Dinner With My New Friend
By R.G. Johnson
Over sweetened ice tea and medium rare steaks, I engage in acrobatic conversation with the gunman. Between the aerial bedlam of his kung fu hand gestures and flawless anecdotal footwork, he explains that the pistol he has pointed at my head is just a metaphor for the frustration of our generation. His thoughts spill into the world like tabloid headlines read by a berserker warrior on cocaine holiday. The sudden directional shifts are stunning: he jumps from God’s will to Faith Hill’s breasts like a tree frog darts from leaf to leaf. By the time he’s finished his mindbender of a firework display, I may want him to shoot me just so the world can understand his poignantly blurred message. He mirrors the cancerous stupidity that baffles me on a daily basis. Just as I’ve finished my last juicy bite, and I’m ready to be a martyr for his lack of a cause, he puts the gun in his mouth and fires. Great! Now, not only am I stuck in this ignorant world with no chance at redemption, but I’m also going to puke up a perfectly good steak because this sideways asshole can’t finish himself off privately. This restaurant sucks. I’m never eating here again.
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R.G. Johnson lives in the Piney Woods of east Texas. He grows his own food, cuts his own hair and writes his own poetry. He has recently been published in Clockwise Cat, Gutter Eloquence, Negative Suck and Paradigm Journal. He once made love to a rattlesnake.
By R.G. Johnson
Over sweetened ice tea and medium rare steaks, I engage in acrobatic conversation with the gunman. Between the aerial bedlam of his kung fu hand gestures and flawless anecdotal footwork, he explains that the pistol he has pointed at my head is just a metaphor for the frustration of our generation. His thoughts spill into the world like tabloid headlines read by a berserker warrior on cocaine holiday. The sudden directional shifts are stunning: he jumps from God’s will to Faith Hill’s breasts like a tree frog darts from leaf to leaf. By the time he’s finished his mindbender of a firework display, I may want him to shoot me just so the world can understand his poignantly blurred message. He mirrors the cancerous stupidity that baffles me on a daily basis. Just as I’ve finished my last juicy bite, and I’m ready to be a martyr for his lack of a cause, he puts the gun in his mouth and fires. Great! Now, not only am I stuck in this ignorant world with no chance at redemption, but I’m also going to puke up a perfectly good steak because this sideways asshole can’t finish himself off privately. This restaurant sucks. I’m never eating here again.
- - -
R.G. Johnson lives in the Piney Woods of east Texas. He grows his own food, cuts his own hair and writes his own poetry. He has recently been published in Clockwise Cat, Gutter Eloquence, Negative Suck and Paradigm Journal. He once made love to a rattlesnake.
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