Caleb Puckett

Weathering the Pile-up

Spray the fire extinguisher on the GPS device and stick it to those pundits in the legalization debate. The world’s largest wind farm spurs the Thames Estuary into considering a name change. All bets are off on the lifespan of bland but reliable sedans on both sides of the Atlantic. What about ships, then?  Depending on whose side you’re on, the year could end up a disaster. Go Pacific, you say? Pull out and flee with the predictable group of typhoon victims before it’s too late. All tragedies are markets to mine. Given the inevitability of such weather, you should be on the side of frigid rather than bitter. Pitch that notion. Run with it all the way to the Kremlin. According to insiders, establishing wage income can be a taxing affair for decommitted Olympic sprinters with black market toiletry deals. Cut to the chase, ye pharaoh of mummified faith. Consider the theatrics of group discounts and act as necessary. Why the metallic taste in your mouth? Have a snack. Ruin a perfectly good apple.

Empty gas cans rattle in the back of the truck beside you. You stroke your nose, exorcising an unblessed sneeze, counting your luck like mortgage payments. Should you cringe as an off-again Hollywood veteran in a hooded coat gives icy handshakes to your fellow commuters who are bogged down in the fine yellow snow of Boston? An amateur wrestler always photobombs this cherished annual event. This year, the psychic effect ripples into an atmosphere where a polar vortex dances with the sun. A black and white stray dog smells danger and seeks shelter under the radar station where cops go to trade jokes. A thrice divorced middle-aged executive at a razor company considers marriage once again as he stares at the bleak concrete structure where they all cavort. He champions a no-nonsense justice system over the objections of a talk radio host. In his sleep, the dog eyes the ankle of a disgraced governor who once made the Pro Bowl with the Patriots. He’ll have no such master even in times of great want. A strange ball of lightening turns the entire scene golden for a moment. Lawyers emerge in whistling droves from an underground parking garage.

Instincts tell you to seek singles in your area, but your car will never be a contender within the confines of this particular indigenous population. The Church’s stance on gender theory in the context of hockey is also very clear. No real territorial dispute ends without building sprawling tombs for the winning dignitaries. Don’t drink the vodka-laced Kool-Aid or pump the feud to its final dueling blast. Riches ride currents as the bank wires you money with a few taps of virtual keys. In the right light, they look like leopard teeth. You hear bones breaking as you pass the desolated pyramid of a once-chartered empire of accountancy. Convinced your transplant is faulty, you begin protesting the very existence of powertrain warranties and nest eggs. Too busy to be frustrated and heartbroken, you say? And just look at those smoky blue eyes, great white teeth and stylish cardigan. No bargain hunting, gum chewing sloth ever boxed his way onto Broadway, bud. Beyond the standstill caused by the pile-up, your soul mate, one Janus Trump, eats a jelly doughnut in anticipation of a baby. The late moon hovers with titanic force over her kitchen, causing the wind to pick up velocity. Rumor has it that the credit card company will chime in soon enough. You feel tense as your tires spin out of the slush and onto the ice.

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