I Guess It Made Sense

When the police came in on the speedboat, I guess it made sense. I approached the outstanding construction of their vessel, tentatively as though it held the plague, or at least roaches. Word had it that the police had money and would find a way to control our fate. Everyone had overextended themselves in chiropractic school, bolting themselves in rooms along the river, quite naturally bouncing off the walls. They bounced around in fancy cars and faced the possibility of jail time. Two weeks later, the police were stunned. It looks like they were here to take action. To take care of things because they were our friends. They were on time, but their boat did not look sharp. I was surprised that it had cut through water. It was the month of June, suddenly interrupted by July. The same story. The marina was flooded with news of their arrival. Somebody told me the prisons were full and underwater. We were in a vacuum of motion and ideas, now that the police were here. I approached their vessel and attempted to dismantle it: to quickly remove it of its speed, transforming it into just an enforcement vessel, a motionless security raft. They stood like dying insects in moist shadows on the dock and complained about their aching backs. They sat on cushions and awaited the chiropractors. This was us, and we overextended ourselves from the beach and commenced cracking bones like criminals. Our cars floated away and were impounded. Around this time the police took action, unleashing the plague they had purchased, using it to control our fate. As our friends, it was the least that they could do, summoned in the hour of our need. Our future became influenced by a prosperous sickness that involved efforts to obtain a cure, helping people with minor pains. The days of rain and enforcement subsided, as did the roaches. On a raft, leaving us all with godspeed, the police subsided. It made sense.




If Bryson Newhart owned a speedboat, it would be named Beer Ice Sun. He wrote this bio himself.


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