(I hope I’m spelling that right). One thing, and I promise I'll get right to it –– never did I think that my life would come to the point where the slightest offset in a minuscule task would set me so far over the edge. I have seen therapists, doctors, witchdoctors, chiropractors, anesthesiologists, proctologists, one chemical scientist and a podiatrist. They all told me the same thing: “Go Home” “Your insurance isn’t going to cover this” etc. etc.
What strikes me odd is that none of them could assist me up and out of this most gnarly, nagging curfuffle I presently find myself in since all of my 71 years of theoretical living.
Let me go even further back. When I was a boy, we all had our role in the household. My sister Marianne did the washing, my brother Raymond did the gardening, and I, RonBon did the cooking. One thing I learned in a kitchen which was invaluable (besides not to go digging in daddy’s liquor cabinet) was that the key to any bitter espresso was a dollop of fresh whipped cow’s milk. Back in those days, we did everything by hand. So I would go and milk the cow, gather the cream, beat the shit half to death (the cream; not the cow!), and dollop a fresh puffy cloud of the good stuff right on top of Mama’s java.
I can’t tell you that look of surprise the first day i brought Mama’s java to her...her greasy brow unfurrowing at last! Unforunately she died the very next day as she was tackled by an ox. (Very sad) Though I just a boy six years of age, I still had the prescience and conscience of mind to continue the tradition of making Mama’s java and drinking it myself in her honor. Back then, kids grew up a lot faster you see. Nobody’s mother is getting tackled by an Ox in today’s age. Nay, quite the reverse. Today we are rife with privilege, convenience, comfort and excess. Life is delivered unto us next day--or worst case two-day express.
So, it is somewhat shamefacedly I come to you with what has become a big huge fat problem of mine, which is that the canned whipped cream I bought from your establishment (though delicious) is driving me fucking nuts. I got 7 maybe 8 dollops, tops, of whipped cream out of one stinking can. Had I known this product would rip me off so severely I would have just huffed the nitrous oxide out of it in my local whole foods and passed out in a meat locker. In a way it is a public sacrifice; the act of a holy man. To set oneself on fire as it were. I have done worse in grocery stores, that I can assure you. If I could rewind time and firehose my hand away as it reached for that can of whipped cream last Wednesday, trust me — I would. Can you image it Jeff? Mama’s java, the ox… having lost touch with my roots, with what it means to work for that which you have, to be connected with the earth, with life itself, with the nuclear family... and then, years later, forgetting it all, reaching for a processed can of cow’s milk and to be utterly humiliated by its inferior performance and my complete and total reliance on the economy of convenience. Where you, Mr Besos, are the purveyor, the Poseidon of convenience. It is your trident we wax and grope for. We cut off our hands for you so that you can feed us, Mr Besos. Surely that must startle you bit… And now, I’m staring at my coffee sans cream a single tear trickles down my face, crestfallen. Where do we all go from here?
Anyways, if you could refund me 3 dollars and 40 cents that would be much appreciated. And just to get this out of the way now: indeed, I have lost the receipt.All love and light,