After meticulously reading
an online review of Taco Bell’s “secret menu,”
which includes potato-stuffed burritos named after superheroes,
without brand loyalty to either DC or Marvel,
I pushed back my chair and questioned
my predisposition to tell people that I am awfully busy
in order to avoid events and affairs unpleasant or boring,
considering how I had just whittled my lifeline
for the sake of taste bud analysis for the critically-acclaimed Queserito.
Perhaps journalism’s dead, but keeps excavating the crucial mysteries of our time,
such as the quality of Frankenstein dishes at a fast-food-belch-haven. Dead in the same way
Bruce Willis had been dead throughout the entire movie, but he kept
digging at the paranormal crux of his own demise. Maybe everybody’s a journalist these days,
even I worked in journalism for awhile, despite my linguistic
idiosyncrasies and dismissal of grammatical authority.
In other words, perhaps yoga pants do not accentuate each person’s
ass in a flattering light, as yoga pants market themselves to do,
though who decides who does or does not wear yoga pants?
“Yoga pants” might be a good term for successive breathing, quick and deep, quick and deep.
Not counting persons who actually practice yoga, (evidently the minority
of yoga-pants-wearers), no one dictates that sort of non-dress-code.
Just like how the Internet’s become a Wild West of bullshit-masquerading-as-truth
or Taco-Bell-reviews-feigning-to-be-news. Because for every blurb
intricately spoiling every single damn hit tv show on television
exists a well-argued essay in pristine prose
about the degradation of American culture
posted on some obscure blog that nobody’s gonna fuckin’ read.