Here At Home

[Ancestrally-privileged moguls] sometimes have these uncrinkled pieces of legal paper with manicured black characters drafted upon them, and from these West Indian (not East Asian) manuscripts, a showstopping food chain of sociopolitical implications expands – in to the inner-city, out to the shore (the ’burbs), in to the classrooms, out to the playgrounds, in ivory doors, out closets, in hearts out of iron. The networking is just splendid and the chicken is almost always prepared to perfection, their rooms are made made of bulletproof glass - a great irony considering the classes they’ve attended and the security at the iron gates.

Welcome to the Johnson & Johnson’s, leave the .223 at home next time, Damien. Would you care for a drink did you ask the trainer don’t worry I already did (what a question in this period, Mrs. Robinson reflected)? Mirrors slanted away from the walls as they soared towards the stratosphere interrupted by the arched ceiling and the golden molding in the great hall of the balding mogul’s mansion. The realism of the gazes trapped in the European paintings challenged the indifference of the Iowan safety established near the turn of the century. Safely looking up at the ceiling (because no one else was looking), Mrs. Robinson noticed paintings by Woody’s heroes on the walls.

As her shiny heels clicked behind her husband and his boss, the felt her face sink into its bones, her chest press down at her stomach, “oh, that’s George Washington,” she whispered as a code red level of inhibition began to swirl inside her. There he was, “The Father of His Country,” mounted on a horse in the New Jersey woods. Woody and Damien had a similar relationship [to other professional relationships like this one].

Right, right, oh of course. Next time, no such thing. Bust down the double doors on the field next time. Haha, yes. The logs from the inner thoughts during this interaction proved so large as to be correctly-termed ‘unwieldy.’

Winning Race