Comics by Michael Lowell Teague 2006-2007
It is amusing to us that you Earthlings do not have the color, Zunt, in your visible spectrum. It is the most delightful of colors, being contrarily bold and subtle. On my planet, it is popular as a gang color among the youth. Designers use it to convey a sense of space in interiors. It turns up frequently in relaxation therapies, though it is considered unlucky for military spacecraft to be any shade of Zunt. If one’s skin turns Zunt, it is owing to a vitamin X-12 deficiency. A world without Zunt, in our estimation, is like a diet without Mardlard. Or, more humorously, a Verblog without a Gleebzurm.
Even allowing for massive head trauma, I’m still the most interesting person I know. Now what kind of a pathetic commentary is that about the world we live in?
Excuse me, young fella. I’m looking for the place where you can pick up a child bride. I’ve driven my tractor up and down this block four or five times and I’m lost. Drove by the recycling place twice. Can you help an ol’ timer out?
What are you complaining about? I’m so damn ugly I have to tape money to my forehead to make friends.
Pale face came from Asswupmonytook tribe. Drove Pinto with exploding gas tank. Snake skin like briefcase. Blew unfiltered smoke signals up our skirts. Threw in complimentary coasters with firewater. Pictures snapped. Souls stolen. Check bounced. Phone disconnected. That’s all she wrote.
I scrounged for grubs and lived off my good looks on the tooth-and-claw savannah. Without college, I was making my way into an uncertain future with only a scant understanding of gender identity in Eighteenth Century French literature. But I would manage. Every dawn I rose in the high grass and faced east, and like a lizard basking on a rock, my battle-hardened nipple softened on being kissed by the Sun. I ate microwaved burritos and drank beer the color of jaundiced bruises, and when a postal carrier inquired as to where next I would encamp, I replied,“Upwind of destiny, good man. Upwind of destiny.”
There’s always light in my refrigerator when I open the door, and half a bottle of flat pop. I can explain the soda. (Never finish soda.) But the light—that keeps me up at night. Now, you’d think there would always be light when you open a basement door, but you would be wrong if you thought that. You can trip over stuff in a dark basement—get hurt. Ain’t no one ever goin’ to get hurt reaching into a dark fridge, though. Don’t make sense—none of it. There are three words for “raised skin” in the English language: wheal, welt, and whelk. But there is only one word for door: door. We’ve got our priorities all messed-up in this country. No wonder God has turned His Back on this nation.
I love clowns, and raindrops on kittens. I would walk a hundred miles over broken glass to see a parade. I cry at weddings, too. (I’m just funny that way.) I even have milk in my chest. Ain’t that funny for a man? Doctors don’t know why. No more than they know why the Sun shines on Sunday. Or why puppy dogs steal your heart.
See that girl there: the one with the white legs, the one with the cell phone practically bolted to her empty head. She will be my bride. She will warn me of approaching adversaries out of an utter and simple devotion that is her destiny. She will serve me well with towheaded children and white legs. I am a cautious man, but I dare say she could charm the spots off an octogenarian with those pursed lips. When the planets align, we will make like shelf paper and get horizontal.
I keep all my nickels in a wheelbarrow, now. I got a tarp over it in case of rain, and bricks over the tarp in case of wind. Used to keep all my nickels in a bank, but then an earthquake hit. Some of my nickels spilled into another guy’s pile of nickels back in the vault, but the dirty rotten no-good bank never gave me back all my nickels. That’s how the bank makes their money, you see. A nickel here. A nickel there. They figure folks ain’t keeping close count of nickels.
I’ve known you for eighty-five years. Eighty-five years, gall dang it! I think I’ve earned the right to stare at your cleavage.
Fire’s comin’ to town, boys, and she’s ornerier than a mule cat. Doesn’t go in fur pastel colors or trendy baby names off the inter-web. When fire comes to visit this time, she won’t take a cotton to sleepin’ on no sofa bed. Won’t sit around while you leaf thru the family photo albums without a care in the world. No, sir. When fire shows up on the stoop—dinner’s going to be a little overcooked. Alert hearing-impaired neighbors. Throw things at the winder if you have to: small dogs, ornamental shrubs, other hearing-impaired neighbors. Give ‘em a heads-up, coz fire’s playin’ fur keeps this time. Ain’t goin’ to be no garden party with Ricky Nelson playin’ on the eight-track. No pee breaks on the bucket brigade. Yank out the caution tape, boys, coz we’re wrapping up the town like a Christmas present tonight!
Developers are moving in. They’re going to change everything and mess up this little town. That apple orchard over there—that’s where me and my kid brother used to steal apples. And that pond down on old Delaney Road—that’s where me and my Gramps used to go fishing. Caught a swordfish there once. Damn thing had arms like a man. Even wrestled Gramps out of the boat. Whacked it with a boat oar in a battle of wills. Managed to get Gramps back to shallow water, and then back to the station wagon. It followed us for a couple miles, swooping from tree to tree with dripping fangs and talons. Damnedest thing.
Next/ Back/ Profiles Portal Page
Copyright © 2016 michael l. teague all rights reserved.