Zen In The Art of Absurdity

by Carla René

  Zen In the Art of Absurdity

  Carla René

  Published by Carla René, ePub Edition

  Copyright (c) 2010 Carla René

  License Notes

  This eBook edition is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold, or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank-you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Sounds Like… (A Self-Portrait)

  Road Rage

  See Dick and Jane Beat the Hell Out of Jack and Jill

  Sleep Walker

  The Tokyo Kens (An exercise in writing bad fiction)

  It's All Just Water Under the Fridge

  We All Need Traditions

  That'll Be Seven Lipsticks, Please

  The Suicide Ranks

  Radio Shack, Earwax and Toilet Paper

  A Justifiable Lack of Initiative

  Zen In the Art of Absurdity

  Sounds Like… (A Self-Portrait)

  So then Fern, the garden queen, gently lifts her porcelain buttocks from the comfy, mossy rock she's been eating bon-bons from in Derwood Forest, and strides over to Rogers — her ethereal veil of silk flowing softly behind, her hips swaying in hypnotic fashion beneath.

  She watches Rogers — who is prone to vomiting in the company of a beautiful woman — lower his eyes and chuck up on an unsuspecting stump.

  A peel of easy laughter escapes her full, soft lips, exposing her perfect, white teeth.

  Rogers, now finished with his projectile vomiting, looks at her in a precarious manner; however, he begins a round of guffawing, for there, lying nestled between her two front incisors, is a piece of chicken wing.

  As his laughter reaches fever pitch, Fern recognizes what's happening, and takes her tongue and begins a horrific sucking sound in an attempt to just Hoover the chicken out, which would have been successful had she not accidentally sucked too hard, issuing the chicken forth as a missile down her throat.

  Thinking this was part of her charm, for Rogers is not exceptionally, or even minimally bright, he begins imitating her, unaware that she is dying.

  Unable to catch her breath, or to make him stop guessing Charades titles, Fern realizes that this will be her last opus; her swan song to the forest, and so makes a valiant showing in preparation for her final exit by arranging her silk around her delicate feet, finding the perfect soft spot to lie, and gently uncoiling her lithe body along a carpet of purple pansies, her favorite The amazing part, is that she was still choking during the scene.

  As the choking finally ceases, Rogers is stunned, realizing the gravity of what has just happened, and that the authorities will probably now be on his ass for murder.

  He moves over her almost lifeless body and takes in the curves of her delicate face; the rosy cheeks that held such promise, the strawberry ringlets that playfully licked her neck — a neck he would have killed to have buried his face in late at night. He bends over her as if to whisper his good-bye, his body full of grief for what could have been.

  He continues to stare, motionless. He's near enough to smell her — white gardenias — they fill his senses. Her sheer femininity tears at his dusty clod heart, and one of his tears falls to the bountiful grace that is her breasts.

  Then right there, in the serenity and tranquility of Derwood Forest, as the death rattle hits the precious and prissy princess, snatching her exuberant life from her, she belches and farts one last time.

  Road Rage

  “Get the hell off the phone and drive like you had some sense! It’s a Yugo for god’s sake!”

  Words that become my mantra each and every time I set wheel to the pavement on our interstate system. Wait, just a sec.

  “It’s called a blinker! Use it before I tear the rear-end off your Pacer with my Gremlin.”

  Where were we? Oh yes. Mantras. Ya know, I don’t think of myself as a particularly special person. I’m just a normal house-wife with three beautiful, god-given children. I vote, go to church, cut my husband’s toe nails on the weekend … I live a pretty normal, run of the mill Mid-western life that most people would kill for.

  But you get me behind the wheel of a car, and suddenly, that driver’s seat is a place of honor, my cheeks are the chosen ones, and I believe that only the pure of heart for traffic laws may inhabit it. I am an advocate for stopping road rage. And the ironical thing is that it took me seven whole tries before I got my driver’s license. Pssst. But that’s just between you and me. Road Rage is an unnecessary evil that must be abolished on the highways and bi-ways of America and I am the one to do it. It just boils my onions, “HEY! STOP RIDING IN THE PASSING LANE!” when people don’t observe the law. You know, those rules are posted for everyone’s protection.

