Special K Is The Cornerstone Of Any Nutritious Breakfast

It’s fucking Spring, and I need to write something

I can feel the cold of the worked steel on the base of each hand. It’s what they call a MacBook ‘air’.

I decided to work outside as it’s a ‘nice’ day. That’s when I fell headlong into the black square known as the K-key. It lies in the Eastern hemisphere of the keyboard between the galaxies of J and L. It’s my own fault for staring at it too long and examining it in an insulting way, saying things in an Irish accent like,

You’re just tree fukin lines arranged in a posh way, yer fucker.

It showed me who is boss by sucking me deep into its atmosphere.

It’s what the ancients used to call a K-hole before K and Ecstasy became victims of the next generation’s desperate urge to rename fucking everything they come across, like walking on grass — earthing and eating an orange — oranging. Some might call it a reverse form of verbism — transforming a noun into a verb. I call it fuckwitting.

So now I’m looking around with my non-existent eyes at this unusual K-hole world.

It’s not round like an ordinary world.

Dang, I wouldn’t say it’s any shape whatsoever cos it has no dang edges this thing. A shape needs at least one dang edge to contain the space and render it magically different from the identical space on the other side of the edge.

In the case of space, some brown-toothed scientist, drunk on brainwaves, might discuss the size of the universe since the fucker’s mind is still caught by the illusion of an edge.

But the end of something requires, by nature, the start of something new. If there is nothing new, then there can be no end. Without beginnings, there are no ends. That’s what this K-hole is showing me. Dang.

It’s Wednesday, and I’m sitting outside enjoying the spring sun with an azure sky so rich that I want to drink the fucker like a deep blue cold beer.

But the part of me that feels desire is still down the K-hole, so I don’t need to have it because I can already taste it the moment I want it, and that’s okay. It means that wherever I am — down holes or in the spring sun is okay by me.

I take another seven long gulps of strong red Yorkshire tea made soft with creamy pulverised soybeans from an aquamarine tea cup as vast as Hugh Hefner’s spunk-tainted swimming pool or Mr T’s swollen ballsack after he copped a wasp’s fangs on the sack during the filming of The A-Team episode 435 — the one where Hannibal dresses up like a woman and Dirk Benedict’s Face ends up molesting him.

But there’s an echo of a knock that rings in the back of my head.

“Give me the keys,” I say to no one. “You hold the fish and the antacids,” I say again, handing myself nothing but holy fresh air dressed ghostly as antacids and a truckload of canned sardines.

Then I make my way to the front door, past the greasy kitchen with its family of dirty golden drops falling from the exhaust fan and the black mould snakes around the cold steel sink, distant cousin to the MacBook Air, and the ancient fridge with its condiment jewellery decorating the inside of its anaemic fanny door and the —

“Good afternoon, Sir,” says this grey-haired phantom big-faced man in a ballsy blue suit. He holds out a world-weary hand covered in callouses that could easily be mistaken for Walrus Verrucas.

“No thanks,” I say loudly so all the neighbours can hear, and all the black mould snakes and the golden oil bastards and all the black and red ants living in the giant food bin, creating a whole imaginary economy out of leftover potatoes and chicken bones.

By no thanks, I meant no thanks to rubbing my palm intimately up against his questionable calluses. But he gives me credit for saying no thanks to his pitch as if it were a lazy version of the more traditional What are you selling? Or the more easily transversal, Not today, thanks.

So the bastard heads straight into his pitch anyway, lowering his cold limb and opening a black folder with some heavy PowerPoint presentation printout behind shining smooth laminate that masks rather than frames the content due to the obtuse angle of the blazing spring sun.

So I can’t see his presentation, but I don’t think I need to. It’s probably just going to echo his words in a simplified form with fat red arrows and swirling word art designed to give the salesman something to do with his hands and a place to direct the attention of his victims while he inputs soft signals through the back door of their Walrus Celebrumius.

“Sir, my name is Charles D’Angelo. How are you this fine morning?” he says.

The question throws me back a few inches, and I know it’s the kind of question that one asks without giving a fucking flying fox about the answer.

Charles of the Angels is simply waiting for me to say something morbid like ‘Fine, thanks,’ so he can launch headfirst into some offensive pitch about how his vacuum cleaner sucks deeper and brings one to climax much more effectively than the others.

I want to say something about the TV show Charlie’s Angels and ask if his parents were fans, but I realise, given the age of this diplodocus, his parents would be boxes of snortable black dust by now. I don’t want to offend him.

“Fine, thanks,” I say, and Charles of the Angels says, “Well, that’s just swell now, ain’t it?”

I don’t know if that’s another question or not. It’s confusing because I’m still down the K-hole, and all of this is happening inside my head, and I feel too good to stop the narrative running on like warm nectar from an aching pussy.

“Say, have you heard of starving children before?” says the Angel. And, of course, I’ve heard of starving children unless he is talking about some obscure band from 1971.

“Which was your favourite album of theirs?” I ask him while I fondle the door frame, which penetrates me with its horny splinters.

“Well, I’m not sure what you mean there, partner?” says the Angel. He’s wearing a cowboy hat and oversized white cotton stuffed wings now. Is it Halloween? It must be Halloween. People don’t dress like this usually.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I have any candy for you,” I say, but I say it by holding up cardboard signs one word at a time like Bob Dylan or that creepy predator sheriff from Love Actually.

I take another deep swig of creamy Yorkshire, bite the head of a carob bear, and hug the door frame even tighter.

“Look, Sir. I’ll get straight to the point,” says the Angel. “Would you like to purchase this here cheese tasting box? It’s for the starving children.”

I don’t trust this guy. Who would admit that their box tasted like cheese? And besides, if the kids are starving, why doesn’t he give them the cheese box?

“Why don’t you give them your cheese box?” I say, sliding down the door frame, splintering my cheekbones like a messy eating beaver and landing at the Angel’s feet. I start licking his shoes, and he jumps back in an impressive Irish way like Michael Flatley in that stage show Lord of the Flies.

I’ve never seen an Irishman run as fast as that cowboy. Once he hit the standard eighty-eight miles per hour, his stuffed cheese wings began to flap like my mate Terry Daniel’s wife’s fanny whenever she sees a man in a construction outfit.

The Angel took off into the sky, and I got sucked back out of the K-key.

It’s a nice day. I’m glad I decided to work outside. I can feel the cold of the worked steel on the base of each hand.