by Jim Parnell

A Day in the Life

For those
who would be Bubba

For all the time I've known Bubba, I've never once imagined what it would be like to be him.  From a humanist perspective, the mind shrinks in horror from the mere contemplation of such an existence.  From a clinical point of view, we just can't get enough of this stuff.  Which is why I'm going to share it with you, O eager and masochistic reader.

In his own words, a Day in the Life of Bubba...

- Morning -

Ode to The Bean

Swirling, paisley monochrome cream
Slowly spinning, dissolving,
Stretching arms of spiral galaxy
Amongst beelions of molecules of caffeine

The heavy mug,
The ritual drug
The hot morning Java,
That mind winding lava.

Sumatran, Kenyan, and French roast are best
For baited breath, soon bereft
Of minty toothpaste zest
Replaced therein with ordeur de' sin

My morning cuppa Joe.

- Lunch -

I'm going to take a moment here just to ruminate, so bear with me, if you don't mind.  I'd like to talk to you about a tradition I've observed soon after I became a corporate wage slave, a fine tradition, just chock-full of redeeming social value (or at least revealing social matter).

I'm speaking, of course, about the tradition of the "Pound-It Lunch".

Many of you are already familiar with this or that variant -- it's also known as the "Martini Lunch", or the "Two Hour Lunch".  By any name it's a fine social illuminator; so many things you never wanted to know packed into so little time, and broken loose with alcohol, the universal solvent.  Oh yes, it's a fine tradition, if you can stomach the whining and bad grammar.

You get to hear belligerent opinions about earth-shaking things, or stuff you don't care the least about, and the amazing thing is, they're all equally amusing!  You just don't care!

And this works both ways.  When you start babbling about that incredible episode of Babylon 5, or whether Seven of Nine's breasts are real or implants, or even the correlation between Y2K bug mentions on CNN and the frequency of Civil War documentaries on PBS, nobody cares, either!  Plus, two hours later, they can't even remember what an ass you made of yourself!  What a cathartic experience!

But there's always somebody ready to piss on your pancakes.

Many folks think, especially in this oh-so-righteous swing of the political pendulum we find ourselves in, that consumption of the fruit of the vine, or more than a nodding acquaintance with our old friend John Barleycorn during business hours is utterly reprehensible, and many think it should be banned outright!

Jesus, what a bunch of lifeless old farts they are.

Life, they say, is for the living, so I want to recommend this tradition to you all, my friends.  Next Friday or any day you like, go to a pub for lunch.  Sit yourself down with friends and pound it.  Believe me, you'll be glad you did.

Worried about that post-prandial aroma?  Choose a less redolent beverage such as vodka, which illuminates without that troublesome "je ne se quois".  It's not good to belch brewery fumes in your boss's face (unless s/he was chugging right alongside)!

So, -clink!-  Here's to ya!

- After-Work -

Another scribbled script for the Rod-man, with a nautical flair:

Socially significant, poignant drama, high crimes and misdemeanors.  We join our show already in progress...


Kirk: Arr-r-r, ye swabbies. Look alive there-r-r. I want to see the bridge Spic and Spam, arr-r-r. There be wenches aplenty and I want 'em impressed when I show 'em me ship.
Spock: Spam is an indestructible meat product, used for highly sensitive diplomatic purposes and Roller Derby. And the term 'spic' is most offensive to those of hispanic descent.
Kirk: Whatever-r-r. All I want is a little action from me lazy crewe, if ye catch me drift. Ah lass, what say the landlubber-r-rs on yon planet below?
Uhura: Sir, they say, and I quote, "Avast, ye lubber-r-r. We'll not par-r-rt with a single one of our wenches, ye scur-r-rvy dog!"
Kirk: BLAST and damnation! We'll teach those land-huggin' dir-r-rt scratchin', flea-bitten, var-r-mint ridden, bilge-suckin', tax-payin'... uh, flea-bitten, hmmm, where was I Bones?
McCoy: Dammit, Jim, I'm a DOCTOR not a pirate THESAURUS!
Kirk: A dinosaur-r-r, eh? Aye, ye look a mite fossilized ther-r-re, or-r a bit pickled. Quite ster-r-reotypicial for a Sawbones, ar-r-r. 

Sulu! Blast me that planet to smither-r-eens!

Sulu (gasps): But Captain, that would violate our-r-r -- DAMN, now you've ME doing it! That would violate the Prime Directive, sir.
Kir-r-k: I don't care if it slices the Pr-rime Rib! !@#$!%@!!! Fir-r-re phaser-r-rs!
Spock (astutely): Sir, if you destroy the planet, you will never be able to (HOO-AHH!) reproduce with their ahem, wenches.
Kirk: Me blood's all hot-like now, I care not for reproductions, or even or-r-riginals at this point. Fire, me beauties! FIR-R-RE!
(Spock applies the convenient and way-cool, not to mention plotwise handy Vulcan knockout grip on Kirk. He sits in the Captain's chair)
Spock: Arr-r-r, ye swabbies. Look alive ther-r-re and ar-r-rm for-r-rward phaser-r-rs.
Czeckov: Ahh, nye kulturny! Must go with the rank.
Sulu: Yeah. The higher, the ranker...

- Nighty-Nite -
Ah, the things that roam on --
The Road By My House
Gas guzzlers growl with overblown hemis
Blasting full throttle (that's no choke)
Deep full-throated death roar
Devouring the road by my house

Japcycle buzzsaw whine high rpm rasp
Ratchets up, up, up like a nagging spouse
Doppler up -- doppler down
Barely touch the road by my house

Beep-beep-beep backups at 4:00am
Garbage trucks, recycle trucks, concrete trucks
Nobody warned -- nobody there
Safety rules the road by my house

Local fauna play high stakes dodgeball
Themselves as the ball
 Losers tagged with tire tread tattoos
 Plastering the road by my house

Double-Wide, Copyright © 1999 by Jim Parnell

Jim Parnell squashes bugs for a living -- like the ones that infest your computer.   As a gesture of faith, he plans to be on full life-support in a commercial airliner booking flights and making e-trades at 23:59:59, December 31, 1999.

You can e-mail Jim Parnell at

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