Fiction

Tonepoem: “Two Strikes you’re out!”

By: Vilhotti

Greek godsThe Greek gods and some lesser ones known as Chicanery, Gotcha, Adam Smith’s hand up your ass, Morta Fama and Doom sat watching this game they had encountered many many years before; seeing the likes of the great Babe Bambino hitting awesome jerk off skyscrapers that went for “Homers” while almost at the same time devouring prodigious amounts of hot-dogs, speckled with “stuff” due to no regulations, while gulping down gallons of American made nectar pissed in by pissed off hyphenated people called “stressed out underpaid workers”; the American-Black Satchel, who may have been sixty five years old when he struck out his last major league Whitey Zim Chad Florida who had a rope and a tree bulging in his back pocket. They surmised Lady Justice wore a blind folder since she didn’t want to see what was really going on.

After the greed season happened when both cigar smoking owners and tobacco chewing ball players showed great contempt for what was once a game doing end runs with the fanatics “leisure dollars”, the gods looked upon “The Thing” with a jaundiced eye. Their thinking was an old Greco-Roman ideal that made mankind something of beauty and not total disgust to be laughed at making dollars grow in comedian’s pockets and so the gods began adding even more odd dimensions to The Thing: like having a ball trapped inside a grotesque Arabian Oily hand only to bounce out of it when making the pasture guarder bang against an AlBurton bought fence, making what looked like an out become a fourbagger and many other mischievous doings that confounded everyone making for many semi-thrills to happen among the many Styrofoam, bought from corruptations and not people, leaking cup holders called the mass fanatics.

The announcement over the loudspeaker asked all good un-clean, self-hating people to donate five, ten or a thousand dollars to a great cause propounded by the owner “Little Duh Duce” of the Los Alamo Rockets but still even if they did that noble thing, the team would still be raising their prices on seat tickets – for didn’t one of the great American gods say “time was money” and “If you give up your freedom for security – you won’t have either one!” as was fornicating pretty French women – to make become a reality the pellet missile system which the whole world would fear – including friendly nations that were trying to play in the game of greed too? It was known also in corporate jargon as “The Mighty PMS” and if it worked by slaughtering the Indians, Braves and Redskins – then no other team would dare come into their stadium ever again!

“Explain please?” Zeus asked.

Poseidon, god of the sea and horses, took it upon himself to answer; being sort of a favorite of the mighty one who had beaned the throne off their father’s head: “Before we Greeks came to power in the Mediterranean area, the whole world was concerned with dying; making all kinds of phony religions flourish, so building structures in honor of death, like the ziggurats of Babylon and the pyramids of Egypt, whose women were the first to rouge their lips to resemble juicy—and they thought the Greeks and Romans were weird because they wiped themselves with what would later become known as toilet tissue while they thought their fingers were good enough!”

“What in the holy hell does that have to do with the price of bitter broccoli rape that the Romans gave for free to the poor masses?” Zeus shouted while looking up at women fanatics sitting with wide legs drinking eight dollar cups of beer. Hard objects were taken away from disgruntled fanatics who were throwing them at two hundred hitters, pitchers with earned runs numbers flirting at five runs an inning and managers who fell asleep in their spit-filled caves.

“But my most powerful One —greater than even the Persian god of light with his twelve apostles who wanted reincarnation to make a better world happen and I was getting to the point in my own galloping wave-like way— “

“Do you recall the bastard Prometheus the fire giving guy?” Hermes reminded him.

“By Jove I do Rounders! You see, the owner of the teammortals named Casper Shrub Cheeeny, who lost much of his brain cells during his earlier years what with drinking like the great Babe and some say doing babonia-dope on the side and when as a juvenile delighted in killing frogs with his BB gun and those not killed to death by that, he would put salutes into assa representive openings to blow them up, has this money making idea for the AlBurton makers of fungo limbs and Lilly white spheres who by the by contribute lots of masuma to his unholy pastime – winning elections with the aid of black-robed supreme court umpires. And if the ticketbuyers fold into it, which he knows they will since these same people like the idea of paying banksters high interest rates that would make old Popes blush.

“How pray tell?” Zeus shouted as he was invisibly doing coitus on a good looking female fan; rubbing his knee with a closed fist which he would soon bite; making spike mark indentations appear all over its back just like Gaea’s once good earth had been eaten.

“He wants to position one of his fungo mortals on the foul side of left pastures, and if the fanatics buy into this, he will add another one in foul right pastures so when they see the small sphere hit by an enemy clubmortal going toward Homerville they will begin hitting their spheres to hit it so preventing it from going over the fence and become a buying item for the courts to decide like who would become a president! PMS up yours!”

All the gods looked away knowing that the last remanents of democracy was being killed to an agonizing death in the land of the passive and free of the brave as Zeus began chewing the back of his hand – thinking the world was becoming a domain of ass hole fools.

*****

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