Mares Eat Oats

And so does Al Gore, well he did yesterday when we were browsin' the flat cornfield. We walked the length of it, smellin' the manure they were jsut starting to lay as the first hint of Spring began populating the molecules of the air around us. "Manure," Al said, "is closer to God than any dozen virgin-spread nuns, I'd reckon."

I supposed I could concur, so I did. I handed Al the fifth of peach schnapps we were quickly downing, and said, really, I said, "Al, you know me, and you, and Jimi here, we're all just ovum shot backward into the vas deferens of a world curdling like cottage cheese on a HEMI. But that doesn't mean we can't still set fire to the occasional Stratocaster, or even smoke us some of this here fine manure."

With that, the ghost of Jimi Hendrix licked tight the manure joint (a "manoobie" in the parlance) and lit it up. Jimi, he said to Al and me, "Man, you two, you know how to hang like a prize hog's balls and all, but there ain't no swing left in the world without a chicken the size of Calloway struttin' the farmyard, man. One's you gotta stand up and be that chicken, my fine lovely friends. One's you got to find the Nommo. Be that chicken. Rule this sunshine waterworld with a lovehand."

Jimi passed the manoobie to Al, who definitely inhaled. I did too when it came back to me. It was kind of nutty. I handed it to Jimi, the three of us a parabolic, organic machine.

As we moseyed the third acre, I saw the single ear of corn sprouted high and full and green just ahead. We stopped and circled it. It swayed in the gentle, stinking wind, and Jimi smiled around the manoobie.

Jimi winked at me all blue-eye glitter and caterpillar moustache laugh, and said, "Mares eat oats, man. Take a bite."

Well, what could I do? I walked counterculture around the ear to Jimi, took the manoobie from his left hand with my left hand, and said, "Jimi, man...you are so hallucinating."

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