I saw the Farina Boy, again, today – I mean, I’ve seen him most of my life on that cereal box that was put in front of me…”
by j.h. johns
I’ve often thought about this “going Green” stuff; you know, do my part, be with the moment, be part of the movement;
and now that my divorce is final, maybe there’s something to be said about reusing and recycling;
I could sure use to save on travel time and conserve energy-but where to start?
Would it be with – Betty, Carol, Joanne, Sheila, Pamela, Susan, Karen, Sandy, Cheri, Barbara, Phoebe, Wendy – hmm –
the list itself is almost becoming “ungreen;”
so, who to call first, who to call first-hmm.
Okay! I know! What would Thomas Friedman say about self-sufficiency – (no, the Internet can wait) -recycling – (better not start with ex-wives) – the Gaza Strip?
No wonder he’s won so many Pulitzers! Of course!
The Gaza Strip – I’ll call Pamela.
The Farina Boy
I saw the Farina Boy, again, today-I mean, I’ve seen him most of my life on that cereal box that was put in front of me-
but, today, this time, I looked more closely and realized that I didn’t like him;
I don’t think I’ve ever liked him-the chubby cheeks, the pointed chin, those Ritalin eyes with the bags beneath them;
his pasted down hair-it’s like he never washes it!
But most of all it’s his teeth; if there was anyone who needed orthodontia, it’s this kid.
Now what’s with his tongue? Lurking-and the more you look at it, the more noticeable-if not ominous-it begins to be.
And how about his hand? Is that his hand or is he being fed? Restrained and fed-maybe even force-fed-it figures, the little shit.
Finally, look at his fingers! Pretty old, fairly worn, it’s obvious he’s not doing math problems all day!
So, what is he really doing?
Yes, this is sad, so sad.
And people ask why we are losing our competitive edge in the world? What? We need talk shows and news channels and pundits to tell us? Save your time! Just go to your pantry, take out your box of Farina and look into the face of our future. That’s all you have to do.
There are but two, having never bred, the last of their particular kind –
they look different, yet, they’re very much alike –
one is loud and the other is stupid-it’s a wonder they ever survived, but that’s why they’re the fuck-tards;
surviving against all odds; crime, violence, accident – chance –
saved, probably because they have absolutely no value; they can’t be eaten; they’re bad pets -impossible to tolerate – socially untrainable, imbecilic I.Q.’s-
they can’t be taken out; they can’t be left in –
(fill in the names of any couple) –
Miss Susan – take a note;
call my whore and tell her that she has to be the first one here for the next two mornings;
after that, call the gourmet chef, the landscape architect, the interior designer, the social coordinator, the mother, the step-mother – and don’t forget the wife –
and tell them not to show up until I am finished with my whore –
do you have that?
J. H. Johns “grew up and came of age” while living in Knoxville, Tennessee and Milledgeville, Georgia. Since then, he has moved on to Chicago and New York City. Currently, he is “holed up” in a place called Getzville, New York where, when he is not writing, he tends to his “nature preserve” and his “back forty.” His goal is to surround his house with all sorts of vegetation so as to obscure it from the gaze of the “locals.” He is assisted in this task by his coonhound buddy and companion, Roma. His work has appeared in Alura, Wizards of the Wind, Word Slaw and is forthcoming in Syndic Literary Journal.