After he adjusted his saddle a half millimeter up and one millimeter forward, Buzzy Crumhunger rode his bicycle to Token Creek, where, in the slow shallow inlets, he netted about a quart of young tadpoles.
When he got back to his apartment, near downtown Madison, he got some butter and garlic going in a pan to saute, and then, slid the wrigglers in.
He unfolded a one-foot-square sheet of cheesecloth onto the kitchen countertop, dialed his timer for the usual eight minutes, and walked to the back door to set it ajar.
He went into the living room, removed his shirt, and settled into a recliner. He felt his newly-clipped chest and belly hair, from central member to sternum and back, and wondered if he should go with Honjo hammered or colored plastic. He picked up his note pad to pencil in some ideas that came to him during his ride, fleshing out his social psychology doctoral dissertation on the developmental effects of art and craft, a paper comprising a two-part divide within a divide, tentatively titled, "Meditative prose for Framebuilding," in which he intends to catalogue these effects differing disjunctive art/craft objects from the more homogenized art/craft objects perceived by individuals and groups of individuals from the period 1979 to 2002, with an introduction defining the broand spectrum of art from craft, with examples, by unifying his three previously published essays comparing Eminem to Bob Dylan, Joseph Starck to Phillipe Starck, and whole milk to its lesser ilk.
The timer chimed and Buzzy poppped up from his recliner to check his cooking.
The pan beheld the same results -- tails, nothing but snippets of tails -- and again, the glaze of garlic-butter tracks on the stove and counter top, across the kitchen floor and out the back door.
He recorded his results with a round of photos and the usual pertinent notations in his binder, for it is Buzzy's scholarly intention to counter Harold Hill's preeminent work in evolutionary biology, "From Goo to You By Way of the Zoo." Buzzy' contends, as a result from his in-kitchen experiments, and in a 180 degree departure from Hill's assertions, that cataclysmic events throughout history really did, in fact, speed up the adaptive evolutionary process of certain species. Buzzy aims to proove that one particular fish-like species urgently adapted to land as the direct result of the over-warming of shallow seas due to the flow into these waters of volcanic lava.
Parched and willed to crawl out of the burbling hot waters onto cooler tracts of land, this species decided he liked his new talent, and henceforth crawled and crawled, from generation to generation, across deserts and gardens, up and down mounts, through locusts and maggots, flies and hail, by crosses and Torah pointers, Ouch!, and finally to the present time the species settled at a place a stone's throw from Lake Monona, where he could jump in if he wanted to, having never forgotten how to swim, but has grown accustomed to an anotomical position of comfort and style on his pristine blue Vintage Trek.
Buzzy scooped the buttery batch of tails and garlic onto the square of cheesecloth, wrung the viscous liquid from the mash into a paper cup, and then poured the liquid into a small squirt bottle. He then propped his bicycle onto his home mechanic's repair stand, directed the squirt bottle towards the links of his chain in motion, and lubed 'er up good.
He pedaled down to McDonald's, silently shifting through the gears all the way there with nary a croak, and had himself a fish sandwich, fries, dessert, and a big coke. He paged through "The Onion" as he ate, 'till he came to his favorite column, "savage love," and then finished off the hot-fudge sundae with nuts. He went outside to his bicycle and found a sight that shuddered his soul from his skin and froze him solid. Perched everywhere on his Vintage Blue Trek were a multitude of frog-like creatures with bulbous, orbital, steely eyes agaze at HIM. Having never before been the object of so many peepers of intensity, he wanted to shrill "What?", but was too frightened of what then might happen and instead managed to pivot his body a hard right and walked quickly away, never looking behind.
Buzzy walked and thought and walked and thought all through the night untill dawn and finally, exhausted, he sat himself down on a sidewalk bench. The rising sun burnt Buzzy's tired eyes and he closed his lids.
When he opened them he noticed a woman striding towards him -- about a block away. He held her in sight untill she was within forty feet, a distance which beset his chi to flow, his passion to pump, and his toes to tap inside his white Nike sneakers, for he could clearly see she was a Persian beauty. At twenty feet dual scents circled the air, and Buzzy knew that she knew what he was doing, and she knew that he knew what she was doing. At eight feet Buzzy silently intoned to her, "Come on, give me your eyes." Within two more of her sultry strides she turned and presented Buzzy with The Deep Look. And then it happened, those magical sparkly red stars appeared and danced before her eyes.
Buzzy closed his eyelids and surrendered some of his most powerful neurons to the red sparkles. Two by two he paired off his knightly neurons with her dancing stars and allowed the new couples private places in his brain to bed.
Buzzy opened his eyes, stretched, and sat up from his bench to the new 'morn.
He tugged at his Michael Jordan Jockey briefs 'neath his jeans, stepped into a bookstore for the latest copy of Al-Jumuah, bought a box of Nat Shermans, and headed down State Street to the nearest cafe.
Along the way he caught a glimmer of, stopped, and backed up to look at what appeared to be a mid-to-late-80s Masi Gran Criterium hanging in the window of Yellow Jersey for sale.
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