Ignoring mortality, we worship mediocrity, and wait to see what happens up on high.
— Bad Religion
It was Christmastime, so the digital highway sign reading plainly “Avoid Coal” might have made sense that way. But it was also just after Trump’s election, and given the shenanigans to which progressives were resorting, nothing could be put past even DOT staffers loyal to a state so blue it was nearly green, least of all subliminal double entendre.
At home, D sat down to a plate of hummus and hosts, the latter shrewdly acquired from an online Christian church supplier. The taste of his choice generic brand was inimitable. Nothing short of god in wafer form paired as well with garbanzo and tahini.
The tele faded into the background to make room for a smartphone search of George Price. Half the rest of the night went into internet oblivion.
Coming up to that characteristic void induced by the web gave impetus to thought. Derek had learned just three things for sure by 47 — chewing gum in the shower is unholy (to say nothing of chewing it in church), there are limitless crumbs beneath the edge of any kitchen counter, and the true origin of the catchy phrase “go fuck yourself” could only be known through the context of marriage, and its literalness upon divorce in particular.
But salvation was due, and like all the universe’s miraculous phenomena converging into one thing at one time in one place, Stacy appeared from the darkness with her big tee tucked in at her stomach, which highlighted the seventy degree angle her runway made with the ground. She and the high arch of her bangs came together in the shallow pane of reality just outside the sliding glass door.
She was welcomed. They turned low the light, lit a colored lamp in its stead, and thereupon broke through to the other side with the spirited succor of Jon Bon Jovi.