TO THE CROWS
By Ace Korakes
He was not designed to wipe tables with a cloth; it was hard for him to avoid cleaning them with his belly. In fact, he could’ve velcro’d a handiwipe to the lower slopes between navel and penis and cleaned the tables with that. You couldn’t help watching him—my God, the lighting in those offramp McDonalds is bright enough for a surgery theater—and you almost expected a laughtrack to follow him around as his belly sloshed over the formica table tops. Actually, though, the soundtrack was a trashy 70s standard, “How looo-ong…has this bin goin’ on?” One of those moments that seem, as the grad students used to say, “overdetermined.” As in, I get it, I get it already, leave me alone, leave that poor bastard alone. The one miserable consolation of the losers used to be that they stayed lean. Now they’re the ones who get fat, another gloating stat I saw recently. What next, Baron Harkonnen floating in to pull that fat busboy’s heart plug to general applause?