when the world isn’t making much sense…does this help?
when the world isn’t making much sense…does this help?
OK, so I will admit, I don’t just like my potatoes. rice, potatoes, pasta- I love my starches…
….but hey, right now, I am definitely down with noodles…
the crayon colored couple passed about a half dozen cops wandering around cashier central, while I tried…in vain….to concentrate on Miss Yapping Cashier’s rant. how do you tell a man with a giant butt-crack to turn around so you can work? I dunno. I really dunno, mam. mention something about a plumber? I dunno. i was too distracted by pink-crayon-girl and turquoise-soy boy skipping past the giant rocket advertising Pickup…to engage in intelligent conversation.
Miss Yapping finished her routine, and I pulled out some crisp green bills, grabbed my white racist plastic…three bags…inside other bags…hiding in enough plastic to make a toothbrush,,,and escaped Lunaticland for the never ending parking lot. Out in the rain I searched….while others wandered around doing the same….telling myself I really should use the car alarm to find it…this time…wandering until the lane I thought I was parked in, was actually four lanes from my vehicle.
it always rains really really hard when you realize your car is parked four lanes away. and then it hit me…this never happens to people parking in the handicapped spaces. they are the only spots with nice artwork in the entire parking lot. The rest of the parking lot looks like it was painted by a guy with a 20 degree hip tilt…everything in the asphalt kingdom leaning the same way.
why can’t they paint the parking spaces different colors? that way, I could always park in the plum purple spot and know where to find my stinkin’ car when I get out of Walmart. not like today. or any other day…
it was nice having a fig bar…the kind with lots of sugar so you really don’t taste the figs…and gulping a vitamin water. rehydration and sugarization is good therapy after enduring another round on the merry-go-round. which was particularly necessary today.
it started as I was approaching the deli with my eyes on the rotisserie chicken, only to look up and discover a man with his left hand completely stuck down the back of his pants, as if there was a rectal thermometer buried in there somewhere. you know your stomach is iron-clad when can you say excuse me to the contorted freak and reach in to rescue a warm chicken from 12:30PM, and disappear like Artemi Panarin on a breakaway. The deli girl actually ignored the eejit, but I purposely got her attention, trying to get the eejit to move away so maybe his woman…or whatever gender pronoun she resembled…could rescue the hand from the nether regions.
I changed my mind on the tasteless looking item labelled “potato salad” and headed for the back of the grocery where I could at least find yogurt, if not some peace. maybe.
an older man with one of those neat shopping cars was motoring around the glass cases of eggs and butter, so I asked if he needed any help. of course, I should have ignored him and gone off to my own little world, but it was an interesting five minutes reminiscing about a war I was not alive for. his granddaughter or great granddaughter returned with more food and tried pushing him, to his amusement.
my mind was wandering….when I realized the windshield was lashing with rain, and I thought it best to get home before the road started flooding.
driving down the highway, the rain mixed with some fog…and I was just about to cross a bridge into a small town on my way home when I saw two women…one quite thin, and one behind her rather rotund, walking in the pouring rain along the road. Like most men , I just glanced over for a minute…well, I was going to…but it become brutal outside, so we were nearly stopped in the wrath of the oncoming rain.
she had just enough on that I noticed a nice winter jacket. and that’s all. no pants. absolutely none. she must have taken them off when they got soaked. cars passed, trucks passed, on the other side of the road. we were stopped. maybe there was a train ahead. I dunno. no pants mam walked on, behind a thin wafer of a woman, toward the off-ramp…
she’s a bit stiff around the edges….a bit pale, pasty, and tender…but I love her. her aroma sets her apart from the others. when I walk by, I cannot but stop and stare. she’s a looker, that’s for sure.
sure, she’s had her ups and downs. some says she’s a bit twisted. but I like her that way. she’s genuine, never pretentious.
I met her in a restaurant. I sat down, she sat down. we became acquainted. she was so inviting, I could not resist.
maybe I should not have invited her to sit at the table. maybe I should have behaved. but life is short, and sometimes you can miss love as it passes by.
but now I dream of her in the night, and sometimes, I can feel myself smiling at the thought…the two of us together again…until I wake up and realize she is gone forever…
how does…a series…well, maybe it was three, no four…times of nightly trips to the cupboard to eat peanut butter….only by the spoonful…effect a wee walk on the wild side?
throaty breathing and slight dizziness….have I walked too far for the state of my body type?
if you go too far into the woods, you have gone too far.
