Pooped Out

        

 

       Today I could write about the wind, and how it blows constantly in this, the dry season.  The banana palms, at least the young plants, are supple and bend easily.  They are small enough that their root systems have plenty of room to grow unfettered.  But as the palms grow, things underground get crowded, and the thick roots get tangled and climb in and out over and around each other.  That is when, if the ground is still saturated from the torrential rains of the past season, a strong gust of warm summer wind can catch one of the great palms, with fronds, some as fat and wide as an automobile, and topple one of the giants.  And as these plants, some of them 30 feet tall, come crashing down they often up-root one or two others who slowly tilt, then lay down in the darkness.

 

       There in the morning they lay, like napping sisters in the sun, until the old gardener, in his wide brimmed hat, goes to work with his ancient machete putting the old girls out of their misery.  Those of the sisterhood still standing, look down in veneration and whisper reverent lament for their fallen kin. As they are chopped into manageable size and thrown over the bent, boney shoulders of the gardener the sisters wave a final goodbye to each other.

       I could wax poetically about the sounds of the morning, and how the wind picks them up and swipes them against the side of my house, smearing them down the wall and over me like a calligrapher’s brush.  I could wax. But I’d rather shave.

So...

The other day I bought groceries at The Alto Dorado Market, where I have learned never to buy meats that aren’t already sealed in plastic and frozen solid.  I passed the “fresh” meat display to where the eggs are stacked (note: it is very hard to stack eggs unless they are in cartons).  As any

experienced shopper knows, it is a good idea to open the carton to make sure some ham-fisted idiot before you didn’t slam another carton on top of your pick and break one of your delicate ovules. 

                   Now, one of the

advantages of living where I do, is that the surrounding hillsides are teeming with fincas, small farms that bring fruits, vegetables, and eggs to the market daily.  Here you will not find perfectly shaped apples or pears.  Carrots are big, fat tubers with dirt still in their creases and their long, wispy beards still attached to their John Kerry chins.  Potatoes, or papas, are little, round, and dirty (Midget Porn) with more eyes than the flies that live in the fresh meat display.

       Where was I?  Oh yeah.

       So I open the carton and one of the eggs still has a chicken butt feather stuck to it with a little chicken butt fluid.

     You know how when you hold a beautiful, cooing baby in your arms, and she holds on to your finger with those tiny,

delicate hands?  You know how that child looks into your eyes with complete innocence and trust, then gets the most adorable little grin on its face?  You know how at that moment you feel so big and so small at the same time. 

  

The last thing on your mind is the incredible, deep, thundering pain of that child pushing through a flesh and bone canal, then squishing through the mother’s vagina like a bowling ball, followed by the plopping out of the tissue and blood of the placenta?  You know how you’re not thinking about that?

Well, guess what?...

 

 

                                     

                                                    Heh, heh, Classic.

                                       

 

  

  HAPPY NEW YEAR 

DP