  Oh I’m sorry, are you all right there? Yeah, just buckle up next time and you won’t hit your face with the dashboard. That idiot just stepped on his brake for no reason. When I pull up next to him, shoot him the bird and then I’ll speed up so he can’t pull a gun on us. Well why not? Well, I say if these people are going to act like idiots on the road, then it is our civic duty to give it back to them, full force.

  Oh for cheeze sake, did you just see that? He stopped for a Yield sign! It might as well have said “Beer”. What? Oh yes, I’m sorry. Back to the interview.

  How common a problem is road rage? I’d say very common now that you can buy firearms over the counter. But let that not be a deterrent I say. So you end up with a tiny bullet hole in your windshield. It’s fixable, get over it. And at least when you see yourself looking down the barrel of that gun, you can take pride in knowing that when you slammed on your brakes suddenly, it was to teach that guy behind you not to tailgate like a bitch in heat. “HEY! ARE YOU RETARDED? IT SAYS NO PASSING!” It is that commitment to abolishing road rage that will make this country great.

  Excuse me, got a live one. No, it’ll be fine, just let me handle this. Can you see him? He’s riding my ass. I’ll just let him pass. Here he comes. Yes, yes, the interview. Just a minute, I’m working here. Look at that, he’s talking on his cell phone with the windows rolled down. Heh heh; I’ll just blow the horn so he can’t hear anything. Oooh, did you see that? He’s not happy. I’m so glad you’re here to witness this moron’s driving for yourself. Wha? Well, now you can see me in action. Oh boy, he’s pissed. He just swerved into my lane! Can you believe the gall of some people? Hold on, I’m going to swerve back at him. Hah! Take that you piss-ant Would you mind staying on your own side of the car please? You’re breaking my concentration. And if you want to hang your head out the window, please roll it down first. Oh hey, look at that, he’s getting off at the next exit. I’ll just slow down to make sure. Wait. What’s this? Can you believe it? It looks like the assbag stopped on the exit ramp, and now he’s flipping a finger at me; just shot it straight up into the air! Well now that was just rude and uncalled for. I think it might behoove the department of Motor Vehicles to make everyone take a class in common manners each and every time they renew their license. You can quote me on that if you like. It’s all my own idea ya know. Oh my gosh, did you see that? It looks like the lady behind him didn’t see him in time and just rammed him in the rear end!! WOO HOOOO! Drivers everywhere are now avenged. I wish I could be a fly on his phone when the cops ask him how he got himself into that predicament …

  All right now, where were we? What? You don’t want to finish the interview? But what about your piece on me for the six o’clock news? Oh, you’ve changed your scheduling. Well, yes, I suppose I understand. That’s show business I guess. What about another wee… Yes, I understand, busy; lots of news to
cover. I’ll just drop you back off at your car, and well, thanks so much for your time. Pardon me? Do I have Tourette's Syndrome? No, I don’t think so? Why do you ask?

  See Dick and Jane Beat the Hell Out of Jack and Jill

  "On your mark, get set, go!"

  Two teams of characters broke forth into a run. Dick and Jane, the protagonists, were dressed in blue jerseys, and had been doing this since their debut in the fifties.

  The antagonists, Jack and Jill, dressed in red, weren't quite as accomplished in working their way through prose—poetry was more their thing.

  Each team raced through the Introduction, and it was involved, due to all the information regarding the ensuing prose—along with the Prologue and artist's illustrations. They had to wade through bull shit, through the long line of self-aggrandizing thank-yous and dedications. At the end of the Introduction, both teams were dead even.

  "Hey, deadbeat," Jack yelled to Dick. "We're gonna crush you like piss ants."

  "I'd watch that nasty Point of View, if I were you," said Jill.

  "Shut your hole, you one-dimensional slut," came Jane's reply.

