As long as we have been on the topic of the Trudgey Mint®, we had best say a few words about the Lumpy Burger®, and the psychic benefits of consuming this most delectable treat.
Crafted entirely from reclaimed and karmically-neutralized human flesh, the Lumpy Burger® is the fast-food delicacy you have been looking for! Aside from the golden-brown spelt and glucose-ethylene bun that serves as a royal throne to this king of meat-wiches, the Lumpy Burger® is 100% gluten-free, and produced exclusively from the donated limbs of free-range Chicagoans. Bone fragments are carefully removed, and the resulting meat is ground to a smooth and even texture.
Before we go any further, please note that this entire account is fictitious, and neither the blog, the editors, the writer of a Martini and a Pen, the board of directors of Tom Janikowski Industries, Inc., or the Monika Luukkonen Literary Agency advocates cannibalism or the eating of human flesh in any way.
Little Mikey Nitrous knew just how beneficial the Lumpy Burger® could be, and he would save up the nickels and dimes that he earned from mowing old Mr. Swicknipple's lawn just so he could enjoy the meaty treat at least once a week. When Mr. Swicknipple's lawn did not need mowing, Mikey would break into his house in the middle of the night, flood the basement with a garden hose, and then offer to help Mr. and Mrs. Swicknipple bail it out later in the morning. Mr. Swicknipple was always confused, but grateful. Little Mickey would squirrel away the loose change in the tin-foil brassiere that he had crafted in art class and that he kept on a high shelf in his bedroom. Sometimes when the moon was full and bright, its light would reflect off the brassiere at night and keep Mikey awake. A small price to pay for such fine artwork, he felt.
Good art is like that, isn't it? More on that on another day.
When the time was right and his brassiere was full, Mikey would ride his little scooter-contraption down to the local Lumpy Burger® franchise and order up “a double”. This was always a little dicey, as each Lumpy Burger® was crafted from the flesh of a single limb, but there was no such guarantee made about the continuity of limbs when more than one patty were combined. The diner might be consuming the calf-meat of a dental hygenist from Cicero and the forearm of an accountant from Westchester, or the bicep of a transient from downtown and the thigh-meat of a shop owner from Skokie.
Psychic and karmic confusion could likely ensue.
After consuming his Lumpy Burger®, little Mikey would recline on the cool, cool lawn outside the restaurant (for Lumpy Burger® restaurants were always, by contract, encircled by a wide swath of cool, green grass). He would look up into the sky and watch the puffy, white clouds float by as he waited for the spirits of those whose flesh he had just consumed to talk to him. Often, with a double, he might be liable to hear from spirits on “both shores,” as it were, for about half of the Lumpy Burger® donors were still alive and merely getting by with prosthetic limbs.
On one fine day, after having just enjoyed a double with friend onions, little Mikey Nitrous lay in the grass, listening for voices and looking at clouds. He did not have to wait long.
“Make peace with your creator every day,” said the spirit of a librarian from Lincoln Park who had met her end by a falling brick.
“Give me back my stapler, you idiot,” said the spirit of a graphic artist currently working in Elmhurst.
Michael swallowed and then sat down the rest of the burger. Using his little entrenching tool (he always carried his little entrenching tool), he dug a small grave in the soft green lawn. He placed the remains of the Lumpy Burger® in the shallow hole, and carefully covered it with soft, cool earth. He picked up his things and, wiping the dirt from his hands as he walked from the grave, got back on his scooter-contraption and zoomed home, feeling his neutralized-karma levels to be at a dangerously low level. Mikey contemplated this as he arrived at his house and went inside.
He went to the den and plopped down in his father's overstuffed recliner. “Aww, fiddlesticks,” he said, flipping the TV to the shopping network, “the hell with Karma. I'm just gonna' buy me some herbal samsara inhibitor.”