Dedicated to my dear deceased parakeet, who never hesitated to tell you exactly what he thought of you, and who my father has put on ice until further notice.
The Tweety-Four Freeze
Comin’ at you, that’s right, comin’ right at you from no-man’s land. It’s me: the Q-U-IN, the C and the Y- straight to you on frozen-fucking-wings. It may be cold, but damn if we’re not cool, here on the Freeze, tweetyfour-seven for your listening pleasure.
It’s a cool negative ten, and the Freeze-er-burn is about to begin.
I don’t know about you, but what the hell is it with the frozen peas? I mean, get it together, man. You’re all in this together. Stop rattling around in the door. Give me a fuckin’ break.
And how ‘bout that meat? This joke ain’t going where you’re thinkin’ it’s going- it might not even be funny. But the bottom line for me kids- that’s right, the bare-ass bottom- is who the hell eats this shit? I mean, come on! Would you eat mammoth meat frozen in a glacier? I think not! Get a fucking life and eat something that’s died in the last millennium.
Speaking about getting a life. Let’s face it people, for a God damn long time I’ve been plastic-wrapped and next to the bag of flour (all-purpose, it says, but it’s yet to get me out of here). I guess this is fucking limbo. And I’m telling you, there’s the low hum of the mechanics of this thing I’m interred in, and the light that clicks on with the outward swing o’ the door. There’s the flour, the peas, the Goddamned mammoth meat and me. We’re a quiet quartet, and I hate to pass the buck, but at least I’m trying here. There isn’t even any frickin’ seed.
When you think about going to seed (and let’s face it, at my age, who wouldn’t?), you don’t think o’ fluorescent lighting and sub-freeze-your-beak-off-zero weather. You think about the Big Millet in the sky. The Big Bird. Hot shit. Not this paralytic passivity that’s holdin’ my atoms hostage.
I am, as ever, your DJ. Here tell you the way it is: the straight shit.
Goddamn it. If I could just avoid the freezer-burn.
