Across Old Clods

-This place ain't gonna become Kansas City, you know, 'cause we're gonna get something on them, something meaning business: a complex stretching wholly a mile along Old Clod Road. We're commencing just in time, before a wintry mix spreads that Christmas spirit seed and sticks snow scrap over our new addition to our church, which gleams straight across Old Clod Road and over the land we're using for the new and safe part of King Householder's. Also just in time for the new gold-plated cross to be erected on the front of the new church addition. Christ can then overlook across the road and protect the ground breaking ceremony of the new King's Householders with fire.

Honey, did you move the furniture off the lawn? I hear that mix is gonna be spittin' winter down tonight. Get that goin' before you go slingin' hash at the Melodrama. Also make sure you bring some of that Pig-In Pig-Out home for dinner.

-Dad, I'm tellin' you they already got a King Householder's in KC.

Did I say King? This one's gonna be the emperor of the plains.

Now, let me conitune.

Sirs, with the new addition, your boys won't suffer a stampede like up there on that long island. For one, thank the decent Lord that they don't shoot themselves up with backstreet trash uppers and have those backyard wrestling tournaments. God, have their parents keep them off the video games.

But thanks to the new complex design, when you are buying for your son Tom Clancy's Siege of Mumbai for next Christmas, the sheer size of the new double wide auto sliding doors, ten in number, stretching at fixed intervals from wall to wall, will allow for hordes of hungry deal scavengers! And the tragedy of that human stampede that happened in those Buddhist hills last year will be saved from the comparison of Householder's shoppers, killing one of our poor employees on Black Friday.

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-That new hot-shot kid's the son of the head pastor who just nailed the sermon you just heard, his boots on the leather chair at the head of the board room table. Damned son looks like he's got cancer on account of that baldness and those goggles he dangles over his nose's bridge. He has to, like, fan his lustry blue tie number, swinging it with plumes from his bull nostrils when they get to where Kennedys can clog them, no bones about him, and I just can't stand on my heels when he's busting through the door, making the whole meeting go dizzy when the power point flashes possessed flickers, and saying hey you idiots I got a cure for all your holiday stress, and it doesn't have anything to do with your balls or, or even hookers, or shrink.
He shot a specific glare to my eyes through those dense goggles and I wanted then and there to get up and shove him through the glass screen like a cue ball.

He tossed down schematics on the table for double-wide, double electric sliding doors for the ten entrances of the new mile-long King Householder's, pride of the plains. Now they're saying they'll stick a monument in front of the complex for the Indians, native and all. So now, they'll find that those plains Indians misjudged the depth of the dirt, but just went for it and buried elders and infants only a couple a' feet deep in the hard, hardly arable, flint shit soil.

I can't wait to see they're faces when they break the burial ground, staking their spades and uprooting rigteously American human fossils among trickling off crowd claps.