A FANTASY OF A SORT

 

There comes a time , once in car door moon, where a man has to grab the microphone that's been sitting in front of him for a decade and bring it too his wretchedly trembling lips. And in that time we note from home that the close up reveals sweat beads had formed on his lips and collected in a glistening pool in the filstrum, that tiny divit in the center of the face, between the nostrilsand the top of the mouth. America was about to witness a man Go Off Script and do something primordial and aristing from the bowels of contricted and foulness of bad faith and guilty trips to the shed, matters that had been restricted , regulated and otherwise controlled by fragile and finally dubious means of will power were giving way, splintering and shattering and crackling in whatever metaphorical sound effect might lead to a clue to the maggot brain pest control relays that now ran the cerebral circus. He twitched, he undid his tie, he stood from the desk and showed the audiences up and down the coast line, where the ocean slapped the shore line like a drooling vegitarian driving past a Meat City location, that he was wearing red and white striped clown pants which were pulled right up to where he kept his available cash. The camera pulled closer, his glasses were fogged up , the insanity was already coming out of his eyes with an energy that shorted out the tv studio lights and carried through the available powerlines and radio transmitters to the world at large . Cop cars blew up, left handed teen agers practiced their signatures on lined notebook paper, the city lights dimmed to a a color remindful of off stains that showed up over night on new shirts. But then he took his seat, set the microphone back down on the desk, wiped the sweatbeads from under his no
se with a single, elegant swipe of the thumb. Our man on the screen looked straight into the the camera. "Thanks for joining us this evening. With all the hoot and holler going on about the Prez, we have two representatives of the newly Youth for Nixon group..." With explanation, a test pattern baring the station call letters and a laughing Indian in full head dress came on replacing the man behind the desk on the screen, and just as quickly audiences were made to watch a scene from The Robot Versus the Aztec Mummy.