Vanilla Shake Redemption

Vanilla Shake Redemption   If I could leave, if I could just escape the questions.   The pleas for help, Tammy Fae is crying,   drowning backwards Baptist singers in gallons of mascara juice.   Bad Baptismal Bordeaux.   They're Bible toting rejects from Star Search.   They can't go into Karaoke bars.   They might be too tempted to drink liquid sin   after hearing the forty third rendition of The Rose   from Ed, the bartender.   Crying, waterlogged Baptists, and I.   Staring at the screen. Do the people at home   know what we all do when the camera is shut off?    Do they know that the ministry owns a   company that produces adult movies,   but only movies that involve one or more garden utensils?   Aunt Harriett sends half of her social security check   to fund "Wait Till I Get the Shovel, Ho!"   Glory to God. Glory to pay per view.   I could tell them all the truth, right now,   at this very moment.   These are bad people, supremely skilled   in the art of extortion for the Almighty.   Run away, toss your TV out of the window.   Bring it down to the station and drop it on Tammy Fae's   toes, even with a $500 pedicure, they still look like Pterodactyl feet.   Do it, rebel.   This is how I got them to raze that silly wall in Germany,   or somewhere like that. Believe in me,   I have an underground bus filled   with enough Girl Scout cookies to last us   until I find the perfect album to base my cult on.   Pat. What does it all mean? Suffering, pondering, struggling,   with the perseverance of a skilled dramatist.   Walking the night again, and again. Doomed? For certain.   I couldn't have it any other way.   I must be skilled in the art of digression, as well . . .    Back to the fence, I'm still the cat. Ra? Insects? Ra?   Insects? Sis Boom Bah! Meow.   The shoes and cans have failed.   They're throwing small children now.   Wait.  I was confused.   It seems the children are installing a security system,   electrifying my fence. Child labor. How shocking.   Neither of these two things I've held so dear, for so long,   really mean anything to me. The upkeep is too taxing.   Salvation requires more effort than I care to muster.   I'm afraid I'll have to let them both go.   Farewell, Sun King, quando paramucho.   Fly away my phosphorous friends.   Farewell forever, to arms, there's that damn Venus again . . .    The Goddess of Indecision has, amazingly enough,   this is definitely unprecedented, come to a conclusion.   Now that they've been evicted,   I will have the carpet cleaned, renovate,   poke a few more holes in the lid, and move in.   Provided I don't get trapped in Escrow purgatory   for a decade or two.   I was sure that apathy needed to be eliminated   when this all began,   but I'm afraid I've come full circle, again.   Look kids, there's Big Ben! Hi Ho,   Hi Ho, it's in the jar I go.   I've rented lot space next to that Jeannie bitch.   She hasn't redecorated that bottle of hers for centuries.   She is also way too ancient   for that pony tail / top knot disaster.   Listen, and learn. I may have decided to remain passive forever,   but apathetic hair is something I will never accept.   Especially when it's bordering more on pathetic than A. Written March 19th, 1997 © on May 21 2001 02:35 AM PST   0 • 1