Sad Case of Mr. Complete Beverage vs. Mrs. Cup Smith

One half full beverage and one pudding cup and one granny smith is due each orangey convicted babyman come down through the chow line in most prisons.

One three-quarters full beverage and one pudding cup one granny smith due each orangey convicted babyman come down through the chow line in prisons.

One completely full beverage one pudding cup one granny smith each orangey convicted babyman come down through the chow line prisons.

One completely full beverage one pudding cup granny smith orangey convicted babyman come down through the chow line.

One completely full beverage pudding cup granny smith convicted babyman come down through the chow line.

Completely full beverage pudding cup granny smith babyman come down through the chow line.

Completely full beverage pudding cup smith come down through the chow line.

Completely full beverage cup smith down through the chow line.

Complete beverage cup smith through the chow line.

Complete beverage Cup Smith the chow line.

Complete Beverage Cup Smith chow line.

Mr. Complete Beverage Cup Smith chow.

Mr. Complete Beverage Mrs. Cup Smith.

Today, said the judge—today we are gathered to try the sad case of Mr. Complete Beverage vs. Mrs. Cup Smith. That’s the song we’ll now hear sung down front before final judgement got finally judged. Mr. Beverage. Let’s hear your side of the story first. Ready to proceed?

Yes judge.

Go ahead.

Thank you, your honor. Here’s the simple issue. It was our understand that one of us was to be given out to each Babyman come down the line. A condition of this was that each of us was to receive minute adjustments if needed to ensure each orangey convicted babyman would receive an identical occurrence of Mr. Complete Beverage as compared to the prior and as predecessor to the following—

Mrs. Cup Smith waved her palms smartly then lowered both hands palms down to indicate stop right there that is wrong judge he is a liar, and said, Stop right there that is wrong judge he is a liar—

Order, Mrs. Smith, gavel-slammed the judge to pinch off the rest of her interruption but it flowed on there could no way be identical versions of him distributed based on the slosh we endured when our turn came to be distributed and—

Gavel-slam over gavel-slam and to boot all atop Mr. Complete Beverage threw into the side of her flow rippling it back some saying, There you go again interrupting! I was about to tell the judge what extreme measures are taken on my side of the ship to ensure that every copy of my being is precisely the same the first being that—

Judge!

—you will see in that exhibit fifteen up there multiple tall stacks of our containers and you can see, without need of further measurement, either by maxi-macrometer or even rulers quite larger and rounder and holier than thou, madame, that first primary part of each doling out my measure is precisely—

Judge see him feel him blowing his gas, she yelped, hands flipping palm up tops down palm down tops up, alternately, he is washing his lie clean of me or so he thinks—the containers they’re served in are of course the same just as just as—even though no two snowflakes are the same the atmosphere which floats them down is pretty much provable the same, and—even though no two dinner rolls are the same, well, the dish they are served on in any given eatery is no doubt just one of millions of that same dish manufactured all Fordlike on some assembly line even in this day and age no doubt totally automated produced by soulless non-human machinery—each such plate just like each such beverage container never touched by human hand. Never grown in sweet sunny groves as I and all the other copies of me are. God’s hand, directly, touching the woody bosom of each tree in our groves, is what me and my sisters fall from direct from God down in the loving hand of a field worker happy to have the job of harvesting me and mine to feed his family he at the end of every shift, and the horde of others just like him doff their baseball caps raise their faces up toward God who brings down the twilight over them delivering them well-earned slumbers in which they dream as one but at the  same time separately, of the final consumers of me and mine all and rest in the loving warm knowledge that they have brought something wonderful to market. Ahem—

Judge! cried Complete Beverage—why have you let this—this creature go all on alongly-alonely this way? I have held my tongue not wanting to contribute to her destruction of whatever passes for decorum in your court. But—

Gaveling blackrobes swirled up and down the roomy stirpot the judge cut the Mr.’s words down bouncing all scattery-sizzly across their superheated frypan of a courtroom, and he snarled out all gnarled and broken, to wit; neither of you utter another word, unless it is to answer a question posed directly to you from me, and—from me alone. And you, Mrs. Smith. Keep the lid on your wormy hot flowerpot of a mouth sister, or—it will be a quick trip to my pal Fred’s big jail, for you! Got it both of you eh eh ho hoo?

They nodded meekly as the cooling floor pushed up quietly soothing the overall sizzledown and the very large spectators, which had so far sat silently, stirred shifting each realizing in his or her selves that the tension of the last five minutes had tightened their every muscle all rocky and crampy packing their painpots to bursting ‘til all came releasing out now—the judge, sensing this, swiftly came to their aid saying, All right, Mr. Beverage. Now you may sing out your complete version of your selfplease. Go.

Thank you judge. As I had begun to say, there are no greater pains available eh ah heaven nor earth could make our product more uniform. There are no measuring devices available at any cost which could possibly see any variation in specifications from one of our drink serves to the next or to the next out onto infinity or further. And as the product is pushed out onto one serving tray come down the line after another by the duly assigned squad of guiltypled-servermen there is no way there could be slosh of the content into the orangey convicted babymen’s trays, and—even if there were the trays receiving the product are partitioned in the manner of the armed forces mess hall trays or the baby’s first dish partitioned heated feeding tray most of which are adorned with colorfully playful images of bunnies hippos elephants or happy lions or dancing boopies Santa-penguins cuddlybears Pooh all happily-happy—but that’s neither high nor low Doc I admit so and so, And so I. Admit—but, you see judge there is no way that even a mass quantity of sloshover could escape the space partitioned off meant to contain the beverage product so I feel Mrs. Smith’s gasout to me in writing last February and nearly all daily every since is nothing more than harassment dished to me for some other reason having no wise to dew with the grass of my production. Each morning I am doused unjustifiable and it is now the ultimate outrage that I stand here now before you facing possibly the very end of my naturally otherwise life judge. Help me judge!

