Woman spots mold on new tampon

[Headline, Huffington Post]

If an ice shelf the size of Texas breaks off the continent of Antarctica and floats away to melt in the sea, it will not directly affect my day, at least until sea levels rise high enough to flood my neighborhood. That sort of global-warming consequence doesn’t trouble me. If all the polar bears disappear tomorrow, I don’t care. I rarely hunt bears, on foot or from a helicopter with a high-powered rifle. I never go to the zoo. They say that when you get the kids every other weekend, you should take them to the zoo, but I’ve never done so. My favorite bar lets me park my children in an empty poker room as long as they keep quiet, so I just take them there.

But global warming vis a vis tampons is another matter. When warmth-loving molds and fungi and viruses begin to invade my personal space, it’s time to take action. I don’t personally use tampons, except perhaps occasionally on my “strange” days, but if mold can go there, what’s to stop it from showing up on, for example, my doobies?

Remember that molds reproduce more quickly than we do, and I’m not just complaining here about the lack of action in my life. Molds evolve quicker. That’s why a mold has already learned how to eat a tampon. Humans have evolved to the point of eating at McDonald’s, true, but McDonald’s is not Modess.

I don’t want to live in a world where I have to compete with an evolved mold for my job. I’m already losing out to our neighbors to the south. I might never work again. Say, could that be an upside to this mold invasion?

But seriously, if molds can learn to eat a tampon, why can’t they learn to eat the tamponee, or tamponess? I don’t wear underpants, but if I did, couldn’t the mold move in there and stage itself for an attack? I’m freaking myself out here.

My buddy tells me that there are molds that can talk. I think that’s what he said. How is that even possible? I guess molds must have mouths or how could they eat? But how tiny those mouths must be. When they talk, you’d be lucky to hear even a squeak. Plus, once you pull the tampon, I’m not wanting to hear the mold’s comments. Or get my ear near it, neither.

Why can the mold feel the global warming and I can’t, anyway? I’ve been spending my nights in the car and it’s cold out there. They say that there are more tornadoes, or is it hurricanes, but all I’m seeing is rain. Cold rain. Cold rain and mold growing on everything.

Marriage license kiosk opens up at Vegas airport in time for Valentine’s Day

You need energy to busk. You need to get up and get out there.

The sidewalk is the busker’s home, his neighborhood, his city, his world.

Or hers, until English gets a non-gender pronoun other than “it.”

Some think that buskers are only about sidewalk entertainment. Not so. Buskers are about life. Busking is meant to be a full-service endeavour.

I do not seek to entertain. I am of the clergy. My purpose is to conduct religious worship and perform other spiritual functions associated with beliefs and practices of religious faith. To provide spiritual and moral guidance and assistance to members of the community.

And yes, to marry couples. Singing and dancing (by me) included.

That’s my biretta on the curb there.

Be advised that I only marry couples, one born male, one born female. If you were born on the spectrum, I have a cassock you can shroud yourself in while I take a peek and check to see what’s what.

You’ll need a license. No license buskers out today. There are kiosks at the airport, in all the major casinos, and at all Chevron stations. The slots at most churches can also be set to pay out in marriage licenses.

Part of your vows must include a pledge not to use the divorce-lawyer buskers you see over there. God loves all his children but those guys piss Him off. Once you’re hitched, stay hitched. For the children’s sake. And while I’m thinking about it, don’t patronize the condom buskers either.

During the wedding liturgy, I’ll be performing “In Christ Alone,” “Make Me a Channel of Your Peace,” and “On Eagle’s Wings.”

Please take a number and step to the end of the line.

Pax vobiscum.

Conjure Woman

I visited a conjure woman. Always wondered. She’s in the storefront next to the Dive Inn. I’d had a few (Jerry threw me out of the Dive) and I just turned and went into her shop. Zarreera is her name.

She made three predictions.

First, that I’d meet a woman and fall in love but it wouldn’t last.

Sure enough, when I got back outside, here came Misty down the sidewalk and before you know it we were back in her (or his, sort of) room at the Cornfield Hotel. I was still drunk and I was in love but as foretold, I was soon yet again back out on the street drained and alone.

Second, Zarreera predicted that a license would help solve a problem I was having.

Good news, as my driver’s license had just been revoked after I drove straight through a traffic circle while impaired. Now without a car I had to walk home and a mutt followed me. I wouldn’t feed him but he hung around the house anyway, whining. Then he bit the mailman on the ankle and the judge made me get a dog license or end up in the clink.

Third, Zarreera predicted that I would go on a long trip.

Correct again. I bought some bad acid and I’ve been on the same bad trip ever since.

 

For the Daily Prompt: Conjure

Haiku Challenge: Quick and Slip

male mantis slips in
quick and leaves or if too slow
remains for dinner

For RonovanWrites