bored.mule@world.com

A large breasted member of the Community was elloquating her love of this album she adored called Haughty Melodic, and turned the radio in the kitchen up as loud as it would allow. According to the Darwinistic backtracking of male singer songwriters with marshmallow voices and acoustic guitars, the natural selection that would follow would naturally backtrack to John Mayer and maybe *gasp* Coldplay (because all bad music conversation eventually devolves to Coldplay. The Community’s conversation turned to laudable overtones of praise; these bubbly dispositions willingly offered up on artists and bands that are more aptly equated to the science experiment that I had been conducting in the bathroom by not flushing.

Ostracized, like a common delinquent, I made my move onto the vacant back porch where I could offer choice remarks to those that really cared. Such comments included, but were not limited to: pontifications at Target whilst trying to select a new repertoire of bed sheets and the potential hit, in the gayness factor, I would incur if I really did suffer my inclination to purchase a canopy, whether or not the five hours of Olympic coverage per night that I had induced upon myself was really worse for my brain than twelve solid hours of my Sunday Funday and, by no means lastly, whether or not Scott Baker should be the fifth starter over Francisco Liriano.

But then the only real means of outlasting the Community kicked in and my mp3 player tripped onto Cooking Wine. Like a well reasoned shot of reality into a rather benign day, conversation became relevant and I was able to maneuver myself throughout the digestive tract of the community, safe in the knowledge that what was happening was right; that we were winning, though the players on this stage knew nothing of the lines that had been rehearsed.

There are few things latched more loosely, dear reader, to the good ship of Life than the common American’s conception of what the verbal word is meant for.

Over the sound in my headphones I attempted to explain this to the rather large breasted Community member, though I knew all of this was lost upon her. I tuned my player to the final track off of This Year’s Model, but this was lost on her and she removed the headphones before the track was complete.

In the corner another couple was talking for the sake of talking; a no doubt interesting dissertation on what their day had been like up until that point but blissfully another track kicked over and the world drifted away.