Flipbook Andy, flipbook caramel chocolate covered pretzels in a sundae Andrew, answer your damn phone, you say.
Tom Johnson often used nicknames to refer to Androphetus, dousing his legitimately god-given natural born name with a varied and well-meaning stream of nouns or adjectives, because that’s how stories roll, hombre. You are in this story, in fact, you are the fucking STAR of this story, and I will prove it:
Listen: Andarphologethetics, a man as thickly put together as a bag of cement, declined to pick up his phone in a forward-thinking kind of way. Better to adhere to solid principles such as math or science, like trees falling into logs and becoming campfires for woodland animals like the squirrel or the rhinocerousaurus that roam golden forests, amber-hued from sunlight, green foliage amidst the purple and yellows of flowers that had never seen themselves before ever because of science and how and why of modern physics.
Flowers don’t have eyes, Andy thought, or maybe they do, but they generally don’t, so it is preposterous to think of flowers looking around at themselves, but who knows, maybe they can, in some 87th sense they have in the list of plant senses of which even the greatest scientists could barely detect with the most sensitive of instruments, he realized.
Ask your fellow, friendly tree-hugger of your neighborhood whether there is any science behind how a plant feels and he will spill his guts to you about this subject. Flowers and plants feel all kinds of shit because they are in tune with nature.
And we’re all nature, bro, you remark to Andrew kindly, patting him on the shoulder and letting the moment pass and the pain to heal from inside of your mind because he never answered the phone.
This is the function of the neighborhood scientist, born of the science tree which grows from the fountains of time. Look that shit up, I don’t have to tell you this part of the story, the vernacular is laid bare and plain, were it to be stated any simpler, this would be a dictionary and not a tale.
Andy went and did as he was directed, but his experience was much, much different than this. Much to the 2nd power, the square root of most, this guy was or said or did. He ended up having lunch.
You ended up having lunch too and the lunch was ok by contrast but you didn’t know that at all. You thought it was great. Your lunch was one of the better food-bangers of the week, but little did you know your subjective reality was crashing down the stairs like a fucking metal basketball when Doesn’t-Use-a-Smartphone-Correctly Andremeter comes back in the room. He says he’s got of all this reality dripping out of his mind and ears and eyeballs, awashed in seas of reality, netherworlds of truth soaking in light and warmth, obliterating falsities with oh-so-heavy actualness and readily apparent obviousness, evaporating into nothing and yet winning it’s territorial advancement into the void of what is not or never has, or will always shall be eventually, ad infinitum.
This is the story of a man who needs more fiction in his life. His name is Tom. He is you. As you came to understand him, you realized how right he was.