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Against Sentimentality


by Smiley McGrouchpants


               "My man Rush!" Nobody Blowhard at the Thanksgiving table opined in the middle of cranberry-sauce pouring  ruining it for another year, this peace at the holidays after 40-hrs. per week with weekends and 4-5 sitting in front of the tube and the dependent's every whim being catered to 'til age 18.  Who signed up for this?
               They all did!
               (Who asked them?
               (What's asking?)
               So, as if on cue  in 1995, what 'til '96, whole year's gone downhill, now  his wife rolled her eyes (as if to shrug her shoulders, What is one to do? a crucial gambit in the çharade of reconciliation; without that strut in place, the conjoining axle wouldn't be in place  it would fall apart, and all would be lost), and said, "Here we go again . . . "  Spreading butter on her WonderBread, while eyeing the kids to make sure they'd clam up.

               Nobody noticed, particularly.

               It's like when the show rolls over into a commercial and back into the commercial and forward into another show . . . you didn't do it!
               Feels "homey."

                                                                     THE END

               The comfort, itself, of feeling it slip awa

                                                                     THE EN'

                while you're leaning in, but powerless to escap

                                                                     TH'     'ND?

(curtain falls)
(horny teenagers, out on some lame excuse, screw in the back of a Cutlass Supreme)
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