Filed under: bumper sticker stories
I was laughing really hard for no particular reason. Clipped lyrics came to mind, and the smirk I wear turned into a full on grin. That feeling of confidence in judgment is the drug of choice for addicts like me, the ones truthfully addicted to seeing everything that doesn’t make sense. In meaning there is liberation, recognition of the facts on the ground, and more importantly, the element of stealth appreciation that accrues from the end garbage time. The wait is over folks, and now we must somehow cling to a slick rope carrying only what is left when importance loses its vitality. Nothing is fucked, but carrying around some past-prescience is a bad idea. We all gotta make for the plunge. Whatever we used to talk about in hushed reverence must now be spoken out loud, no longer denied the respect given over to less carnivorous ideas. Guess everyone should stay safe, these are killer times to be alive.
But I was laughing. I was laughing in the middle of an asphalt stretch superimposed over what must have been a fine meadow a couple hundred years ago. The asphalt had the kind of gruff voice that reflected sunlight and probably took some kind of perverse enjoyment out of its birth and the subsequent genocide that had occurred underneath it. Heat spit back off the glaring darkness beneath my feet, but stopped at the cheap plastic between my feet and the blacktop. This is two dollar protection; this is what the chinese give you in return for control of the world. Why else would Wally World have a yellow smile? It blows the mind, and stuns the soul. I continue to laugh, a solitary figure next to the remains of what was once a purple car.
My stomach hurts and a kind of rictus leaves my face looking much like a retarded boy who realized the potential benefits of a fibrous diet. We are one at moments like this, and all we can do is laugh at our failures and laugh at our stupidity. More and more ideas that can only be described as gratis incognitas, a phrase our Latin friends can attest to. There will be no need to call any witnesses, but the veracity of these wicked ideas gives a potentate his smile, or maybe a sidekick his sly grin. Either or, six of one, blah blah blah end of sentence.
On top of the pavement sits gallons and gallons of paint. Most people don’t think about things like this, but have you any idea at the number of gallons of yellow paint a giant asphalt square requires to turn it into an efficient way station for cars? I don’t have a fucking clue, but it seems like it must be a lot. On a hot day like this, nobody should be painting spaces this big. It doesn’t seem fair. Probably pays minimum wage. Probably sucks. Of course, these cold thoughts don’t stop my laughter. Everything is funny right now, especially the somber reminders that you can save your soul with the right phone number. What were those numbers again? That car just drove off and the driver shot me the strangest look. I caught it with the corner of my eye, and was magnified by one of those happy tears that just can’t bear to fall. His head looked like a goddamn balloon.
But I couldn’t stop laughing. There had been genocide beneath where I stood, and on some hot day in the not too distant past, somebody had to lug painting supplies over the crematoria and oversee the conversion process, putting order to the chaos. These weren’t garden variety accumulations of reactionary thoughts, just the frame encasing the picture of an old boy laughing on a summer day. Thinking back on the moment, I’m left without an explanation. This keyboard blurs; the letters all look the same. My eyes have gone off the reservation, refusing to differentiate between forms even though they are familiar and comfortable. Good help is hard to find.
I laughed because another one of the strings of common logic got cut, and it happened close enough to hear the scissors slice through surety like it was nothing. Which it was. So I laughed. I laughed until I cried, until I was able to make one of those mental connections driven by some odd chemical mixture in a part of my brain that has a Latin name I can’t remember. If I even tried to explain the nuts and bolts of this realization, it would fall apart into grains of sand; so there is no reason to waste that kind of time. Instead the rush must be left alone, laughter in the crematoria as it were. Don’t even get me started on this bullshit differentiation game being played by TPTB. Laughter is the only reaction, because we don’t need the things we’re being sold, because if we don’t stop the sheep, the sheep won’t stop themselves. The last thing Nero said before they cut his head off was “Don’t worry. Everything is going according to plan.”
The nothing brigade is free from worry. Everyone else might want to start boarding up the castle now, and save a few bucks on supplies before demand lifts the prices. I’m laughing because I’m almost positive that if humor can’t save the sane, then the rest of us are fucked. Who was that guy who asked if there was a circus in the tent? This is who we are, and this time, nothing will proceed without that crazy grin and teary eyes. Just like it says on the car underneath my fat ass. You laugh because I’m different. I laugh because you’re all the same. I knew there was a reason I paid two dollars for another catchy printed sticker.
Reductive logic leads to strange places. Back to the grind, more to come as always. Also, I wait patiently for your reply, but NOT expectantly. That has to be earned. Cue the laughtrack. Cue the credits.
