Rufus Silas Wally Review: 2007

Can you Imagine a Nutless World? Because I can't. In Fact, I Love Nuts

Sure I was lonely, but what with the peanut butter strike coming to an end and the peanut butter boys heading back to work, I was now on the verge of debuting a sensational peanut butter cookie in our bakery.

That is, until a customer barged in and demanded that we open another bakery –

“Another bakery?” I asked.

“A nut free bakery!” she cooed.

Yes, "nut-free," I mused. I could see it now: A wondrous place where people with nut allergies could experience all of our tasty offerings without being rushed to the hospital, helpless and puffy like an almond croissant – without the almonds.

Wait a second. No almonds? This isn’t my bakery – it’s a nightmare.

Immediately, I felt like pointing out that it would never be a truly “nut-free” bakery so long as she was there. But I had to be cautious because this woman was clearly a genuine allergy Nazi – a rare and dangerous breed of wild customer.

Yet, I couldn’t keep her animal rage at bay. I stood there in awe as she audaciously requested, in all seriousness, that I invest in a wholly separate facility to cater to the “no-nut” niche – as if my wallet were an endless extension of the US economy.

That’s not all either: she wasn’t a mere run-of-the-mill “nut-free” nut passively on the prowl for no-nut treats. Oh, no – she cross-examined our baked goods, one eye at the end of a telescope aggressively aimed at our pastry case. Yes, she practically held us at gunpoint, demanding proof written in type O blood, just to guarantee her that not even the tiniest speck of peanut dust had "contaminated" her child's precious little nutless cupcake – or anything at all within a 12 mile radius.

"Peanut dust?" I asked her.

“It’s like cat dander,” she said. “Except it’s nuts.”

It’s nuts, alright, I thought.

She claimed that even the tiniest molecule of peanut dust could cause her child's airways to narrow, his tongue to swell – such that he might lose consciousness, die, or cause a negligible nuclear incident in a small village in Sudan.

That was rather bleak. I know someone in that village.I considered suggesting she purchase a bubble for her son, as it might be more affordable than erecting an entire nut-free enterprise, just so that her son can nosh on one “nut-free” cookie for the rest of his life.

Would you believe that lady? If you know what I'm talking about, cum nibble nuts with me for free at my nut-infused bakery. Pic for pic.

A Dry Heave Rushes Across The Fields

I cough up blood, sinks,
and directions to my house.
Come, AND BRING THE SPONGE.

Skullfucking Without The Skull

You, me.

No fatties.

Assitance Needed

My soul has grown extra limbs. It started as what I thought were gas pains. When I saw the doctor, he suspected cancer, tumors. Scans revealed nothing.

Soon, though, the pain got worse, and out of my eyes and ears and nostrils and my mouth and my anus came long arms with teeth.

They are invisible to the naked eye, but they nevertheless swing all about me swatting at the people near by.

My soul's eight limbs steal things at the grocery store and bodega without my knowing. When I get home at the end of the day, my body is full of candies and pens that I have unwittingly absconded with.

Who wants to get close enough to let my octosoul steal their heart?

I feel it swimming around inside me, my soul, and it is building a nest out of my organs. It is building a place to sit on your heart and hatch it. It has moved my lungs and my spleen and my appendix to a place just behind my intestines and it is molding it all into a hovel that I know, eventually, I will have to enter as well.

Will you hold my bellybutton open while I crawl into myself?

Let Me Have Your Feet

I am willing to buy or trade, up to $50 hands down, or I have some time shares that might interest you.

I don't take single toes, and no heels, please.

The Weather Is Eating Us

The Fall showed up this weekend with fork in hand and said to me, "You know the drill. Lie Down so I can eat you, crap you out again, and mold you into a new person."

Being chewed by Fall's breezy teeth and then sliding down his sweatery throat is one of my favorite ways of being consumed. (I also don't mind becoming pure liquid in Summer's Cuisinart and then being tossed down like an energy drink before being shot out of his squishy pits and lower back.) And once you're in Falls' stomach, there's cocoa and some good books to read, maybe even spiced wine if you're lucky, and --not to mention -- Indigestion, a shriveled crone from Staten Island who can prattle on about nearly any old thing so long as he's got enough Tums Chewables.

Now, being crapped out by the Fall isn't always the best, but it brings back memories of what it was like to be formless at least! His hands are cold, crunchy, and made entirely of leaves, so when the Fall molds us back into a person -- straight out of the crap that we are -- it feels pretty great like exfoliating a bit with a brick to the face.

So, get back to me if you want to surprise the Fall sometime with something exciting, like a sprinkling of salt or going out for a beer, or jumping it from behind with chloroform.

Can you love a loser?

I want you to love losers. But first, let me explain why. My need for you to love losers arose one day after my final success...

I stood facing my opponent, sword by my side, his idiot sidekick by his. When my victory was sure, a silence ensued – a silence so vast and heavy it filled every pothole on the street.

Bob the Mailman, who was passing by, bent to inspect the holes, shaking his head and rubbing his fingers over the spots where the absence of sound seamlessly met the gravel.

The silence continued in this way, long and stubborn, through the seasons. The leaves fell and were beautiful, scattered randomly across the stillness. A light snow left a cold blanket over the street. In the summertime, the muteness in the holes bubbled and stuck to the soles of our shoes. Those who tried to pass became cemented to the ground, forced to observe the final moments of our struggle.

But then the fickle memory of human truth reenlisted noise. A tire blew out. A man swore in the distance.

My opponent’s lackey, a shaky little man whose eyes turned to liquid under the heat of his insecurities, looked tearfully to his idol.

He said, “You ain’t going to lose, huh boss? You still strong. You strong and winning, ain’t you, boss? You the best swordsman in this part which is every part, ain’t it boss?”

My opponent’s head lowered and sadness filled my heart. I told him not think about it too much, that this happens to the best of us. But it was a lie. I was the best and it never happened to me.

My opponent threw his sword into the deepest, noisiest pothole. He walked off despondently, leaving his stupid sidekick to wither in the loud static of his worst fear -- that of being alone.

About a month later, I received a delicious fruitcake in the mail. I thanked Bob the Mailman for the delivery and shut the door. I couldn’t prove it, but something inside me said it was from the sidekick, the fool lackey with slow waterfalls for eyes. Something in the taste of that cake told me that he was going to be all right.

But then the dove of revelation flew into my window. I suddenly felt I had arrived in a new kingdom of the mind, and things were going to be different. After so many years of success in business and war, it finally caught up to me. I couldn't do it anymore.

I ate only half the cake and threw the rest in the garbage. I climbed the stairs and kissed all of my daughters and sons goodnight. After a short prayer, I flushed my sword and my MBA down the toilet.

Watching them swirl and disappear forever into the underworld of anonymous excrement, I thought to myself: we all lose in the end – some of us just by winning way too much.

Send a pic if you want to win my affection.