idiomatic suggestion

I will admit, the back seat driver has always been the apple of my eye. Knowing full well how much the cat was killed by curiosity, still, I pushed on, crying over spilt milk. And wouldn’t you know it, I’d been crying wolf the whole time over a cup of joe. I’ll cut to the chase, because I understand that you shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket or drive anyone up the wall---it could be just a dry run, however, and so you must excuse my French when I lie to your face & tell you that every cloud has a silver lining. Actually, sometimes they are copper or even bronze. Sometimes a cloud’s innards won’t even shine back---you have to bring your own Windex to that party.
You are what you eat, they say, and I must admit to you now that your guess is as good as mine, when it comes to wild & wooly pigs flying---being a vegetarian for over a decade now, I find myself wearing my heart on my sleeve while wagging the dog & wading in the water under the bridge. I spit out all those lyrics to Anthony Kiedis & you know that man with Van Gogh’s ear for music, what did he do? He went on to make the same substandard excrement that ranks up there with lady gaga, the sound of a dryer in your basement warming up your shoes that go clunking now that they have been drenched in the rain, country music in general & a goat’s anus.
But lately, I’ve been under the weather & I’ve turned a blind eye to the old pranks that used to make me chuckle til’ the cows came home. I used to steal people’s thunder, even though you know, it was all tongue and cheek. What made me smile was the sound of one hand clapping, because I always knew that under the table, the individual in question, beyond all their zen bee-s, was masturbating. And I would look across the way, smelling something fishy, smelling a rat in the pasta, and I’d tilt my fedora.
So with my blue eyed Frank look-alike look, I’d still know full well that Rome, not being completed in one day, would certainly take some quality time. And the peeping Tom, who passed the buck on Wednesday, surely made his rounds on Thursday, with his pedal to the metal, but so over the top and not on the fence was our Mr. Tom, that while he was out on the town, he bit the hand that fed him shouting, “make no bones about it, there’s a method to my madness!”
It was Tom who met me in a café on Friday, after peeping all over town. He took some pictures of the people that he preyed upon and cheered himself like some kind of personal pep rally. He tried to make me look at them, but with one hand up side his head I smacked him face down into plate of some overpriced pastry that he had bought. When he lifted his head, he looked me straight in the eye and muttered underneath his breath:

You know that this schtick has gone as far as it can go before you yourself have finally lost interest in the whole matter. You know, at first, when you looked up idioms on google, and wrote a couple free verse poems with various ones as the titles---it was a bit amusing, but then you attempted to write a full short story using tons of idioms---calling it something pseudo-mysterious, which wreaked of a cross between that song by radiohead, “idioteque,” and maybe those secret messages that come along with albums that the little kiddies aren’t supposed to be hearing---so sayeth the great and wonderful oppressive forces in the world.

The fact remains that Tom, this perverted simpleton of sorts, had put you, that is, me (as this work of fiction is only as fictional as you might believe it is that a process projected by the writer himself is something which harnessed in reality, could be construed as such), in my place. He had called us (you, the reader & I, the writer) out, and down we went, with the likes of crappy classic rock from the late 70’s and early 80’s which makes its way to infomercials in the middle of the late early morning, eastern, standard, time. And out of all this, all you gained (all I gained, that is, again, you & I) is another chip on your shoulder. Eee-gads!