I may not be the most honest cat in the cattery. I speak, after all, and it’s impossible to say it all as Jacques Lacan might say, so there’s always something that gets left out. I’m not a player and I’m tryin’ta keep it real, just like another military man, albeit one of lesser rank, but greater talent, Soulja Boy. So, while I may miss a thing or two, I’m definitely not out there spinning different webs of lies to the many factions I come across on a daily basis. Nail me to the cross in the Holy Church of the Sin of Omission, but do not feed me to the black widows.
Enough about what I am not, for I am, if nothing else, a witness. Stretchpants, as mentioned in the title, had told a whopper that was threatening to land right in those flaming doubleknits. Spiders are clever, however, and one lie can be extinguished with another as long as it’s in front of a different audience, one who still wants to believe in Santa Claus…
It reminds me of when my father came home wearing a hooker’s shirt in place of his own and listening as he told my mother that he had given his own shirt and jacket to a migrant family cooking crawdads at the edge of the strawberry fields and my mother believing that he was a saint, doing God’s work. Sooner or later, even God’s Soulja Boy’s go AWOL.
Comments on this entry are closed.