1 Minute of Not Bashing Dav* H*nry

While cutting the tall grass I did perchance mow over an unseen doggie landmine, and as the foul stink filled the air, I thought perhaps then was a good moment to pause and let the ceaseless panhandle wind dissipate the stench.

As I reeled and sought escape from the reek of sun-hot grass and blade-sheared excrement thoughts came unbidden to my mind of the writings of Dav* H*nry. Coincidence surely, but what were at first unpleasant reflections on right-wing rubbish strangely became a meditation on how others, and especially myself, have so harshly abused him of late.

Under the punishing Amarillo sun, in clothes drenched with sweat, I felt pangs of remorse. How could we, repeatedly and callously, attack a young man with such an obvious mental deficit? H*nry has certainly overcome this deficiency to meet his weekly allotment of words, no mean challenge for a walnut in a primate skull.

Here though was something passing strange, for as the flies buzzed over the scattered dung and a hammer began to throb in my brain, I remembered something curious. H*nry had, in asking his one monosyllabic question of a commissioner candidate, provoked a brief exchange that revealed his rapier wit to have all the dash and edge of a pudding snack.

Surely this man, as the sun seared across flesh and the heat weighed like anvils upon every limb, was incapable of filling buckets of unmitigated drivel. It was beyond his human capacity. And as I staggered against the fence, the yard gently rolling like an open sea, it came to me: 100 monkeys at 100 typewriters would eventually write Shakespeare.

Not to compare H*nry to Shakespeare, for shame! As I lay on the ground, my skin hot and dry, I watched the monkeys scamper about in the elm above. Did we really need 100 monkeys hunting and pecking at random on 100 typewriters to produce H*nry’s flapdoodle?

Men in odd suits appeared speaking a language I couldn’t hear. The monkeys fled into the blazing sky. I felt cold and ice, and lifted up. I knew monkeys were too advanced on the evolutionary tree to produce H*nry’s work. They might write Shakespeare, but not even lobotomized monkeys would write H*nry.

It was then, as the metal gates of Heaven swung open and I was jostled into the cool rolling antechamber of the hereafter, that I had an epiphany, a vision, of chickens. I had seen chickens trained to play toy pianos by pecking at seed put on the keys. In time, without the seed, they would through sheer dumb reflex mindlessly peck at the keys. Was that H*nry’s secret? I smelled alcohol and a needle-sharp pain. There was a mask over my face, and darkness came.

Now recovered from my overheated reverie, I am still troubled by these thoughts. Can it be that who we read and revile simply sits at a keyboard, just one small pecker?