crazy sane

“You are the most present person I know.”

I used to be past participle until I underwent pluperfect perplexions and entered pre-present perfect.

“You I think I’m crazy?”

If you’re crazy, you’re crazy in a crazy world, so that’d make you sane because it’d be insane to be sane in an insane world.

I’m sane in a crazy world which makes me crazy because my logic no longer computes in an insane asylum system. I am One-Eye in the Kingdom of the Blind, the final magic rationalist remaining, the lone lover of logic. I should be worshiped as the Sole Sane in this Land of the Crazed. But am I? No. Not one bit.

“I worship you.”

You do? Does that mean I get collection money? Incense? Burnt offerings? I want burnt goat on high round alters please. And foreskins. Give me your first born’s foreskins. They’re quite tasty fried crunchy with a bowl of mime Jell-o. In fact I like them so much I’m going to have penises genetically altered to grow fiveskins instead of fore, make them bigger and bigger so the foreskin becomes larger and thicker, so large in fact the penises become third legs. Boy will that change the pants industry. And the third-leg penis will need some covering to protect it from the sidewalk which’ll help the shoe industry. Of course guys’ll sound sort of funny walking because it’ll be this step-step-thunk, step-step-thunk each six steps. This’ll give guys driving cars new possibilities because there’ll be a foot for the clutch and a foot for the brake and the leg-long lingam left over available for gosh knows what — signaling turns, wiping the front window, perhaps putting it around your honey holding her close and sticky as you drive along singing a song about your two feet and a penis.

And to keep things equal gender-wise we’ll elongate the female clitoris into a third leg which will revolutionize ballroom dancing and open the options for which limb the slit of the skirt exposes.

We have the tools – all we need is vision.