Filed under: bumper sticker stories
I know what I’m doing. When I split the difference on the white platter it ain’t so this fucker (jerks thumb to the right. There you stand.) can ask me where the hell I get my shit and then tell me I’m wrong. If I had a goddamned nickel for every argument that could have been avoided with the proper care and treatment, I’d be one rich bastard. Instead I’m sitting in this dank apartment crushing up the angels in an attempt to get around this disgusting setup. It’s not dying, but I’m not so sure it’s living either. Every time the phone rings I want to toss the thing through a plate glass window, but instead I pick it up and whisper into the receiver. Everything is so sublime when it’s harmless conversation at low tones. Shit. My fingers are jumpy, and the keys are dancing. I’m making a lot of mistakes.
Still, I guess it beats taking the long way round. My way, it’s in, out, one, two done. I can’t remember who said it, but it comes back to wasted effort. There’s a window facing the street that I can look at whenever I need a reminder of this truism. All this would be great if it meant more certainty or faith, but it seems like it all ends up ashes and regret, so we leave conversations as placid and still as a corpse. All the while the mustache paint is just a greater symbol of compressed need. Pressure and heat. Good old American desire, like an Indian motorcycle or a car dealership on the highway. I want to scream at someone to throw me off the overpass ’cause I know I’ll be OK, I’ll always be OK with my baby doll at my side and a few grains of Pennsylvania gunpowder to watch up in the sky. It’s as good as the quickening but without the live forever part. You know, some things are impossible. No foolin’.
All this fuss over such a small habit. I never did understand what went into the ceremonial aspects, being such a profligate atheist. I never saw the mushroom gods or the acid kings, never felt like it all made sense, just appreciated the break. Is there a word for someone like that? Likely as not, same as everything else I guess. The ash falling on the keyboard adds no discernible response, and we move on.
A long long time ago, doctors would proscribe Calomel to patients as a purgative. It wasn’t until much later the doctors found out that the wonder drug was actually killing their patients. I can easily imagine a doctor in his white coat, smiling and pushing that shit on another unsuspecting customer. How little changes in the age of technology. I’d add more, but nothing I could say could match the elegance of an early morning phone call and a matching termination of services letter. Fuckers. Every last one.
After this whole rigmarole, my hands stop shaking for a moment while I recline and envision the pleasing tides of easily administered placeholders. I find it far easier to face the world as commander of a small corps of artillery than another confused solitary human looking to province for a word of assistance. Then again, maybe that is why every restaurant I’ve ever been to hands out free straws. I knew there was a reason, but I didnt think it was this!
It’s a dog long-term, but right now it’s a miracle. Who am I to question the miraculous? This is no time for long term thinking.