The hill poured over the gallery shallowed down as they each absorbed the truths hosed out over them and you could hear a pin fall drop and bounce away to the forever gone space of creation which tends to appear, without being noticed at all, beneath any space where work is going on involving the use of both hands and the manipulation of two or more small items at once including but not limited to screws washers nuts bolts pins needles pills capsules or anything else like that—but the judge cut a swath across and gaveled his next point firmly in saying, The court has let you go one over and into much more swerving and spinning extraneous detail philosophication and commentary having nothing at all to do with this case. But.

But.

But but.

But whatever the outcome we do not want there to be the dimmest light shine of a possibility that what is ruled here can be overthrown on appeal. Got it? Good—okay Cup Smith go on your point please. That defendant; standin’; right there swaying all loopy—yah that guy there—Me, your honor? Yah, you-honor as you say. Your defense rests.

Go Smith.

Okay. Here is the poolbottom judge. I have at hand statistics that show that in nearly over thirty-three and thirty-five-thirds of the segments of the trays he so brags on where my product is placed by the serverman, it goes down in a puddle formed by his product’s careless slosh-over  which, we maintain, is caused by the fact that, 1. The law mandates a precise amount of beverage be served to each babyman—these amounts being specified in ounces—and while he does adhere to the law in the wise, eh, 2. He is using containers of the exact size to fill with no more than the precise amount of beverage mandated, and so, 3. There is no room between the surface of the liquid and the rim of the container to allow for even the tiniest tip tilt shake jiggle tremor bounce or bump of the beverage to take place without more or less of a slosh to take place. This slosh is as I said—in nearly over thirty-three and thirty-seven-thirds of the servings—this slosh is enough to tidally wave over the partition between his space and mine—and this is exacerbated by the fact that the state, also to save pennies per tray—has made the partitions high enough to separate the solid items placed therein, but not high enough to hold back any but the tiniest slosh, and so—the taste and quality of my product is destroyed. My beautiful fruits are drenched with his synthetically produced unnatural factory-made slop. And the orangey convicted babymen toss most of these in the battery of filth-encrusted stinking rot-barrels at the exit of the mass eating area and so. This is why the authorities. The authorities that make the decisions to. The authorities that make the decisions to spend. The authorities that make the decisions to spend the money. The authorities that make the decisions to spend the money as a routine process monitor the trash as it is dumped away to noplace in particular—detected scores over scores of my product gone to waste and so. My contract. My contract was term. Terminate. Terminated judge, ah—see. This has got me where I can’t barely speak. My children are reduce to consuming orphanage mush three times daily and as such their growth will stunt their puppies die their this and their that and their not to mention me and my and you got to help me judge. I me and we judge you got to yah got to yah—yah yah yah—got to help me. Judge!

So. Out front the big judge did consider and opened her mouth and but but behind. Mr. Complete Beverage stood facing from left and Mrs. Cup Smith stood facing from right both eager. Eager over and under their utterselves to know whereby they had hit the judge yea? Or to know whereby they had hit the judge no—but. Out yonder wall pushed the face of the first babyman. They out yonder wall but a little bit differently pushed one more the second and yah, Both at the same time first and second she be but—once more yonder wall pushed from itself, but a little differently from the way any other was might do, a third fourth and fifth eyepop of a babyman—or babymen if when and where that does more suit you—you of course not wanting to be suited in ways too much differently from most other people. After all you already sit at the piano a little bit differently from other people and to make matters worse get up and back away from the piano bench a little differently and then stand there looking about in a very different way from most other people. The judge faced the wall all popping faces each tormented in a different way and—way and—way and from back wall to down front to Mrs. Cup Smith’s face and then from down front to back wall and over and into Mr. Complete Beverage’s face and then—and then—he rose, shifted away her voluminous robes, gripped up its gavel-from the Place-Where-It-Lay, whichspot’s named after a small village south o’ Normanee and crack-banged the tabletop all loose at last and; and and and; dismissed the whole fool case.

How trivial, he told his monster later over dinner. The world is indeed a dense place.

So; what we have learned children, stepping back, viewed from ten thousand feet, yes is so:

Mr. Complete Beverage Mrs. Cup Smith.

Mr. Complete Beverage Cup Smith chow.

Complete Beverage Cup Smith chow line.

Complete beverage Cup Smith the chow line.

Complete beverage cup smith through the chow line.

Completely full beverage cup smith down through the chow line.

Completely full beverage pudding cup smith come down through the chow line.

Completely full beverage pudding cup granny smith babyman come down through the chow line.

One completely full beverage pudding cup granny smith convicted babyman come down through the chow line.

One completely full beverage one pudding cup granny smith orangey convicted babyman come down through the chow line.

One completely full beverage one pudding cup one granny smith each orangey convicted babyman come down through the chow line in.

One three-quarters full beverage and one pudding cup one granny smith due each orangey convicted babyman come down through the chow line in most.

One half full beverage and one pudding cup and one granny smith is due each orangey convicted babyman come down through the chow line in most prisons.

Jim Meirose’s short work has appeared in numerous venues, and his published novels include Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection (Mannequin Haus), Understanding Franklin Thompson (JEF pubs), and Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer (Optional books). Info at: www.JimMeirose.com @jwmeirose

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