BLUE SUEDE DUPES

One for the money, two for the snow...as in syndrome, of the visual kind. Or, perhaps my symptoms are more likely that of a genetic splicing migraine, caused by a panoply of extinct and extant cousins of various popular species being re-alived by a biotech startup in Texas, under the pretext of "ecosystem restoration." Sounds like another trendy codeword for a Bond villain mailbox operation to test Jurassic Anthrax-- bacillus anthracis spinal tap test pending. Maybe my heatwave induced attention lapse is really just tomophobia? Isn't that the fear of having an enzyme technician put your DNA through a tokamak? Or, did I down one too many Hopsecutioners, as part of my TacoMac Brewniversity enrollment, when I was laid over in ATL?

Apparently, my khaki work shorts won't stop clinging, and I can't stop clanging. I'm rhyming and punning unintentionally. One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish dieted delish, dish per dish, by blue footed boobies, and red footed boobies; they swim through the vacuum of my brain like virtual particles popping in and out of existence, waiting for Quantum Darwinism to find their 15 minutes of einselection. And, these two specific Happy Feeters have both won the official Survivor's Award, which is handed out by Mother Nature, herself. It must have something to do with their webbed seafaring phalanges being thermoregulatory. The notorious dodo, on the other hand, earned its star at the first annual Darwin Awards ceremony 300+ years after total, species level annihilation, in the swamps of Mauritius 1681, by the claws of human and animal predators alike.

Lay off o' my blue suede shoes, put on your red slippers, and let's dance! We're definitely not in Kansas, and I don't know if the yellow brick road will find my fate with the Wizard; or like most Americans, I'll be ending up in a boiling hot cubicle somewhere between the I-635 and I-35 Silicone Prairie corridors, rather than 10 miles North or South of the once breezy PCH. The American dream has retromigrated from its spiritual epicenter in the La Brea tar pit lowlands, to the Leander Tracks Fossil in the San Gabriel riverbed. And, now I'm a low level tech worker at Weyland InGen, and my specialty is training nicobar pigeons to tweet Nickelback bars for Mike Tyson's personal avian choir. Well, the ones I smuggle out for chump change, that is. This is how they remind me...

Otherwise, my job is to database accession identifiers from the living nicobarica genome, that can be synchronized with the also extinct Rodrigues Island solitaire, another close relative of the dodo. The goal is to get this de-extincted species back in theme parks, safaris, postcards, and more importantly, install them into the Mauritian ecosystem to preserve the critically endangered dodo tree (man, somebody's been puttin' dodo outta bizness!). Perhaps, I'll even proxy reanimate the Giant Mauritian Tortoise, resultingly, and share a congratulatory post IPO listing IPA with Mr. DNA, himself. Can the beloved Tasmanian Tiger also make a comeback, and get a Looney Tunes heritage stamp as the other Taz? Specialty imprints are only $1.19 apiece. Now, that used to be the price of a gallon of milk, and of gasoline. I wonder, did Charles Darwin factor in Dr. Moreau to his grand puzzle of speciation, or Milton Friedman, by chance? Ligers, Pumapards, and Grolars for long dollars, o my--- three to get ready, and go, cat go!

This grand bell toll of anachronous intraspecies genetic re-assignment rings my alarm like a 650 ft nordic nightmare of a Viking giant named Bjorn, who, with each swing of his bearded battle axe, sends reverb tsunamis crashing against the fjords of a forlorn homeland. Adding to my night terrors, and a bout of third quarter insomnia, are the 30,000 striking Boeing machinists pouring into the strained temp market. But, how many times can I re-strain the Campbell's soup I bought on deal last winter? The company has changed their name, by the way, and apparently they want nothing to do with souped anything. There's nothing like some good ol' heart healthy, sodium pumped, 'Merican greenwashing to euphemize toxic shedding as a rebranding; in order to stockpile more Goldfish, up 13% YOY.

My play-on-paper mutual fund's quarterly allowance is betting on Soylent Multicolor, ManBearPig, and flying electric cars from the future, that ascend the troposphere calmly and quietly to interplanetary gravity wells. They're virtually noiseless, other than a faint 4dB hum that sounds like one long shhhhh. And wait, Bjorn is back from the deceased corner of my mind where the wild things play Yar's Revenge in Chewbacca flannels, and sip 86 proof bourbon spiked Diet R.C Cola out of 10-K juice boxes! He's back like Omnicorp's Officer Alex James Murphy meets Mel Gibson's mid 00's alter ego, unleashed on industry payola players after lukewarm box-office reviews. And, if he weren't just a plaguing figment of my own mental robo recyclate, then, he'd probably, actually be the mega seiches of Greenland's Dickson Fjord, caused by catastrophic glacial collapse. 40 years and 1,140 billion tons of glacial loss in this nether region of the Kingdom of Denmark, the world isn't just heating up, it's melting away. I couldn't have hallucinated it any better, but, can a little more Frankenstein rehashing Make Gaia Great Again! And, at least, can Yoyo Dodo be the bold face of the campaign?

Forget about saving the rainforests, and erasing our carbon footprint, we're moving on to genetically architecting favored environmental outcomes. The endangered regions of the world will find their best me, and they're gonna leave us way behind them. So, Mars will be for the rejects who didn't have gene splicing grandfathered into their HMOs. My life on earth will be a total recall of soup line vouchers, and toilet paper tickets; and, in the latest episode of thought broadcasting delusions, I won't be bummed about trading places or genes with some of history's long fraught failures. One day, I hope, they'll find my spirit in a steel-alloy tin, and I'll be necromanced to salvage the ecosystem of mediocre lunchbreak microwavers reserved for further planetary replacement. I am legend, blank slate amalgam, Warhol's junk DNA, genetic spacer cowboy! Yippee Ki-Yay! Mother Nature, ye grand devourer.

Letters by LX, colors from whisk_e