"The Degradation" - Joe Milford
Waffle House, also known by the retired police officer son of the confederacy gun aficionado I currently live with in a haunted house as “awful waffle,” and in walks this guy, gaunt one, lanky, gruff, long-faced, an iggy pop-type if iggy had ever been a trucker and iggy at one point probably was, a gibby haynes type, a jesus lizard/david yow type, a ribcage and socket set kind of character, a tom waits jacket sleeve, etc. he crosses the grease and bleach brick floors of the establishment towards his niche at the grill and shortly after, no kidding, johnny cash finished playing, the relative easiness in playing a cash song, and he walks in and says, “here comes the degradation,” and he is wearing this please-don’t-shoot-me-I-am-not-venison blindingly orange hat and he fires up the grill and I realize he is bringing the degradation—I know I am about to eat the best goddamn hash browns of my entire life and in the local paper here in Moreland—the home of THE LEWIS GRIZZARD MUSEUM and the ancient towtruck parked in front of it—they have a spot where they transcribe witty exchanges on CB frequencies—so, with great enthusiasm out unto every airwave, I say, “bring the degradation”—let it come scattered like stars, covered like atmospheric pressure, smothered like a dead moon, chunked like an asteroid belt—bring the degradation grease monkeys, bloodshot hellions with spatulas—yes—bring the degradation.—it’s about time the penalties of the known cosmos were brought forth by 135-pound shaven rusty-shears grill chefs—it was only inevitable—as good degradation should be. bring it down like antifreeze suicide. bring it down like acid rain southern rock festival. bring it down like a demolition-derby tornado. bring that degradation. yep.