I and the Alligator I am sleeping underneath the gently-flowing river. Monkeys swing above my head like impostors of Tarzan, who was himself an impostor of monkeys. They swing into oblivion of infinte poasturing. I don’t need to count sheep to sleep under the river, where water imparts water unto itself. Ripples grow up to be big strong waves because they ate their Wheaties. I am never dehydrated under the river because I can gulp gallons of water just by quivering my lip open a sliver.
AND THEN A SNAKE BIT MY FOOT! Teeth jut in. Skin punctured. The bunker of my flesh is undressed, the wound swells like the river itself. Storm clouds gather angrily above this murky cesspool. A stinging is ringing through my nervous system, and a submerged log wafts under the stream. It clips and knocks my head, a ringing of hungover headache confusion registers and God dammit, my friend The Alligator, he is 10 minutes late for tea. Doesn’t anyone keep appointments anymore? They think they can blame their lack of punctuality on a draught or a slow current, but in the lucid rapids I can see through their lies.
Ah, but here arrives The Alligator, crawling lizardly upon the rocks lining the banks. He bears thanks for my recent birthday gift. I bought him a customized tooth brush, so his medulla oblongata hasn’t been acting up lately. I mix a batch of herbal tea by heating up the water and swirling hundreds of dainty teabags through the river. Now the river is drinkable, hot and wintry fresh, and we sip, then glug the hot brown stream, unplugged, rushing into oral apertures, receiving mystical concoction of tea, a geographical anomaly, sexy soothing grooving bladder-moving, and now I have to pee.
But I am content to hold it in. for I and The Alligator are engaged in thrilling conversation about the restructuring of the proletariat into a revolutionary class. He speaks incessantly about dirty pacifist liberals as cogs in a truly progressive movement. And he won’t stop talking thinks Trotsky was so amazingly chic just because he fought totalitarianism in the name of democratic centralism and I just have to pee I swear I’ll piss in his face his mouth that won’t close, I’ll give him a reason other than anger management to brush those prickly teeth. Now just where does he get off decrying the excessive luxuruies of the bourgeoisie when he’s a goddamn alligator who wears rimless spectacles, owns toilet paper, only eats mammals especially fattened for him by national park rangers, and uses a goddamn toothbrush, for chrissakes! All thought, no action. All preach, no practice.
It was then that I wet myself, and he said he wanted to be a rabbi so he can once again organize the Jewish population into a revolutionary contingent. Who does he think he is, a Spartacist? Who does he think he is, Jesus? An ancient shaman conducting rites, O mellifluous molestations of supine subjects, prostrate, they open their prostates to the touch of god breathing into nostrils and other cavities, he unwinds all travesties and unties all knots. So I and The Alligator share an ounce of pot and hazy hallucinations of the entire cast of Planet of the Apes swinging overhead, bleeting and being shorn. O ugly humans, stealing fur for their own vile, puritanical, anti-nudist purposes.