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Author Topic: Sausage  (Read 87 times)
berkley84
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« on: August 12, 2017, 07:39:41 AM »

   Thereís this wonderful old sketch where a guy works at a sausage factory, brings sausages home for his father, falls in love with the new girl, under the watchful eye of the 1984-like factory manager.
   Never knew anyone else who loved that sketch like me till the end of my Junior year, beginning of summer and the beginning of my real life. I remember the sun hanging heavy over us, a refreshing beacon of hope while we sat in our yards, walked around town in aimless circles, drove nowhere until we found a hill or some railroad tracks to go over at 60mph. Consequences be damned, this was freedom, and we werenít going to waste it.
   Absorbed the TV shows, because isnít that how we relate to one another? An appreciation of comedy, kettle corn, and music. That sketch about the Sausage factory, the one about the guy who borrowed his friendís ďart,Ē or when those dolphins were revealed to be the supreme beings of the planet. Sinking into a couch in a humid mustiness, surrounded by VHS tapes and board games. Feeling a little bit empty, sure, but feeling at a truce with time. Finally not at war.
   Of course, this was all shortly before 9/11, and in retrospect, there was some ďcalm before the stormĒ stuff going on. And everything changes and time is never really standing still, but perception is funny like that. These ten minutes fly by in the morning, while the ten minutes after stick around like a pool of blood. Personally, I donít remember the taste of sausage and I do my best to avoid the smell. I wonít touch it unless I absolutely have to. Iíve done my best to do right, but I donít always feel that itís necessary to do so.
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