CUCUMBERS - SINGING THE BLUES
Cucumbers have entirely too much time on their hands, and it is common knowledge that idle hands are the devil's workshop. When they are not deliberately breaking every single one of the ten commandments, cucumbers can be heard, over the walking bass lines and twelve-bar chord progressions of the southern blues, soulfully singing, "If there ain't no blues in heaven, then I don't wanna go...if there ain't no booze in heaven, then take me down below." Cucumbers are the devil's food, and rightfully so. Their talent for lying makes them more than ripe for a healthy career in public service, while the shadier elements tend to go underground, away from the spotlight, where they can pull the strings from behind the scenes. Everybody wants to rule the world, and cucumbers are no exception. They just happen to have the ways and the means to do so, that's all. The devil is in the details and the devil is in the house; the house that is divided- that dreadful old honky-tonk, the cold-blooded House of Blues. Welcome.
Cucumbers are well-versed and extremely proficient at scratching itchy ears, spinning and weaving their subtle message like a kundalini cobra from the Mississippi delta. Winding it's way up the river to Memphis, cucumbers are twisting around St. Louis, and turning at Chicago, where they bifurcate in the form of a forked-tongue, with one tributary splitting east through Cleveland, and eventually slithering all the way over to New York and Washington, D.C. The other half heads out west, through the badlands, along Route Six Sixty Six, to only God knows where. March on, media shineboys, march on- straight for the jugular. We're talking the deep south here, laying tricks like a clarinet-playing, Hindu snake-charmer, patiently, persisitently, and pervasively invading the consciousness of the entire nation. That's the one thing about cucumbers, they waste no time oscillating between two masters, they serve only one, and even though they have been at this game for a long, long time, they lately appear to be gaining traction, momentum, and speed. Perhaps they sense that their time is short. Oh yeah, one other thing about the wicked- they never sleep. Like the big bad wolf, you can see it in their eyes.
With cucumbers, the bigger the better- big business, big banks, and big pharma. Let's play monopoply, cops 'n' robbers, and doctor at the same time. Money is no object, especially seeing as how it can be effortlessly printed out of thin air, or magically keyed in as credits with a simple stroke. The tree of knowledge has been replaced with the good old money tree. Sounds tempting, doesn't it? Accountable to no one, but contemptuous to all- that old serpent, the cucumber. How fitting that sleep-deprived people slice cucumbers and place them over their eyes in similar fashion of placing silver dollars over the eyes of a dead man. When the blind lead the blind, they both fall into the pit. That pit, of course, just so happens to be bottomless.
John Lee Hooker, Muddy Waters, T-Bone Walker, Robert Johnson...the list goes on. They all ventured, one by one, down to the crossroads and gave the devil his due. Legend has it that they paid with their souls, but we now know, all too well, what the devil really wants- our tax money. That, and our children. Being the godless, liberal Democrats that they are, cucumbers are out to destroy all that is holy, righteous, and true in America. Being the family-valued, conservative Republicans that they are, cucumbers are out to destroy all that is holy, righteous, and true in America. That's right, cucmbers are rolling snake eyes, flipping two sides of the same coin, and pitting both sides against the middle. The cards are stacked and the odds are always in favor of the house- the House of Congress, the House of the Senate, and, of course, that sneaky old boogie-woogie, the House of Blues.
The crafty wiles of the devil know no bounds. Cool and calculating, cucumbers know better than to bite the hand that feeds them, but have no difficulty whatsoever in burning the bridges behind them, leading us peasants like pied pipers leading a bunch of rats over the precipice and past the point of no return. You know what they say- he who pays the piper calls the tune, and that flute ain't whistlin' Dixie. I know one when I see one; been down to the crossroads myself a time or two. The cloven hooves, hairy legs, pointy beard, and thick, spiraling horns are hard to miss, but it is that damn good music coming out of that ocarina he plays that is the dead giveaway, so to speak. "Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full. One for the master, one for the dame, and one for the little boy who lives down the lane." The thing is, when we run out of wool to be fleeced, our masters will still have plenty of mutton to devour.
But, oh well, such is life; do not abandon all hope, my fellow bond servants, for while heaven may appear nowhere in immediate sight, we can still have our momentary refuge from the world, we can still take out a bottle of booze, open up a can of beans, sit down with a harmonica, and, together, start wailing, and all start singing the blues.
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