If I was in the Black eyed Peas I'm not sure if I'd be one of the black ones or one of the horse faced white girls. I guess I don't have to decide, today.
If I ever saw Roger Ebert walking down the street toward him I would shoot him dead in the head without a second thought and there's not a jury in the world that would convict me, either.
I typically don't carry a gun to shoot people but I can imagine that on a day like that, serindipity would have made me somehow get a gun and make sure it was loaded and shoot and kill Roger Ebert.
I picture him shuffle-step-slork walking up to me all the time, his tracheotomy (tricky spell spot behind us) is peeping and slurping and flecks of spit (sputum) are flying out and you just know he's trying to say Brains or something like that.
You picture him shuffling up to Omaha to find me -- shuffle up to Omaha, his Jaw left somewhere behind in Chicago and he's come for mine and I don't even pause, I swing the gun up and shoot and he dies and not a jury would convict me.
I picture a terrific death of his, feet fly out from under, arms flail and there he falls and the sun comes out and the people look out their windows and they come out to see what I've done and relief fills their eyes and their eyes fill with tears and the sun comes out and I'll tell you it's very un-sunny in Omaha this long winter.
And not a jury would convict me.
Even his good old friend Siskel (I didn't look up how his name is really spelled. Take that PBS!) wouldn't condemn me.
Of course I'd apologize, it's not nice to kill, even a zombie. Not if you don't have to, even if they're after your very perfect and fine jaw. Even then it's a bit like killing.
And I would go to his family.
And I would go to the funeral and I'd hide behind one of those wall things that hang down that are supposed to look stylish but typically just collect dust.
They would certainly see me and call me out to speak and I would speak a word of apology and they would listen and then I would lead them in a round of Amazing Grace.
Until the wretch like me part as I don't know the words after that.
I typically don't carry a gun to shoot people but I can imagine that on a day like that, serindipity would have made me somehow get a gun and make sure it was loaded and shoot and kill Roger Ebert.
I picture him shuffle-step-slork walking up to me all the time, his tracheotomy (tricky spell spot behind us) is peeping and slurping and flecks of spit (sputum) are flying out and you just know he's trying to say Brains or something like that.
You picture him shuffling up to Omaha to find me -- shuffle up to Omaha, his Jaw left somewhere behind in Chicago and he's come for mine and I don't even pause, I swing the gun up and shoot and he dies and not a jury would convict me.
I picture a terrific death of his, feet fly out from under, arms flail and there he falls and the sun comes out and the people look out their windows and they come out to see what I've done and relief fills their eyes and their eyes fill with tears and the sun comes out and I'll tell you it's very un-sunny in Omaha this long winter.
And not a jury would convict me.
Even his good old friend Siskel (I didn't look up how his name is really spelled. Take that PBS!) wouldn't condemn me.
Of course I'd apologize, it's not nice to kill, even a zombie. Not if you don't have to, even if they're after your very perfect and fine jaw. Even then it's a bit like killing.
And I would go to his family.
And I would go to the funeral and I'd hide behind one of those wall things that hang down that are supposed to look stylish but typically just collect dust.
They would certainly see me and call me out to speak and I would speak a word of apology and they would listen and then I would lead them in a round of Amazing Grace.
Until the wretch like me part as I don't know the words after that.
posted by Blog ho at 6:05 PM
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