probably is the best friend you've never had. Failure to heed the lesson learned meant that the very next day your head would burn and peel and skin would fall like shaken asbestos snowflakes in one of those plastic mini-worlds that you don't see much anymore (except at the Hallmark nearest you).

Joe Cocker played on the radio. "Cocker? I don't even know her!" Warrick whispered incredulously. The gas smelt up the room. He told himself he just needed to drink more water. It wasn't so much trail mix blockage he was suffering from, clearly it was more muscular than systemic.

He was a third baseman by birth. The other team kept pounding balls his way and his reflexes, not quite what they used to be but better than most elevator etiquette violators, snared everything within range and his teammates were impressed and the other team said "nice play third" as if he hadn't heard that the other two times he finished in fourth place. He was better than he looked but not quite good enough to matter. His first at bat he swung with all his meek might and missed and struck out and he didn't remember if he had ever done that in such a public forum before.

Warrick's scooter ("scooter, I don't even know her!" he yelped ) stopped scooting. Something was wrong with the carburetor. The gas/air mix wasn't proper. More and more that was the case he had discovered after he burped. He didn't quite come to a complete stop but he surely wasn't moving as fast as he always thought he should. His parts were interchangeable as far as she could tell.

His walls were wet and every time he turned on the lights the fire alarm blared. It wasn't fair or just. It was just beyond fair. All the work they had put into landscaping his yard was constantly blocked out by a big ass ugly car that the neighbors parked in front of his yard like a boy with his finger inside a pleasant smelling unconfirmed dike.

Warrick needed to leave if for no other reason than to improve his posture. His therapist had affixed two strips of tape on his back that would pull his skin if he were to slouch. Those that knew him best probably figured he was no slouch but a move to somewhere other than here probably could confirm that quite firmly if not finally.