The Title: Beauty demands a trumping!
or Iocus lex and Jokar kaanoon, or Fast Fiction. Or:
by Calumet, 2020
Meager by any measure she acquiesced the gig as a necessity, a means. She harbored awesome optimism nevertheless, an unimpeachable sentiment of virtue and, in spite of her distaste for bourgeois groping and such, she said ‘By the divine finger of necessity, I’ll put up with harassment. If it goes too far, I’ll cause an embarrassment.’
Everyone on the planet agreed. Rockets shot from Pyongyang, scores of blue whales coalesced in the northern Atlantic, the moon fixed itself between the meager eye of man and the sun during the seventeenth summer of the second millennium of our Lord and through the interstellar dust and clouds and dirt and exhaustive emissions, Diana cast her cylindrical shadow with reckless abandon, irrespective of geography, indifferent to sex. She said later, ‘It went too far. I caused him an embarrassment.’
All men some of the time are harassed by women. “The clown tried his hand at making law and made a mess,” he said as his son-in-law bare his skin to show the numerals 666 branded with supreme fidelity by that kid who used to run boat tours and has a tattoo shop in the heart of manhattan, where God was murdered and celebrities beatified, “of history,” he resigned. Then later, “So much arthritis in my hands! You’ve no idea the pain.”
The women of manhattan likewise caused embarrassments, but contrariwise those on wall street quietly bemoaned, ‘We’re getting squeezed the hardest,’ and a raucous chorus of laughter rained in cats and dogs and those hags on the today show touching each other as though it’s forbidden on the meager metaphor, then an applause, then a silence. He lobbied otherwise, ‘The guilt, the shame, the rot of it all, the testicles swelling and swelling without authorization,’ and she cried out in protest, ‘Here’s what happened,’ later insisting she misspoke and some time thereafter wrote a book in protest, the title of which is unimportant. Now therefore, after due consideration and payments in kind, Calumet, hereafter has free and clear license and title irrespective of geography and sex to insult trumpeting Americans and ingratiate himself on matters of artistic collusion and whatsoever ramifications, whether political or otherwise, to humiliate himself, goad a cidal president to seek inner quietude, castrate a puppet government, urinate on Moscow’s grand granite statue of Karl Marx, describify the new york times, subvert pedestrian oversight, ornament a mirror, and correctly order a drink at starbucks. ‘I felt like I stepped off a ship, a subtle vertigo reminding me of my virginity and of Dick’s proclivity for young women.’
Some discussion ensued and the world’s sinning gasped.