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.”
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