|Fly with me to Norway on a guilded sock.
||[Sep. 12th, 2002|03:24 am]
|||||Edge Alternative (digital music)||]|
Unnaturally the ice came. In a way unlike the ice cream vendor on a saturday morning with his little truck playing a picknickey tune while the children follow mindless behind his sweet sweet ride, jerking money from their pockets and their parents, twitching like a bad imitation of the Minister of silly walks as they rush to meet the geniel old man handing out his popsicles while secretly harbouring the dark desire for global destruction inside his most secret heart.
No, it came not like that at all.
Harold Pedro Cider was a generation X-er. Though since he was a taurus he amused himself by saying he was part of generation Ox. Harold did many things to amuse himself, most of them not polite to speak of in mixed company, dirty, dusty things involing small sticks that could easily be used to poke puppies and the tines from his mother's prized silver forks. Harold was a strange man, his tittering laugh always seeming to echo throughout a room like a duck's qvack in a moonlit cove. Ringing silently off the walls so nobody could hear it, and yet all knew it was there. As he tittered constantly to himself, Harold Pedro Cider would sometimes pause and think of selling children little bull-shaped lollies, twittering away all the more at entertaining thoughts of selling bulls little children shaped lollies, flaoured of bogeys and unwashed hands.
Get out of my house! He though at the spectres, and the only member of the Ox Generation fled to the hills to alone with his laugh and his life and his tamagotchi.
But the day came, when the well dried up and the trees stopped bearing their ham and tuna sandwiches, that Harold Pedro Cider, of Generation OX, ventured from his comfortable flat high in the cliffs of silicon valley, and wandered back into society. He saw the genial ice cream man with his dark secrets. He saw the children who walked silly, and their parents with empty pockets, and he grew cold; HPCoGOX began to freeze, fingers growing numb and tingly as if he's just slammed then in a door with a child lock, screaming and screaming for his mummy to let him out as she gathered up the rest of the children and wandered towards the shopping center to buy wool for the night's supper. He cried and ran at the memory, and he came, and the ice came, and it came nothing like the ice cream man thought it would.
And the children froze.
And the parents froze.
And the ice cream would have froze, but it was already frozen.
And all expanded, as water is won't to do.
And the little man seling his detergent froze.
My toaster oven is bigger than your breadbox.