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Who Invented the Fucking Coat Pocket?

Who invented the fucking coat pocket? That was where this mess all started. If this had never been invented, he knew, he would not have this issue. Clothing makes the man they say. Why made up that saying? Next, who convinced the world that this was a true statement not to be denied? Maybe because it has a ring to it. Like all rocks mainly just lie there if left to themselves. Like someone decided it’s a planet we live on. That’s it’s a planet we live on can’t possibly be true. Just look around; stop and do so now; if indoors, go outdoors. Some deadline’s looming, you say? Can’t possibly leave that desk now, you say? What deadline’s as important as driving your car directly into the overpass abutment of universal truth? Being stricken by such stops one. One becomes much like a rock that lies there if left to oneself. One becomes fully the truth; like clothes make the man is a truth. Like rocks just lie there’s a truth. But who invented the fucking coat pocket? After losing one’s job because of abandoning one’s post and causing the big once in a career’s feather in the cap deadfeather not alive but quite important deadline, one is left with to ponder on who invented the fucking coat pocket. Because one more time the dog wants a walk. Because one more time the leash click is snapped. Because one more time the whippytail whips so violently yes violently that it may fly off actually it’s never happened ever that’s safe to assume but to prevent this period of before-the-walk foreplay between man and dog being the first blood spattering occurrence of fly-flinging tail-loss, one hurries out and then the next open-air problem becomes why is it not into Spring yet, so this embarrassingly silly looking coat can be left behind? And yes, oh yes. Yes, this does not look like a planet we’re on at all but what does it matter? Planet or plankboard off some pirate ship down to another not yet detected super-frenzied shark-swarm, what does it matter? We have a dog to walk, Easy! There’s a dog to walk, Easy! cried Sergeant Rock repeatedly. Everything is a war actually. How’s that for a high? Open your mind to a truth and it’s cemented into place permanently. Even if not true. See what minefields God has sowed? Be careful where you step. It might not be dog this time but the land hereabouts is littered randomly with poo of the doe, too. Some buck is a bonus. Look ‘round there might be a shed rack or two, too. So, pay attention. Don’t let the shit encountered in the walk hammer shut your vision. Hup. Ho. Hup hup. Ho. Let’s not dodge the question any further, though; who what how hey anyway invented the fucking coat pocket?
It no doubt started thusly; in some old day she said, Ramen, don’t try to carry all your fishing tackle to the car at once. You will stumble-twist on some cobble, whip ‘round down and end in a debilitating fall. And the dozen eggs there on top of the load might open, bouncypop across, and one or two may crack all yellowish gooey. This will waste money. No no no, it’s not just an egg. Eggs are money. Kind of like time. But one can touch an egg. Thusly which one is the most important? But, hey—what are you bringing a dozen eggs fishing for? No, shut up, don’t answer. I don’t need your opinion. Why did I ask you? That was just a nod to fairness. I already knew that what I said was true. No discussion needed. No wasted time tonguin’ and jawin’. Your fastflapping jawbone might get broke you know if you use it. Too much fatigue cracks you know; fatigue cracks in aluminum for example have been the root cause of many major aviation disasters. Some nurse practitioner may have to wire your cracked jaw tightly shut. How will you eat then? You’ll die on just soup for the requisite six months. So; like I said, Don’t try to carry all your fishing tackle to the car at once. Ramen. Do you hear me, Ramen? Here, see—see all you’ve dropped. A spool of line there rolling away peeled off from your direction slowing and disc-dancing down ending up flat on the blacktop—and there you dropped a box of split shot that became fifty-five tiny black leadballs scattering equally in every direction; yah great big pointillistic lead-star rolling out all perfect all splendid all beautiful to behold for simply one moment then gravity spreads the leads all totally apart like a sandhill built on the beach hit by two waves or the bit parts of the new born universe a split-sec after the big bang. Moreso, there’s hooks; lures; plugs; all fishy fishing gear all trebly sharp-hooked tiny easily mouthed-up things, quite treacherous for all breeds of critters. The Problem Ramen is you need to carry too many things around. When Adam and Eve were in the garden everything was real-time; hungry now, snatch down a fruit; eat it core and all; move on carrying nothing; need to evacuate body waste here and now? Easy. Squat. Relax. Nature works everything out and you snatch down a handful leaves for anal hygiene. Here and now though, none of these is possible. To have an apple to snatch down and eat right there in real time is a lie; it’s not at all real-time because there is not always within reach at all times pre-original sin time and pre-serpent Eden place, these times and places did not require Adam or Eve to go out days earlier purchase a large number of mackintoshes and be able to bring the whole mass of fruits home miles away in a comfortable and reliable manner without losing a single one. To enable this, they developed artificial extra hands and named them carrying bags. After outerwear got invented they decided that if it was good to have all these artificial hands, wouldn’t it be better to free up the flesh and blood hands altogether and stitch the carrying bags to their outerwear. Even Iceman Ötzi had a belt with a pouch sewn to it that contained a cache of useful items. Then after a while, for neatness’ sake, they started sewing the hands right into their outerwear and called them something entirely new, ha, hey, ho; thusly they invented the thing called pocket, second only to the whirlyspun rapido-san wheel herself God bless her ass. So the dog gets its walk in the colder months looking like quite an elegant dog, saddled with an owner behind wearing a ridiculously long thousand-pocketed coat gifted him by his partner only to humiliate; presented to him by his fed up spouse saying, Yes, you need a coat like this you are always carrying a million things people that see you pass by must think you’re homeless please honey for me for me get your stolen shopping cart down to the marketplace get your hair cut begin showering and shaving every day brush your teeth twice daily call the dentist to go get the black crooked stubbly ones in front fixed up hey pappy you know Stonehenge your mouth is like Stonehenge inside all around consider Stonehenge in England is inspiring mysterious and full of secrets qualities which when taken together make it beautiful but Stonehenge in your mouth is dispiriting clearly nothing else but rotted and radiating stench qualities which when taken together make it hideous hideous yes it is hideous please for me honey do all those things and then put on this iconic coat—

Latch the house off behind and be outside to do the dog walk. The actual walking dims down the awareness of the hated coat. She gave it so it must be worn. Gifts given must be used. Especially when in sight of the giver. The first bush the first leg-up and squirt. The walk is officially begun. It’s mid-day on a workday. There will be few if any around to see the foolish man in the foolish coat. And the dog has eaten since the last walk. The probability of relatively quick defecation is high. Thus, the likelihood of being spied in this monstrosity is reduced. Plus, it would be much appreciated if this walk is brief because the dogwalker’s sleep last night was abbreviated. It was rare he went to the club in mid-week but last night’s foolish clash with his life-partner slash giver of this coat was best wrestled down and away all gone by leaving. Silly silly clash something to do with cheese. What about cheese? No, you do not want to know—the second bush the second leg-up and even bigger squirt than the last—thank you boy. Going to the club for a beer would not in and of itself deprive him of sleep but he had stayed a bit longer. The music was better than ever last night. That band. That piano, those drums, but; especially that sax player! Oh—hey there, good boy—just as I predicted you went fast and large. Home now.

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