  On to their first check-point: The Table of Contents. It was here they could sit and recuperate, get a bite to eat, a bit of drink, and be on their way. Jack and Jill finished first and sprinted out of the tent, laughing maniacally.

  "You're nothing but a metaphor! Get over yourselves," yelled Jane.

  Dick looked over at her. "Honey, you'd better be careful, or they're gonna censor you."

  "I don't know why I'm so angry lately."

  Dick gulped the last of his sports drink. "Could be your Period. Or it could be that bitch author René. She loses a wing nut every now and then. Now, c'mon. We've already given those Weird Al wannabes too much of a head start."

  Back on their way, the next obstacle was a hill. No sign of the antagonists: Jack and Jill must have already gone up.

  "Looks harmless enough," said Jane, as they began their ascent.

  Mid-way up the hill, however, Dick became entangled. It was a tool most writers used and the harder he fought, the tighter its grasp on him became.

  "Help! I'm stuck in an outline! Oh God… "

  As the ink threads of the outline enclosed around him, his breathing became labored and his will to fight ebbed away with each new bullet point."

  "Hang on, I've pushed my panic button for help. It's almost here."

  At that moment, a checkpoint team of editors began whacking their way through the miasma with a white liquid. Just as Dick drew what should've been his last breath, they wiped away the offending ink and pulled him out of character on a stretcher.

  *****

  Jack and Jill stood at the top of the hill, laughing.

  "It worked beautifully," said Jack, as he grabbed his wife's hand. "Now, come on. We've got more work to do before we can win this thing."

  *****

  In spite of their recent setback, Dick and Jane made good time. They cut through new paragraphs with ease, sailed through detailed descriptions, and met glorious minor characters along the way.

  With still no sign of Jack and Jill, Dick began to get worried that perhaps they had fallen too far behind.

  Suddenly without warning, A Dark and Stormy Night roared up from nowhere and they were caught in the raging wind, stinging rain, and hackneyed prose. With each step they took, it pushed them back five.

  "What are we going to do?" Jane screamed.

  But Dick couldn't hear her, the wind stole her words before they reached him. For the next half hour, they cut paths through the thick, over-written prose, the sickening metaphors, and the garish description, making very little headway. With each step the hill became steeper, and took more talent to maneuver

  "Jane!" As Dick watched Jane slip down the steep hill, he felt his heart go with her.

  Jane had tripped over a dangling participle and was shooting back down the hill like a missile. Dick quickly let go of the line and allowed himself to slip back with her. Just before she fell off the page, he grabbed her hand. "C'mon! You've got to fight, baby! We can do this. No way am I gonna let those antagonists win!"

  Jane summoned new courage as her heart raced and her palms sweat. She found a rock to gain a foothold, and with her last ounce of strength, helped Dick pull her to safety. For a moment, Dick just held her, smoothing her golden hair.

  They were still sitting behind the scene setting, when they heard a noise.

  "Dick, what is th… "

  He shushed her, and pointed to a clearing in the distance.

  A tri-tone colored beagle took off running for the stream.

  "See Spot run?" Dick said.

  Jane was transfixed, as if she'd never seen a cliché before.

  Safely at the top of the hill now, they looked around. Dick saw it first: a piece of red jersey. "Just what I thought."

  "Oh, Dick! What are we going to do?"

  "We're going to win, fair and square. Let's just pray that the Gods Apollo, Pindar and Aristophanes are with us today."

  They resumed their journey, taking in the scenery as they went. They were surrounded by the best a writer had to offer. Tall, vibrant-colored redwoods, stretching and yawning for the clouds, lush, soft grasses that tickled toes without effort and clouds as blue as a Medieval Knight's eyes.

  "Bloody hell! This exposition runs on forever! How are we going to get out of here? I saw the team of antagonists up ahead and they're already to their first chapter. Wanker writers," said Jane.

  "Yeah, you'd almost think Alaric McDermott was writing this one."

