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I shall cultivate the radish and the turnip
Mahatma Suzy, her glorious hair awash, her swollen nipples pup-tenting her mauve turtleneck, nibbled a previously-owned Kalamata frittata and leisurely turned the pages of Catherine de Medici’s Book of the Hours. “I have done with war,” she muttered into her beard, then springing from her downy couch, she gazed out over the Jornada del Muerto, a burning desert from which no man, once having entered, has ever emerged alive. “From this day forward,” she proclaimed, her kissy-wet lips glistening with the same sheen that in bygone days had sent a thousand ships sailing to Byzantium, “I shall cast my lot with the humble peasants of Egdon Heath whose lives are enriched by the simple joy of backbreaking toil and unending hardscrabble poverty. I shall cultivate the radish and the turnip…” “Turnip! Food of the gods!” cried Young Lochinvar as their treasure ship sank like a rock to the bottom of the Adriatic Sea. But the wily Odysseus, being of sound mind, sat him down among the bulrushes and stirred his Mai Tai with a radioactive isotope. And these events were duly recorded in Book of the Ages by the coldly-handsome gray-eyed Hjaarrelson (also known as Haroldson or Heraldsen) in a coin laundry near the rubbish collectors quarter of Kalamazoo in the year 1591 as he supped on cold radish soup and braised mung bean.