Though
I haven’t witnessed a crime, I’d still like to enter the witness protection
program: (*) I could start a new life (*) With a mountain view (*) Attend fish
fries with little remorse (*) See the Times
delivered to my door (*) AND, I could get one of those robes, those witness protection
robes. If fewer witnesses decide to topple kingpins, then maybe the Feds could
keep a Witness Protection Wait List. At the very least, they should vend some Wit-Pro
gear down at the J. Edgar Hoover. I gotta get me one of them Under Armour
robes—with the terrycloth and the belt and the cargo pocket—that really
separates and defines me.
[2]
In
my witness protection dream, the Feds spirit me off in a King Lear Jet. The
trip has a mountain view. The landing has a mountain view. We taxi to the gate
where we park beside an enormous aircraft, a Jumbo Jet Li. The martial arts actor,
himself, appears on the tail, gazing upon a mountain view with enviable wushu modesty. He, too, has entered the
witness protection game, spiriting-off his share of the Protected-to-be. In my
first morning of protection, I slip on (at last!) one of them robes, open the
front door, and stoop for the Times.
The headline declares a merger between King Lear Jet and Jumbo Jet Li—King Lear
Jet Li. “O Cruel World,” I howl, while startling awake, “O Cruel World!”
[3]
I
witness a shoplifting and approach the store detective with details. I’d seen
two kids pocket some Peppermint Patties but I throw in some Hot Wheels and some
Belinda Carlisle ringtones—for greater effect. “Do you think I could get protection?”
I ask. “What?” says the store detective.
“Relocation,” I offer, trying to explain. “Sure,” he says, tossing me out the
automatic doors, which part just at the right moment. “Relocation,” he emphasizes,
as the double doors clap together in a single beat of applause, he on the
inside, I on the outs. But I’m not letting that deter me. No, I plan on
witnessing some very important crimes, yes I do. I plan on demonstrating, eh!,
that ‘witness protection’ ain’t just a condom on a testifier!
For more see: Under Armoire
For more see: Under Armoire
12 comments:
The Witless Protection Program is good too.
Belinda Carlisle ringtones: Kill me.
I b'lieve those same kidz lifted some Silly String (concealed in Under Armour utility pocket) & are now huffin by the dumpstiz out behind the Rose Gin Five & Dime. Relocate me.
She ain't bluffin'.
twp,
I'd settle for the Twitless Protection Plan. Ah, a world without Twits. Or, rather, a program without Twits. I suppose that, despite all the technology and assets that could be focused upon the Twit Situation -- there will always be Twits. But I digress.
------------------BA
Emcee Zito,
Slain by Belinda Carlisle again, eh? You are frequently slain by her. Not that I blame you. "Belinda" in general is a difficult name to overcome. Say "Belinda" and one is slain. Polonius must've thought the same thing when he shrieked about his own slaying. Had he lived a second longer, surely he would've said "How now, Belinda?"
--------------BA
Hthr Fllr,
I think them kidz is spraying each other with silly string and then huffing it. Then they ketch the Huffing Post -- to keep up with developments in huffing. "Relocate me" is a classic American demand, dating back to Dorothy, et cetera. To think, she coulda said, "There's no place like witness protection", but instead chose Kansas. Humph.
------------------BA
Or: "Zounds! Belinda'd again!"
Heaven Is A Place on Earth & that place apparently is Witness Protection.
LL Cool J Edgar Hoover.
--------------------------BA
Dam. Damn.
Jean Claude van Damn.
--ba
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