  *****

  Meanwhile, at Chapter One, Jack and Jill were making huge strides. Suddenly, a steel rod with a rounded end appeared from behind the closest tree and before they could act, it wrapped around their torsos and began dragging them toward the tree.

  "Jack! What's happening?"

  "I think it's the hook! Every good story has one."

  "Well how do we get out of it?" Jill was in a full blown panic attack.

  "Calm down, hon. Just let it take you to the next paragraph. Allow yourself to get caught up in it—it's quite fun, actually."

  Jill calmed herself and did as Jack said. The hook took them past the fir trees, through the underbrush and through a wide field, with hazy purple mountains in the distance, then stopped and removed itself from their bodies. They looked around.

  "C'mon! I see the next marker for our path!"

  As they stepped over the page number and rounded the corner, however, laborious grammar, independent clauses, incomplete thoughts, unrelated ideas, and information pummeled them. Jack looked up. He knew exactly where they were: the info dump. As Jack grabbed Jill's hand to steady her through the haze of rules and guidelines, an adverb smacked her squarely in the head.

  "Ow! I thought these things were outlawed," said Jill.

  "Well, the laws haven't changed everywhere yet. Some idiot editors still allow their usage, although it's archaic. It's a throwback to authors such as Stephen King, J. A. Konrath, and Robert W. Walker."

  "Sha," said Jill. "That's who comes to mind first when I think of great literature."

  "Don't be snarky. The crappy poem we came from sure won't be on anyone's lips on a regular basis."

  "Oh well," Jill said. "Doesn't matter. Looks like we've got this one sewn up."

  "Yeah, I agree. We can afford a little break. Heckle and Jeckle won't be here for awhile."

  "And just how do you know that?"

  "Oh," Jack said. "I planned a little surprise."

  *****

  By now Dick and Jane had covered several chapters and were just about to make the second checkpoint, when Jane slipped into a large opening in the Earth and fell down a long tunnel.

  "Jane! Come back!"

  Dick tried frantically to feel for a hand but there was nothing there. He looked around for a rope in which to lower himself, but the hole had magically closed over, denying him any access. Out of ideas, he was forced to remain immobile,
for he could not proceed without his partner.

  Approximately an hour later, Jane emerged from behind him, in the direction they had just come.

  "Where were you?"

  "Aw, stuck in another rotten flashback."

  "God, who's writing this thing, Harper?"

  "Y,know, I tried everything to get into, "Bleak," but Ms. Snooty said something about 'not having the right characteristics to fit the image of the story.'"

  "Don't talk about her like that. She's a good writer."

  "Oh, please. Light houses and anti-depressants? Ms. Captain Nemo can do better. Sounds like a Love Boat fantasy."

  "I mean it, Jane, stop it."

  "Oh shut up. You're the one who got us into this mess. Mr. 'I need to expand my horizons; I need literary fiction.' Y'know, you're lucky they didn't kick your can all the way back to McGuffey. And why are you taking up for her? You don't have a crush on her, do you?"

  Dick blushed.

  "Oh my God, you do!"

  "So what? You couldn't keep your hands off Fabio's backstory when you were in his book, so don't you oppress me."

  Jane sighed. "Look. I'm sorry. We can't start fighting now, or else we won't make it.

  Dick nodded. "I'm sorry. It's just that the pressure's starting to get to me. We should've been at Part II by now, and I don't see hide nor hair of it."

  They both stood silent, waiting for an idea to strike them in the head.

  Suddenly, something struck them in the head.

  "I think I've got it," said Jane. She leaned close to him and whispered her idea.

  Dick's smile grew wider with each passing second.

  "So? Do you think it'll work?"

  "Honey," said Dick, "I think you're a genius and I don't know why I didn't think of it before. But we've got to work fast."

  They took off running.

  *****

  "Y'know," Jill said, as she crunched a group of grapes, "I could get used to this. I rather like it here." She was in a lounge chair with a patch of sun dappling her tan complexion, creating a halo effect around her auburn hair.