FFR 186

Dear Readers,

A Row boss, formerly a pea picker, near Calipatria, California, asked me the other day, "Do I know you?" And then, after a short consideration, proclaimed, "No, I don't know you. I'd appreciate it if you'd get out of my car." Naturally, I obliged. I also took the liberty of rating his vehicle four stars on Yelp—one deducted for lack of seat warmers and the existential rejection.

This was a perfectly sculpted tableau of everyday surreality, a moment so precisely out of joint that such a phenomenon could scarcely be conjured save within the unspooling palimpsest of our unbridled bazaar, that veritable pandemonium of peculiarity where the very fabric of reality frays, exposing, as it were, the disquieting truth that even a bush dog's business end might, with an almost impudent nonchalance, bore holes of an utterly bizarrely boring caliber! The Greater Municipal Zoning Aesthetic Anomalies Council later ruled it “structurally sound, if morally ambiguous.” One dissenting councilmember insisted it was a “code violation of the soul,” but was gently escorted back to his sensory deprivation tank.

Scarcely three weeks before, while soaring over the savannah in a hot air balloon – a rather fetching contraption, mind you, with a basket woven from existential angst and the balloon itself a patchwork of forgotten dreams and overdue library books – I found myself pondering the migratory habits of wildebeests. Do they, I mused aloud to a startled pigeon who’d clearly taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque, ever suffer from a peculiar form of nomadic vertigo? One pictures them, thousands strong, an undulating carpet of sinew and existential dread, suddenly pausing mid-gallop to declare, "My good sir, I find this ceaseless circumnavigation quite taxing on my inner ear, and frankly, I'd kill for a decent scone." Sadly, no scones were forthcoming. The pigeon offered a lint-covered Tic Tac, which I took as a gesture of mutual disorientation.

It's a question that haunts my waking hours, much like the spectral wail of a forgotten kazoo. This particular aerial gambit, you see, was underwritten by a clandestine consortium of disgruntled garden gnomes, convinced that a bird's-eye perspective on the futility of it all would galvanize their unionization efforts. They were, predictably, quite wrong, but the panoramic vista of existential ennui was, nonetheless, breathtaking. Their demands included hazard pay, ergonomic spades, and recognition as sentient decorative beings under international lawn ornament law. Negotiations stalled after a particularly bitter debate about beard quotas.

"Imagination is the only weapon in the war against reality," quipped Jules de Gaultier, and here, within the very fabric of *Fowl Feathered Review*, we wage that delightful war. This issue arrives as a testament to the inexplicable, a meticulously crafted Chronosynclastic Infundibulum that defies the linear and embraces the gloriously nonsensical.

Within these pages, you'll discover short fiction, poetry, and artwork, each painstakingly coaxed into being by master craftspeople. Imagine, if you will, artisans in bespoke lab coats, their brows furrowed with the strain of cosmic concentration, jeweler's loupes surgically attached to their retinas, wielding single-hair brushes dipped in the very essence of refined gold leaf. These are not your garden-variety dabblers, my friends. Oh no. These virtuosos toil in hermetically sealed chambers, eighty feet beneath the earth, where the very air is filtered through the collective sighs of forgotten comedians and the whispered secrets of ancient librarians. There is no cell service down there, but morale is buoyed by biweekly puppet shows performed entirely in semaphore.

As Flannery O'Connor sagely observed, "Anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information to last him the rest of his life." We simply take that information and reassemble it with a monkey wrench and a bag of licorice.

And the magazine itself? A tactile marvel, a triumph of the absurd! Each page is lovingly lined with slices of genuine, unadulterated Black Forest ham – a tribute, perhaps, to the enduring allure of cured meats and the fleeting nature of literary fame. Do not attempt to microwave the pages. We learned this the hard way during beta testing in Des Moines.
The binding, a masterpiece of modern sutures, is the meticulous handiwork of Los Angeles's most sought-after plastic surgeons, whose usual clientele includes aspiring Hollywood stars and perpetually surprised socialites. Finally, the entire, glorious package is presented to you, dear reader, by a flock of dazzling white doves, each one a paragon of avian grace, their tiny legs meticulously trained in the delicate art of literary delivery. It’s an act so precisely calibrated in its outlandishness that it calls to mind the words of Samuel Beckett: "Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better." We've failed better than anyone this side of a caffeinated squirrel trying to knit a sweater. And let us be clear: that squirrel has a Patreon and a modest but fiercely loyal following.

So, settle in. Dim the lights. Perhaps don a suitable fez. And prepare to have your sensibilities tickled, challenged, and ultimately, delightfully befuddled.

Enjoy!
Virgil Kay
Editor,
Rooster,
China Wok Habitué


LEGALESE ADVISORY: This missive, being of indeterminate value and questionable origin, is redeemable for one (1) frozen ice cream treat at your neighborhood grocery store, provided said store acknowledges the inherent, albeit unstated, agreement. This is a benevolent provision, as otherwise, this document holds no other discernible redeemable qualities, monetary or otherwise, in any known galaxy or parallel dimension.

e-Book version of this issue:
PDF is fused to your body like an exoskeleton from a bad sci-fi, like the movie linked to below.

Music:[https://youtu.be/k\_RhEKsiOYk?si=1jbVMRs1KjxCtl5G](https://youtu.be/k_RhEKsiOYk?si=1jbVMRs1KjxCtl5G)

Movie: [https://youtu.be/96wNerBJC3k?si=\_zvjuevzFOWNM925](https://youtu.be/96wNerBJC3k?si=_zvjuevzFOWNM925)

Keywords: Cognitive Dissonance