MIDDLE EARTH, the Universe: Anne Tyson Dyson, sole heir to the now free-range chicken empire, died tragically today, three days after her public nuptials to a distant cousin of the popular vacuum magnate. Tyson Dyson was crushed by a falling piano in every city in America. Disinterested passers-by, all of whom were exactly five-feet-ten and one quarter inch, reported that the scene was “just like in them cartoons.” Immediately after learning of the accident, Billy Joel, great grandson of the former pop icon/songwriter/virtuoso Billy Joel, vowed to commemorate Tyson Dyson’s life in a long-anticipated follow-up to his grandfather’s hit single called Piano Land. Unfortunately for Joel, the Tyson Dyson clan reacted harshly, believing the proposed song title to be a veiled attempt at humor in reference to the falling piano. Joel countered vehemently, claiming that Piano Land was a physical place in an alternate dimension, the existence of which had been proved in a posthumously discovered diary authored by Max Plank on a page opposite three crude drawings of erect penises. A representative for Tyson Dyson with an unusually large head responded that if such a place existed, certainly it would be spelled out in one word instead of two. The parties traded vitriolic tweets for most of the day until Richard “Dick” Cheney issued Joel a mandate from his pressurized command module located several miles beneath the Earth’s crust. Although written in the ancient Pali language of the Buddha, the mandate translated roughly to “pro-choice: abort chicken mission.” In an exclusive interview, Cheney told this writer that he was moved by the situation, and that despite his “hard-earned reputation as a cold-hearted son-of-a-cunt,” Cheney lost his mother under similar circumstances in the early eighteenth century when, in an attempt to save money on moving costs, Stevie “Cabbage Hands” Bach accidentally dropped his brother’s harpsichord out of a fourth story window in the Weimar Republic. Tyson Dyson is survived by fourteen illegitimate children.
I hate you when you’re like this. Everything I say is wrong. When I want to have that last cold Coke on black asphalt you won’t give me space to breathe. You suffocate me with your workman’s hands. God: everything is slow this time of year on the peninsula, dripping down like stringy discharge from the flaccid mainland. You suck the pleasure out of smoking.
And on your lawns that hold green so desperately you burn the bottoms of my feet and string my ankles together with angry creatures that belong underground. I stepped in a red ant pile for you. But when I hear the ice cream man’s siren song you make sure he’s just out of reach from me.
I’m sick of your oppression. You tell me sweet things in the illusions of nighttime and then betray me in the morning, oh-so-predictably: you loved me then–no, no, I know you mean it, baby–and now you’ll burn me up and remind me once more that I’m at your Red Hot Disposal.