What can I tell you? I strive for weirdness. Going after the absurdity,  chasing down the obscenely unorthodox is the only way I can stay normal. If I invite the weirdness is, it is polite. It takes off it's shoes and doesn't sleep on my couch for three days. If I don't go after the weirdness it tends to surprise and hit hard. Damn hard. That's how you new cavities get formed. By sneaking up on you. 

I'm not gonna let any weirdness sneak up on me. I'll know where it's at at any and all times. This morning it was at the Santa Monica Bus Station. You know the place, even if you've never been there. A small, tattered building on the outskirts of town. Where you go when your luck runs out. Where you head when a relative dies and you can't afford the flight to Phoenix. 

It was usual there. The normal mish-mash of Pepsi Machines and paunchy vagrants. Reading my "Vogue" magazine, I felt right at home, that is to say, I felt normal. Such was the case until a man sauntered up to me, introducing himself as "The Bard". 

I asked this Bard what he wanted. His reply was simple. 

"An All-Star Birth for Shaquille O'Neal." 

"I can't do that sir. Shaq has been going downhill for the past two years. I'm not going to vote him in and I hope the coaches make the right choice and pick Rasheed Wallace or an out of position Chris Bosh." 

"But Shaq is the only player in the NBA who is a civil servant. He arrested that pedophile, remember?" 

"Yeah, but this is the NBA All-Star game, not the civil servant awards. Do you expect me to vote for Barack Obama too?

"Only if you are a man of honor" 

"I don't even know what position to put him in." 

"Small Forward. Think Chicago. Think Pippen." 

"Um ok." 

"So, will you vote for Shaq?" 

"No." 

"Well, you seem a modern man. Do you have a blog?" 

"As A matter of fact I do." 

"Well. Put this up so the internet can hear me." 

With that, he handed over a tattered scrap of paper and was on his way. Looking down at the paper, I noticed that it was a used Arby's wrapper and that he wrote a poem on it. What follows is the poem in it's entirety. 

A Bishops Life by Pheasant Jenkins

I want to love you too much. 

Smother you, bitch, until you can't breathe

Crushing you with the total affection of my being

Seep in your lung stream 

Creep in your myspace

And chat with young equestrian riders

Cream in their shorts. 

I will become you. 

And you? 

You will become the moon, stars, and my assistant. 

Vacation in Haiti? 

Does that sound nice? 

Speaking of sound, which speaks of hearing... 

I hear it's nice now. 

Not nearly as many unwarranted murders. 

If I could share Buffalo Wings with anyone

I'd share them with no one

Cause I don't share

But If I shared

I'd share them with you

Will four buffalo wings make you love me? 

What about five and a baked potato. 

Janice,

Can I use your kitchen? 

Love, Pheasant