He was a smile. The rest of him was almost transparent, barely a glimmer of form, but his gaping grin shone so intensely that it provided a distraction from everything else missing.
I handed him the list of lost items. He
quickly looked it over, then swallowed it whole with that magnificent,
glowing mouth. “We'll look for your sense of humor first,” he said.
It took six days in the jungle until we finally had leads. He
negotiated with birds so colorful they made crayons leap from cliffs.
He threatened enormous snakes, and when they didn't cooperate he'd
clench their jaws between his gleaming teeth and swing them around like
We finally stumbled upon the End of the
Earth. A beautiful sight for sure, the red yolk of sun framing his
levitating smile, bright upon brighter. Hovering closer, he whispered
“Look in your pants. The secret to humor is nestled softly down
So we began the frightful journey back home. By law I
was required to go without my trousers or underwear. To refuse would
invalidate the rediscovery of comedy. He took hold of my shaft and
used it to point us toward the highway.
In this way he
guided us out of the jungle and home to my wife, where I proceeded to
make love to her with all kinds of sarcastic thrusts. Orgasmic
laughter all around. “I'm sure glad you followed that smile,” she
later sighed, sweat dripping from her chin to her clavicle.
Shawn Misener lives in Michigan. His chapbooks include Dry Humping a Fire Hydrant and In Your Face(book), and he edits the absurdist blogazine Clutching at Straws.
Copyright Shawn Misener
Artwork by Picasso