commestible

Crossword squares are bashed-out teeth. WH_R_ IS M_ TON_UE? Wives are tabloid harpies. Husbands are Rolaid apes. None of the kids are worried about God -- they're eating the headphones. You don't normally think about God so much, but you are now. Are his robes a cotton trampoline? Will he tear off a corner and hand it to you like a tissue for you to fold into a parachute? Does God wait until your arms and legs are useless to court you, with fear?

At 33,000 feet, you know that Jay Mohr would punch your teeth out if you were an extra in his movie. He'd say it was an accident, that you were sweating him for an autograph by Craft Services and...no, that you were drunk at the wrap party and made a play for his wife. He is probably on board, and you should hide from him, but the cabin is swollen with flesh. Tendons twang like rubber bands around sprinkler-soaked newspapers. The drink cups are thimbles in the fists of giants. Your stuck-together snack mix pretzels are the reincarnation of Chang and Eng. You crack them like a wishbone, which maybe makes you a murderer. A bigger knot on the left means your boyfriend wants orgies with stewardesses. More on the right means he's done it and will never tell you.

You come up with an easy, lucky mantra. Simple as clouds. It starts as "Safe Flight, Safe Flight," but then you realize you've been saying "Safe Light, Safe Light" for the last hour, which isn't the same at all. You've cursed yourself. It's an irreversible jinx, no re-dos. You can either touch Jay Mohr's head for good luck, or give up. You realize that a plane blanket is a planeket. This thought is good enough to save you.

fell on 2006-01-06 at 3:27 a.m.

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