The Perfect Gift

Chattering to one another about the insufficient rain, the house plants envy the clouds. We’re all just renting our haircuts. Last weekend, on my way to the Brotherhood of Thieves, I was counting everything I passed on the street, and before I could tell whether I was high fiving or swing dancing, I ran out of natural numbers. It’s my cranky algorithm. It refuses to cooperate with the data purge. When I tried to explain to my boss that virtual reality is a fake rumor, he wanted to examine the exculpatory evidence. It’s futile to tell the truth to lie detectors. Last night, I dreamed I woke up to my dream job. There was money everywhere. As I de-linted myself and corrected for my distracted driving, a Norse folk song came on the radio. I couldn’t stop myself from singing along with my own mouth. Who can resist a sexy Viking? Sure, the drum solo was too long, but I’m a bad listener. Although the price of helium has shot sky high, party balloons are always in the national interest. Like the disappeared corpses of the opposition, they’re the perfect gift for any oligarch. Just ask the dead.