How Much Do You Want For That Pair Of Green Colored Clown’s Eyes?

We live our life for trinkets, an overpriced McDonaldland cookies excursion to compensate paying dearly just for the privilege to indulge. A trinket is not a book nor is it the Bible, a car, a fishing pole, a bank account or a cigarette or a cigar, a pair of sunglasses, a pencil, a newspaper, umbrella, a poodle or a pair of gloves.

A trinket is fashion, a passion to coddle in the oxymoron megasuperstardom of madness. For example: take a $200 pair of alligator shoes with genuine alligator skin, ripped off the back of some poor, unsuspecting alligator or a $1200 overpriced antique that looks kitschy & cool, yet gathers nothing but dust and fingerprints every time it’s picked up and handled by some unhip buffoon who decides that it’s not good enough for them.

My old girlfriend is a trinket. A high-class hoboing whore whom flies from New York to Chicago and stays with me overnight because she is lonely for substance and loves me, but cannot divorce (her head) herself from her disshelved lifestyle and enjoys the verbal abuse she swims in on a daily basis. Did I mention that she is married?

Speaking of marriage, a trinket can be a trophy wife, a delicate big-boobed blonde-haired doll who loses at cards and knows her place in the kitchen & the bedroom and curtsies & bows when told to, but honestly, does not know how to cook for squat.

So that leads us down to the next trinket, to keep her fat and happy, which of course is the full course meal, a pricey restaurant that charges $30 for a three ounce piece of overcooked meat; $9.50 for a plain hamburger without the condiments; $14 for a cold glass of domestic beer; employs dancing waiters and striptease waitresses, whom are paid $5.15 an hour to make you feel happy and special, as you feast upon bread and butter and dead flesh, while expected to leave behind a $50 tip.

I seem to recall in my formative years, that a trinket was known as a small ring or a piece of jewelry, you know, something to impress the ladies with, letting them know in so many ways that you care for them and you want them to be yours, a sort of informal way of telling her that you own her.

Later on, that little trinket was replaced by a trifle. You know what a trifle is, don’t you? It’s something of little value or importance, like say a toy monkey that sings the Macarena and you buy it for her, because you know that’s what she’s into and it’ll only be a matter of hours before she gets sick of the goddamn thing and puts it aside and lets it gather mothballs, along with the rest of the junk you’ve bought her, like the Hello Kitty roller blades, the model of the twin towers that has suddenly become a sick sad sack symbol of freedom, the angel figurines, the stuffed purple squirrel with the pink tail that you absolutely had to win for her at the local carnival that blew into town the same year the entire city was flattened by a killer tornado.

Moreover, what do you have, after pawing through it all? Nothing but a load of crap destined for the annual rummage sale at your local place of worship.