I know. I went too far. ever have a washing machine in your stomach? the agitator is active…your innards swirling around. but the worst sensation in middle age is build-up in the muffin gut. I have heard of this malady…and it sounds terrifying. almost as frightening as eating the wrong kind of moss, succumbing to a vegetative breakdown, while armed with a “Foraging In The Wild” Guidebook in the deep, dark woods, too far from the parking lot.
they say there is nothing like vacating your colon in the woods. it is part science, and about 3/4 art. one must be careful not to fall into the….
…butt first. green leaves work better than spotted ones. or ones with that burnt-toast look. and, in light of certain Quranic references, small pebbles are really not a good idea…
but…a clean colon is a happy colon. and a happy colon abruptly ends prolonged sentences…of…
so forget about the body type…you can morph after a simple vacation. a walk in the woods can expand into a session long enough for a youtube series on “survival in the wilderness within two miles of your vehicle.” just carry plenty of hand sanitizer, soap and water, or other essentials necessary for your vacation…
back out on the trail…the weight that so easily pulled me down was gone. the trail ahead opened to new possibilities. the topography that once seemed so strenuous became a joy, and I danced up the trail like a young buck.
imagine…if you will…that you have the intelligence of a fish. why? because, my dear friend, that is your brain on public education.
now, imagine, if you will, that you have spent a long futile day attempting to cross the lip of a pond edge to another inlet where the water appears….appears…to be more pleasant, more tasty…with tasty things floating around in it.
you squirm your way to the edge and hit dry land…and find the pebbles irritating your scales as you try to push across the small piece of land and into the most glorious looking bright shiny water you have ever seen…since you last had a conscious thought about geographic locations.
but…you have no hands, you have no feet, you are a fish. and it is a really bad day to be a fish.
so bad, you have decided not to be a fish.
you would rather be a seal. or a porpoise. or a proctologist. you would prefer to be a creature with legs…to go anywhere you want…to do anything you want…even if they had to be hairy.
but as you lie there imagining…some wise guy will come along, pick you up, and throw you in the trash can…
so thank God you are not a fish. worse yet, you could have been created a weasel…and had weasel breath. isn’t it good to know that your chances of amounting to anything here on this blue-brown-green spinning ball are infinitesimally more likely than that of your standard blue whale, your average red snapper, and even you most delicious sea bass?
sure, you may have a bad day…or two.. or several thousand. that never entitles you to become an ugly, loathing, ten-toed sloth, moping your life away because you think No One on planet Earth seems to care if you live, die, or play Ultimate Pokémon. things could be worse…oh yes, they could be worse. you could be married to the Cat From Hell, live alone in a hammock tent all winter and have icy butt syndrome, or be married to someone who has all the warmth of an Angela Merkel. you are infinitely more valuable to the Universe than you can imagine.
you are too complex to be an accident.
are you breathing? are you alive?
you know there is no one else in this world who looks like you, who sounds like you, who even smells like you. how could you be an accident? you were no surprise to your creator – you were planned by forces higher than hormones and the wrong time of the month.
it is a good day to be a human…even if it is a bad day to be a fish.
there are few things as refreshing as sitting down in the middle of the night and randomly adding thoughts to page, even after flipping like a fish inside the mattress-womb for what feels like eons.
except…when you wake up to find that you have lost your pants. my pants! they have literally escaped from my room. they are not on my floor. they are not in my drawer. they are not in my care. they are not any where!
at which point, having lapsed into a tilted worldview, neck threatening to collapse to gravitational pull…I bang my head on the table and wake again.
such are the pleasures of life for the single man, who lives alone in a…11th century …restroom? a place I want to get some rest. somewhere that does not smell bad, and has a bed that does not feel like it was made by sadistic clowns attempting to create the world’s most undesirable mattress. like Mattress Unbearable.
I would rather swim on an ocean of waterbed than stiffen up like a bag of bones. so why the obsession with firm mattresses? what kind of a lunatic would actually design such an item? do they not know that there are millions….maybe, even, billions…aching for a good night’s rest? aching so much they get up in the middle of the night in an attempt to re-enact “Night of the Living Bladder” and find massive pain cutting through the back like a steak knife cutting through a juicy sirloin? aching so much they LONG for a good night’s rest more than swimming in the arms of…
and would walk around naked to the world without thinking because they are in such a state as to forget why in the world they are up at 3 AM?
So, without further doo doo, I declare war on the Mattress World.
