boomerang

 Josef performed as a spry 79-year-old social drinker. The town of Chico considered him a local hero because he owned the only pale ale refrigerated pipeline ever installed running from Sierra Nevada Brewery into Josef’s vast animal sanctuary.  
Running a robust peafowl rehabilitation ranch had its drawbacks. Boredom whistles sounded hourly. Josef inherited SQUAWKKER’S REDUX, the two k’s stemmed from an unforgiving stutter his blind relative dealt with as she formed the corporation. Destiny shouted when a salty craftsman at a local sawdust festival scrambled directions for hand-carved signage resulting in double sadness but all were eternally blessed it was not three.
Josef’s property windfall touched down as a result of his distant cousin, Tam Tinker, being redesigned in a horrifying chainsaw dynamic followed by a malfunctioning woodchipper incident.
For seventeen years, Josef engineered a network of beneficial alliances within the adult tease-spank entertainment fields.
Developing an intricate cobweb of spirited renegades to imbibe with invigorated Josef as if he were suckling from a syrupy fountain of infinite energy. Boundaries were maintained as the “J-Bomb” was not fond of senior citizen creeper vibe varietals. That costume worked best at carnivals where a glance at a lovely flower angel could hammer swing over to a chocolate corn dog without repercussion.
Categorizing Josef’s hoppy liquid rampage fiestas as network social gatherings masked the medical horror freak shows churning in his liver flesh kingdoms.
2 am baby peacock shrieks quelled the intermittent thunder shock spasms that impaled bearded Jo monthly.
Unsolicited suggestions from holier-than-thou communities were issued with every DUI wallet hit that Josef weathered.
Following a blasphemous hosting of the Hooter’s, Inc. annual holiday extravaganza on his luxurious guarded estate, public relations frown holes presented in the form of law enforcement. Litigious minefields canopied Josef’s once voyeuristic lifestyle. Forced change was imminent.
An entitled two-legged hamster who received preferential treatment was found to connect the dots in realizing that mixing a Ho-Ho-Ho Hooterama Snow Fest with peafowls, rockets, hayrides, and a live Twisted Sister marathon performance would tease just a few too many Schleprock deities.
Josef’s addictive personality would be a monster to deconstruct. High-profile attorneys flanked every available asset from Josef in the discovery stages of his pending trials. Josef bled out.
Attendance at double-A meetings was mandatory.  The soul-cleansing confession trains provided J with an organic transformation portal to the inverted version of a human that was even alien to himself. It was in these ramble-talk-healing circles that he found a more deviant form of addiction to enrich his mind, creative writing.
Without a nut bag to store a nickel, Josef relied on the kindness of strangers in his wanderlust years that anchored him to notepads and a broken zipper suitcase that lived on pencils. Days were now spent stitching graphite into paper as he composed symphonies of chaos across new undiscovered landscapes.
There would never be time for rest. The destructive sound of time crackled in his mind pushing stories to completion before final deadlines. Cell phone access was left up to the universe. Most walking smile sticks that entered Josef’s world were also without electronic communication devices.
Existence was now an exhilarating revolving quest requiring repetitive inquiries surrounding meticulous submissions. Handmade spreadsheets were formed from blurred images seen on shared phones. Create, write, smile, and submit were his new sober marching orders.
Instead of checking on disgruntled peahens until his non-celebratory dirt dive, Josef feverishly scanned hope clouds for new publishers that would overdose on his zany energy while always being thankful for what was being provided.