Floof Bizkit

Floof Bizkit (floofinition) – American floof rap (flap) rock band originally from Floofsonvile, Florida.

In Use: “Floof Bizkit’s musical releases often include abrasive, annoying sounds which some critics have compared to animals fighting.”

The Travel Dream

Such a brief, sharp dream.

My wife and I were outside. Fat, wet snow fell, covered the ground, and blotted our vision. We were dressed for cold, so we were protected, and we were walking somewhere. A man said, “Hey, would you like some airline tickets?”

We laughed and scoffed. “Flying? Now? No, thanks.”

The man insisted, “It’s cheap and safe,” reassurances that amused me.

“Sure.”

He seemed to miss my sarcasm and doubt. “Good. Where do you want to go? You can go anywhere for just three hundred and four dollars.”

“Anywhere? Can I go to Pittsburgh for that?”

“Yes, Pittsburgh, here you are.” He held out two tickets.

“Wait, is that three oh four each? Is it round trip?”

“Yes, yes.”

I was confused. “We don’t want to go to Pittsburgh. It’ll be cold there. It’ll be just like here.”

The man said, “You can go anywhere you want.”

My wife replied, “We want somewhere warm.”

“Yes, through there, those tickets will take you.”

Through where, we were asking him, ourselves, and one another. Then we glided out. A  broad, flat green land spread out at our feet. Spokes of waterways divided the land into wedges. A metropolis served as a hub. A golden haze bathed it all.

“Where are we?” my wife and I asked.

The man answered from behind us, “Wherever you want to be.”

Saturday’s Theme Music

Pulled a piece of bread out of a bag yesterday and sniffed it, then gave it the eye test. That bread had been in the basket for a while. The basket is the bread basket that’s won counter territory. Nominally for bready goods, bulk granola, nuts, Kind bars, and Lararbars often camp there, too. It’s the place to rummage when a food is trying to tempt you but you’ve yet to identify its song. A couple forgotten goodies are usually to be found.

I found two heels of Dave’s Bread yesterday. Dave’s Bread was, is, an excellent healthy, tasty, robust bread, even though an evil corp. bought Dave out. Two heels; I could slap together a classic PB&J. The bread passed the eye and nose test, yet doubts lingered. A feel test confirmed: yeah, this is stale.

Per habit, my neurological Alexa said, “Playing a song with the word stale in it.” Eve 6’s offering, “Inside Out”, gained volume.

But yeah, stale is an appropriate word for the sit. in the USA. Trump’s attacks, tantrums, finger-pointing, and whining are stale, as are the faux discussions about re-opening the economy, ‘safely’ playing pro ‘sports’, and sending children back to school. My weariness with it is stale, as is my disbelief (hey, what do you know, Roger Stone has been pardoned) and disappointment. It’s all gone stale.

Ja, a stretch for “Inside Out” (1998), a wondrous melodic blur of rhymes and images, but I’m going with it.

It’s in my head now.

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