Available as Midlife Crisis or as Succor to The Resistance
by J.T.BLEU
This excerpted chapter has been inserted by my editor to MEDIUM, and is dedicated to the elder, potential customers among you who are searching for meaning in life via SURREAL ESTATE. Please bear with me as I make one minor sales pitch to another important demographic who also finds meaning elusive.
SURREAL ESTATE planning is not only for the young and hip. Pimples, pus, and testosterone are not merely the primary avenues into this exclusive neighborhood. No! Anal leakage, weak calves, and amber-oozing eyeballs offer compelling arguments and throughways into the purchasing of SURREAL ESTATE for you future security.
“Oh, you’re so gross,” you say. But you haven’t heard the worst of it. Read this secret transcript from a psychotherapy session I eavesdropped in somewhere near 5th Avenue (you know where I’m talking about) — and know that your future is secure in SURREAL ESTATE.
***
Psychotherapist: “What happened next?”
Patient X: “My friend shot himself.”
“How?”
“With a can of whipped cream.”
“Why whipped cream?”
“His can of deodorant wasn’t aesthetically correct.”
“Wrong aroma?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Go on.”
“It was terrible — white cream everywhere — the can was found on the floor.”
“I see. Did it kill him?”
“Of course it did. With deodorant, you know, he might have had a chance, but the whip cream quickly coagulated with the strawberries he had just eaten.”
“It cut him short — .”
Get J.T. Bleu’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
“ — Cake, exactly. Short cake, short cake: I just can’t get the picture out of my mind — cake, cake, cake — all I see are shortcakes.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, doc, naturally this incident ushered in a carefree period called the midlife crisis — reminiscent of the funny comedy routines of Nietzsche — and his famous slapstick humor about the cute, gentle eyes of the abyss that will look into you if you even ask your wife just one simple question during her menopause!”
“I see. This sounds like a possible burlesque, but whatever.”
“It wasn’t any burlesque, let me tell you.”
“So, your wife entered menopause?”
“And I entered hell.”
“You mean, you became a writer,” added the psychotherapist with a knowing smile.
“How did you know?”
“I’ve seen this behavior before, Mr. Kliegmeir.”
“You have?”
“Yes.”
“I feel like I can trust you, doctor.”
“Please continue, Mr. Kliegmeir.”
“Well, this is when I got real serious about writing, as you have already ascertained. Prior to this period, I had lackadaisically started a couple of spy novels in the…in the carefree days of middle age weight-gain and diminishing eyesight, but by the time…by the time of my wife’s menopausal crisis, oh, the horror…the horror…the horror.”
“Now, now, you’re safe here, Mr. Kliegmeir. She can’t touch you here. Go on.”
“Then I wrote a wild and wacky novel called ART OF THE ABYSS. I mean I really looked into voting for Donald Trump, I tell you. It could have been the result of a nervous breakdown or deep depression, but I prefer the epithet of genius to be attached to that wondrous period. Oh my god, I’m going to cry.”
“There, there, Mr. Kliegmeir, what you are feeling is completely normal. Let me get you a tissue — What are you doing, Mr. Kliegmeir? You want fresh air? You don’t need to open the window for that. Let me adjust the climate control. Whoops, Mr. Kliegmeir, what are you doing? Why don’t you just sit down and relax. Be careful, this is the thirty-fourth floor. I wouldn’t open it, Mr. Kliegmeir? Mr. Kliegmeir, I hate having to shout at falling patients. Oh, my god, Ms. Rene, could you come in here, please. We’ve lost another one. Call 911. Oh, it’s so unfortunate. What is that fluttering in the wind above his body done there? Can you see it, Ms. Rene?”
“Yes, doctor, it’s the pamphlet your patient brought with him. The one about SURREAL ESTATE as a property of investment for the future.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Dr. Spielmann.”
“Could you go google it for me. I’m looking to invest anyways.”
