Monday, November 17, 2008

We Have No Affective Knowledge of Any Other Reason for Existing

"Where have you been, Shimmy?" he asked.

The President of the War on Terror sat on the edge of my litter box.

He kicked his cantankerous legs back and forth and chewed a sprig of parsley.

"Sleeping in front of the bookshelf," I said.

"The hardest part of making a big decision, Shimmy, is the run-up to the decision. But once you make up your mind, it's a liberating moment."

"And under Tony's desk. On the tabletop hockey game under the bed. And on Raoul Vaneigem's The Revolution of Everyday Life. Next to a pile of folded clothes on the ottoman. On the kitchen floor in front of the stove. In the bathtub. And in the bedroom closet. On a backpack. On the suitcase. On Tony's desk chair. And on the bean bag chair until it scares me."

"I've missed you," he said, looking out the window at the bare spindles of the Mayakovsky Tree shivering in the wind. It was snowing.

He added, "You don't invite me over anymore."

"Because you want to bury the copy of the Constitution my cousin Winter gave me. That's why I'll never let John Yoo near my litter box."

"I'm comfortable with my decision, but I'm not ready to give a speech yet. There are a lot of people who don't understand prayer, Shimmy."

"What happens when you take away our War on Terror?" I asked. I licked my salacious right haunch. "We have no affective knowledge of any other reason for existing."

The President of the War on Terror glanced behind the bookshelf, looking, no doubt, for where I hid my copy of the Constitution. A slack-jawed waterbug crawled along the wall.

He said, "I'm not a brooder. I probably shook hands with 9,000 people when they came through."

"You fondle our suffering like a good dog and hand out photographs of crushed but smiling people," I said.

"Speed it up," he said. "This isn't my first rodeo."

"The War on Terror turns our wretched earthly existence into a time of voluptuous expectation."

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