Cesar Flebótomo's Dream Job

The Theory of Non-Dairy Creamer

The eighth day. Yes, the eighth day. God had his vaunted day off, bored out of his skull, a serious dose of divine caffeinated withdrawal, temples knock-knock-knocking on heaven’s door, the lapsang souchong pounding the beat, Sonny and Cher enneagrams blissfully arrayed on the mantel, cobbling fate, cracklins in the vestibules, acolytes dosey doe-ing in the barrel races . . . His Divine Hisness took one look at them boys in white and thought Why not? and Whither? and Wherefore? and before you could say Guadalupanita that was one, two, three little aco-piggies—Arturo, Banda, and Calabrese—plunk! down in the celestial bowlful, those shifty cottas (traditional square yoke, natch) whirling dandy dan in the missional mayhem, cohorts ablaze, couscous congealed, candied yams commingling, carioca in the plim plam plum of danse tropicale— salsa portoricaine, chacha, kizomba, samba, danse africaine, merengue, and bachata. Them poor boys was just wantin’a helpin’ hand, lift they papalated lil limbs on out the sugary whirlpools, cosmos fatale, and the Wichita Lineman and all the rest of the Hasidic liturgy, complete with non-dairy cannonade, expiration dates, and the 1974 Derby winner himself.

“Getting ahead of yourself, ain’t ya?” The Utter Hisness complined straight from the 1928 Prayer Bib, loose fingers wiping that North Carolina Tarheel old rickety shack cayenne pepper throb, caramel tease, octogenarian open sesame, if this be the way to San Jose there are better ways to annotate the Hausa-Fulani of Guinea-Bissau, the Big Bib always calls down the gypsum NASDAQ, calculating, fulminating, escalating, salivating as only Mr. Big Bib can.

           

The Non-Dairy portion of the Mass, of course, is still the subject of considerable debate—not to mention squalor. Unintentional squalor, of course, ham hock sensibilities notwithstanding. Go figure: non-dairy is already an intimation of immortality: creamer simply baffles all, baffling as only a 1972 Trinidad waterbed can baffle, sheer terror in the shadow of the Dunster House clock tower, ghosts of Tommie Lee and you can call me Al, well, the derivative portion of the program failed to list all the communicants, failed—ignobly, I might had—to make a dent in any thing even faintly resembling Sara Lee and all her sugarsweet minions.

Let’s dispense with the digressive balance and cut to the chase . . .

The Laws of the Theory of Non-Dairy Creamer:

1. Cesar Flebótomo is to N-DC as Eric Clapton is to the unplugged version of “Layla.”

2. Amplitude rests upon the gospel of N-DC, not the reverse.

3. East of N-DC is not, contrary to popular delusion, west of the moon.

4. Nor is Diana Krall.

5. (Nor is her hubby, of course.)

6. The Dow Jones Average of N-DC wears its pants—and its heart—on its sleeves.

7. Nebula lost her way in the N-DC constellation; she ain’t been heard from since.

8. If there is an 8^th Law of the Theory of Non-Dairy Creamer, I ain’t been told.

9. Shoot to win, not to play.

10. Do not judge a theory by its cover. Nothing surreal about the Theory of Non-Dairy Creamer in the least. Just ask Breton.

And all the gammy gals goes swingin’—