Written after I was wrecked by the heartbreaking West Wing season three finale, Posse Comitatus, on November 8th, 2006. Revised April 29, 2010
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“I got a couple emails to my artwork website’s inbox from Japan. I can’t read any of it, so I don’t know if it’s just junk. I never get junk at that address.” I confessed curiously to DJ Huxtable while I drove over the I-8564578298 overpass on Scrimshaw pkwy.
“What an awful name for a street.” Hux belted, gazing past his reflection at the street lamp lit army-green street sign.
CROCKETT: What? Interstate 8 billion, five hundred sixty four million, five-
DJ HUXTABLE: Scrimshaw, you dick. I should harpoon every whaler I can.
CROCKETT: Listen to this vegan extremist. You think that’s not worse than killing whales?
HUX: I’ll make artwork out of their teeth, then. Or maybe I can just take one arm and use that bone. I’ll make scrimshaw dildos and sell them back to their lonely landlocked wives. Or maybe a femur would be better for- The femur’s the thigh bone, right?
“If it’s human, it isn’t scrimshaw, it’s gotta be a marine mammal.” I thanked archbishop internet for the knowledge it once provided. Continue reading Post Posse Comitatus
