interc paste! smothered with fried chicken breading, vanderfookin takes a stroll down to the bottom of the ocean. he enlists a couple of renegade blowfish and a whammy shark to take matters into his own hands, up on the surface, where they now ascend. on the shore, there is a large box full of shampoo and razor blades surrounding by a blind man and his three stoic, magnanimous jellyfish. the sun is the color of aloe vera. vanderfookin is usually wiser than this; the creatures have gills! his fabulous sea beings die and he waits ten years for his next chance. ten years later, he climbs the highest mountain in the world. he plants a peach tree and paints his fingernails with a vial of sap. he reads every single book that has ever been written in seventeen minutes. the blossoms tickle his nose. he takes a peach and hurls it downward and hits a reclusive bicyclist practing for the tour de france. the man falls to the ground and goes unconscious. in his dream, he walks across a planet covered in purple bamboo. the birds there are fascinating, he recalled, they produce signed declarations of pancakes, they double retrace the lines in the foreheads of long forgotten champions, they fly with wings made of sand, they have no inclination towards grief or matters of the spirit, they coexist with the juice, they nest in heavily-stickered guitar cases. the bicyclist and vanderfookin went their separate ways and the trucks passed, the cars and the big rigs passed, the campers and the police officers and the radish salespeople walked by. the whole mainframe was dislodged from the existential wall. it jumped, the wall, into a tornado, that carried it to denmark, where inside a house of thatched architecture, they were just pulling the turkey out of the oven for little ragna's 7th birthday. happy birthday ragna! 021013 what's it to you? who go blather from