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Sunday, November 23, 2003

My friend Art wrote a story... as a profile for a dating site... I liked it so I put it up here. What I like of the narration is the rhythm and the switching from rigmarole to... rap like rhymes. Of course.... the Wink at the end refers to the wink you get in the website... how funny:

Once upon a time, there was a scarecrow named
Scarecrow. Just so you crows know, he was a
man-scarecrow. As far as scarecrows would go, he
wasn't your average joe. He was stuffed with premium
straw, he had an aluminum horseshoe for a jaw. His
eyes were checkers, one black, one red, he had a thick
sack of burlap for a head. A smile was stitched into
his face, it woulda been wider, but they ran out of
space. He sported a baseball cap that was clean,
because it was thrown away by some brat that didn't
like the team. To keep him warm, and to protect from
the weather, he wore an old letterman sweater, gloves
and boots of leather. His pants were old sweats, and
least I forget, the sweater's letter was A, the first
in line, what can I say? And to make it all complete,
he had hair from the tail of a pony, no baloney, tied
back to keep it neat. They hung Scarecrow up on an ol'
maypole, to guard a field of wheat, which grew for
acres beneath his feet. The farmer whispered him a
blessing when no one was looking, "Keep the crows
guessing, let no stalk end up tooken." And with that
for a year, Scarecrow did his job well, all the crows
fled in fear, as if under a spell. And every bright
day, Scarecrow gazed at the sky, one might say he was
lonely, though his head still was high. But deep in
the straw that stuffed his heart, he wished the crows
wouldn't just caw, then up and depart. Maybe, thought
he, just a few, two or three, or even just one would
stay, be his chum. He wanted to ask them so many
questions, did they really like wheat, did they take
flying lessons? If they didn't eat wheat, then what
did they poop, the big ugly splotch on the toe of his
boot? One night he heard from the beak of a bird, that
there was a party, to be thrown by the crows. So you
know how it goes, he climbed down off the maypole, on
quiet tip toes. For the first time in his life, he was
free to just flee, but the wide vast world was no
temptation for he.

So determined, so patient for the crow's destination,
he ran like a demon, inside he was screamin! So
excited to finally put a rest to his stress, to talk
to them only, he wouldn't be lonely, he'd share some
crow cake, conversations he'd make, and smoke some
crow dope, you know, some crow drugs! And if the
police came and poked, he'd give each cop a hug. Okay
fantasy's great, but one slight problem, fate stepped
in, like a mean old goblin. His sweat pants were
loose, and with each step that he took, the straw was
shook loose, though he stopped not to look. By the
time he had made it to the edge of the wheat, he had
no pants for his legs, no boots for his feet. In fact,
he found he had no legs at all, stumbling to the
ground, on his elbows he crawled. The once plump and
proud Scarecrow was thinning and saggy, dropping straw
from his sweater, now dusty and baggy. Till finally he
stopped, to use his head, "If I don't tie a knot,
pretty soon I'll be dead!" So he reached down to the
base of his sweater, but I'm sorry to say, that things
got no better. His gloves came loose, and there went
his hands, in a loose pile of straw and a few rubber
bands. And what happened next, what would you expect,
except that this head fell off from his neck. And
there, in pieces he lays to this day, barely traveled
a mile, but still stitched in the burlap is that
stubborn old smile. Oh Scarecrow, oh Scarecrow, how
can you still grin, you're mortally wounded, this game
you can't win? And what's my reply to such a skeptical
guy? Look up in the sky, the crows are nigh. They fly
to the wheat and their party's complete, with the
scarecrow gone, they can feast until the dawn. But
before they go, they thank me, you know. Of my
bountiful gift they smile and they think, to give my
spirits a lift, they fly to me and WINK. ;)

by Art Swensons (the 3rd)