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48 posT-modern life Everything happens“ironically ...as if between invisible quotation marks.” —David Lehman,“The Questions of Postmodernism” The more i swear “i’m serious,” the louder guffaws grow. “have a nice day” scalds my ears with irony. “sorry to hear that,” prances by in spike heels and a fake mustache. “This is great sausage,” i attest, and great sausages of the past rise like ectoplasmic blimps above the table: sausage ideals before which my pale offering festers and stinks while my guests think, “ridiculous to praise dead meat!” All words in black-tie must wear quotation marks, too: i “regret” to tell you, it’s “malignant.” The “wedding” will “unfortunately” not “occur.” The “baby” has “spina bifada” and will be “profoundly retarded.” how “dare” you “address” my “wife” as “hamster-hips?” “hell,” your “wife” never “loved” “you”; i’ve been “sleeping with” “old hamster hips” for “years.” You “flocking bustard,” i’m going to “kick” the “living horsehair” out of “you”—the boot-to-my-groin, if your threat proves true, ironic reference to the time when there were real cowboys who herded real cows on genuine range, who wore plain boots (not glittering with ostrich skin and camp) to keep authentic rattlesnakes from biting, and to fit in actual stirrups, helping the cowboy stay on his sure’nough horse, and not be bucked off, hit his head on bona fide rock, and do what people nowadays— for instance, you—even with tubes in all your cavities, machines breathing for you, every organ in your body failing—must do with a knowing “wink,” an ironic “cough of blood,” a last bored “sigh.” ...

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