Twilight of the Dudes. the Duderdammerung. the grills stand empty. the lawns unmowed. vast piles of buffalo wings uneaten. where are the Dudes. does anyone remember Dudes. Dudes, come back. we don't know what you're for but we need you back anyway.
the Dudes in the hearts of men. there will be a corner of some foreign field that is forever Dude. at nightfall, a lone trumpet plays the guitar line to "Walk This Way."
where the Dude once stood rises the New American Guy. he shines, is kind. he goes to buy the Midol with no complaint. the La-Z-Boys are towed via barge out to sea and sunk. vast reefs formed from the La-Z-Boys of the missing Dudes.
deep in the swamp primeval thirty miles from little rock, an ornithologist sits by a campfire and reviews the tapes from his field recorders. nothing. on the sixth tape, though, behind the slow sizzle of the sound of rain, something. he rewinds the tape. he checks all the levels. he takes the tape out of the player, inspects it. he puts it back in. he realizes he has been holding his breath. he presses play. no, it's there, it's definitely there. the sound of rain. then: "fuckin' mets suck this year." then, the sound of rain until the end of the tape.
1 comment:
this shit is really funny. good work an alla that laudatory bullshit.
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