There, i said it. Now I can go back to sleep, wake up in the morning, and march on the Mattress Store….and feel grand because I contributed to the betterment of all mankind (and maybe even womankind). I just hope I remember where all my underwear went.
it must be an incessant drain on your constitution to have a pointed beak. talk about lips- what lips? and no, I cannot ever imagine having to tear to sheds every piece of meat and then swallow it whole. that is not what I would call “a pleasant way to live.”
still, you have to admit, the cardinal is one classy bird. he never has to brush or comb anything, and there is no need to consider a choice of hat on a rainy day. and he always looks smart. contemplative even. you get a sense of intelligence just from looking in that fine feathered face.
it is a pity that we cannot flit from branch to branch, take in the grand world below, or arrange for a ceremonial dropping on one’s neighbor’s car…or stinky cat, whichever is most available. there are those who claim that we one day will be able to fly in That Land Beyond, but i suppose there will never be opportunities to “splash out” on someone’s vehicle at that point….which is another pity.
but, and here is the big but…what in the world do birds think about when they are flying up in the sky, or sitting on that perch looking so intelligent? your cardinal here appeared to be a regular Stephen Hawking, though there are no bird brain tests that we can use to verify that. that would likely be decided by a congress of cardinals, and we all know that does not bode well, as there always tends to be a lot of smoke and bother as a result.
we know that they carry on intelligent conversations, with particular nuances, unlike some larger birds which tend to crap all over the world stage. my little chickadee, who is no longer with us, and who has flown off to some distant locale where there are more dirty birds, used to chirp for hours. although she sounded like a happy bird, it is obvious she sought warmer climes, and I do hope she has not become shrill all-the-live long-day. for birds that age tend to get shrill when they feel threatened, lose their voice, or find out that their partner is actually the prettier bird, which obviously is a shock for most female cardinals…
I do not care to be the prettier bird, as I have standards, and do not wildly got out on a limb for anything remotely unsafe. no, I find my adventures on the ground, in the woods, or inside a structure unlike a box. for a box is meant only for a bird brain, as we have all been taught to think outside the box…I hope. I know I did my part for many years, arguing that life should not be contained and that one should never be caged. that is why I prefer free range, where one can find solace at the right moment behind a shady tree in the summer time if one chooses. and it is on that note, that bird song, that, like my cardinal friend, I must fly away to …my nest for the night.
somewhere in the depths of Hell, there must be an endless ballot counting process, another windy debate with a stage full of flaming men and women running for President of Lower Hades, and endless pollsters calling you every two minutes on the telephone. the cruel months of winter have nothing on the Hell of Campaign Season, for they stretch for eons, or so it seems every 2AM with that special pollster…sitting alone in a half empty storefront begging for $25, $50, or even $100 because his candidate cannot go on another day without raising $50,000…calls you, and like the voice of a mortician at your great Aunt’s funeral arrangements appointment, whispers cruel nothings in your ears…
I have had three-day old stale turkey sandwiches that were more pleasant…
if I could escape the season for one year…to a small pleasant little island devoid of newspapers, radio, television, and even the internet, where I can live on mango pancakes, mango steaks, and mango pies, I would do it. yet even there, I could not guarantee a life blissfully ignorant of the political lives of Planet Earth.
why? because someone would have to rule or manage the island…unless we were an autonomous collective…with bi-elections fortnightly…and even I could not escape the terrible reality of the politically regulated flush capacity of the standard island toilet. I know…I was once on an island inside the jungle where you had to pee straight into the center of a concrete block…a two-hole can…. but, so much smaller than your standard Western Toilet…and probably an easy shot for the local boys…but I am not an island jungle boy…
so, I have ruled out the island, and the island in the jungle. besides, I would miss a full year’s worth of work, which could officially impoverish me, at which point, a trip back to that said island would not be a vacation, but a purposeful retreat to enlist as the reigning peasant king of one small thatched hut on the edge of a beautiful oblivion. so, I dare not go that route.
no, I dare not go any route that takes me away from that boring ballot box when the primary finally does arrive, because I owe it to myself, since I can vote in this place, to fill in some darkened circles with a # 2 pencil. it is not an adult coloring book, which of course, cures every known ailment known to man and woman kind…but it will have to do for my spring art project. I must do my civic duty, as an adult. still, it is awfully sad that they do not allow a voter to bring gold crayons…I was so looking forward to drawing Burger King while deciding which circles to fill in with the # 2 pencil.