Coocoo for Cocoa Puffs

You feel me dawg? Luantic. That's what I am, that's what I eat. All of
you ladies at the bus stop know the deal: I step up, I drop a quarter
on the ground, I look at a post-it note I found in my pocket that says
"Kill Ferris." You say NO, I say NO HARM DONE, I shuffle a bit to the
left and go after the next femme. Word to your mother.

So I'm bouncing down this alleyway in Boulder the other night, and a
hoot owl is dancing along with me, 50 feet overhead, making creepy
Henson-esque noises. I reach for my inner Kermit gun and squeeze three
green rounds into the sky: said owl starts, stops, plummets, and drowns
in a wading pool three doors down from my cousins in Tallahassee (what
can I say, it was windy).

Then a beam of pure electricity teleports itself from the carport
behind the local post office (two blocks to my North) to a gumball
machine outside the Walmart on Route 3045A. The old woman sitting on
the bench fails to notice.

At the hoot owl memorial service, Brown Robber steps up to me to offer
his condolences (SORRY PAUL, SORRY). I say FAIR ENOUGH, then we don our
matching T-Fal stainless steel soup pots, spread ourselves 10 paces
apart, then CHARGE headlong into each other, clotheslining a 3rd
grader, his mother, and an old farm mule from Horace, NB in the
process.

I am now--WHAT?-- standing up again, standing in a pile of gum, trying
to lift weights with a pierced guinea pig on each dumbell, thinking
back to the time I plugged a MOOG synthesizer into the wall outlet of
an Air Force base up in Rome, NY, when sudden sparks shot out
everywhere and the white keys all fused with the white keys and black
keys all fused with the black keys and Michael jackson is drowning at
the bottom of my pool, face frozen in shock-sur-terror by the Pepsi
commercial fireworks still burning his brains.

Then the Mafia moves into the Eurovan down by the Convent River, and
everything gets a little more greasy.....