G.M.O. Peckers

I don’t know, I just thought it might be a good way to arouse a different demographic to this ever repugnant but somehow compelling pile of blogit. This is in no way about peckers, but with a little ping back, I’ll know exactly who the preverts are that tuned in for the first time. I guess I could work Blue if there were enough of you. A wink’s as good as a nod.

Now the gmo part is a different ball of fuzz. As yet, nobody has come up with a solution for the rapacious effect of the fruit piercing moth that flourishes in these parts and can be responsible for the rotting remains of your whole freakin’ crop of this and that (got to eat about a dozen white sapotes off of seven fully mature trees last season). They LOVE citrus and white sapote, but will be happy to browse on whatever is fruity, like your favorite gay drunk.

So now, whenever it rains, I start dumping cortisol into the old vessels and focusing on the losses about to happen if it keeps on raining.

The other day during a mighty little passing squall and a ten to forty point elevation in blood pressure, the homunculus (Monci) came out of his usual repose and said,” My Liege, it would behoove you to take a chill pill in the pursuit of the perfect solution, which is within your grasp and only recognizable from a place of calm like unto the aftermath of eating two and a half krispy kremes.” I can get with that logic.

He continued: “It is very much like the dilemma  of not passing gas in a public or intimate situation for fear of the stigma of the uncouth, while the only thing it really accomplishes is the endogasectomy effect which eventually works its way up to the brain and results in a series of seismic events known in the vernacular as brain farts. I know this to be true because my hammock is strung across the corpus callosum, and the scent of cesspool wafting through the canyon is not uncommon, as are the ghosts of thoughts that look like they just lived through five days of VOG and don’t know where the fuck they’ve been nor where they are supposed to go. I implore you, your Hugeness, to let it out. Conquer you Fear. Dare to smell.”

Is there anything I can do about this, asks I? “Give up the fucking Gorgonzola bean dip/pork rind combo before going on a date, I mean common sense, man. And as far as the moth thing, build a better mouse trap.”

So that’s when i started thinking of what mods could be adopted for the systematic implosion of the FPM population. I think all it would take would be to splice the white sapote with a constipation gene from Mitch McConnell, a logic kernel gene from Sarah Palin and a “hope” gene from Barry and the fuckers would just keep flying into the tree trunk until they drop dead. I just ordered a “gene splicing for beginners ” kit from Amazon.

Those little fuckers can’t stop me from dreaming of a day when only love and light ripen the fruit to perfection and it takes three fruit piercing moths to fly an eight ounce beverage of your choice to your hammock in the monkeypod tree, after which they would congregate behind the tire of the nearest vehicle and wait for it to back up. You may say that I’m a dreamer………

Meanwhile, on a planet called Earth, young jp ponders the mysteries inherent in this ever chaotic, frenzied and insular look at existence which increasingly excludes and calls inclusiveness seditious. If we fail to wrap our minds and hearts, our growing souls and immortal spirits around evolved definitions of things like wealth, power, knowledge, surrender and honesty we have little to lay claim to a  legitimate place on this remarkably beautiful planet. This gem of a miracle. This crown jewel. There is a wave building that will make Laird Hamilton crap his shorts and when he does, we will truly know the meaning of “he knows when you’ve been bad or good, so be Good for Goodness sake”.

As a “civilized” people, we have been madly exploiting our gracious Moms life force to the point where, my feeling is, she’s begun to say, “talk to the hand dude ’cause ya’ all lost me about two decades ago.” I think of mother nature as a southerner.

As the old saying goes, as above, so below and if this is as far as we’ve gotten in attempting to move into a more conscious state, then might just as well set a course for full party till we drop mode. At least from there we can say, “wasn’t me. I’uz just spreadin’ the love.”

Getting ninety baby chicklettes in a couple of days. Fifty leghorns, and forty each of barred rocks and black australorps. New blood for the egg dept at the Rancho. Always excited to get new peepers. Will be vigilant of mongeese and overly cuddlesome interns. “Oops, is it supposed to be so limp mr. jp?” That’s not a pecker joke.

Week in brief: wouldn’t know where to start.

The more you show, the more we’ll grow. Peace, Jp

 

 

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