I was sitting at the bar of the One Lucky when I met time-machine hippies. They wore roped sandals, braided love beads, and twisted flowers in their hair. Out of the four, the one named California Moonspot struck me as the most appealing. She possesed a large braless chest with a shapely figure like an ex-Havana chick I knew back in the 80s. I wanted to share some smoky mary-jane with the hippy dame and do the cha-cha all over her free love body.
I flashed a belated peace sign and said too forcefully: "My name is Tortelli the Cynic."
Without success I tried to score big with Moonspot, but was rebuffed with flowery voices and guru smiles.
"All right," I said. "What is it you want from me?"
"Your know-how," the one with a Timothy Leary mask said. "We have organic honey and kava pies to sell. We have herbal skin remedies that meld wrinkles and melt away the fat of cellulite thighs. Our goal is to multi-level market our product line and start franchising by the end of the year with the goal of expanding into the Japanese market. We're looking for seed money, Mr. Tortelli."
I gave them an incredulous stare before I figured out what this was, which was no serendipitous meeting, but a case of mistaken identity.
"I am Tortelli the Cynic, not Tortelli the Capitalist. Sorry, but I think he works out of Jersey."
I bid them adieu, clicked my heels together and like Dorothy wished I were in Kansas.
Poems of the Week by Robin, Julian and Frank
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