Although I emerged victorious from my latest confrontation with Ricardo, the emotional fallout from verbally shouting at a fellow human being (not to mention punching him in his bastard face!) has left me in a tizzy of nerves. Just the other day I started weeping uncontrollably and without prompting in my Tai Chi class, and every time I try to soothe myself by talking baby talk to Puppy Bear she just looks out the front window or whines at Katie's room, ostensibly looking for Ricardo (which breaks my already delicate heart in a way you can't imagine.) This has led to many unproductive hours of me curled up in a corner, wrapped in my tattered quilt, gently rocking myself back and forth and chain-smoking with my favorite song from Ultimate Kenny G on repeat.
Needless to say, this has resulted in very little of me doing what I do best; writing. So once I felt it was safe, when the light was low and all the lamps were off, borrowing a technique I have observed used by rats, I peeked out into the open, hostile cavern that is my living room. Being very careful to stay close to the walls for protection, I crawled out of my little pillow-fort and cautiously made my way across the room, stealthily crawling, pausing every few feet or so to look around, and carefully retrieved my laptop before scampering back to the safety of my nest. There, prize in hand, I opened askjeeves.com and made a single query "Dear Jeeves, What do geniuses such as myself do to relax when they are flustered? Regards, Jordan"
Jeeves returned several results regarding baths. Archimedes discovered that gold was valuable in the bath, Einstein said he did his best thinking in the bath. Obviously, my taking weekly showers rather than weekly baths has proven detrimental to my thinking, and so it was with great renewed anticipation that I sprung from my hidey-hole, running towards my bathroom with laptop in tow, eager to soak myself in the tub and allow the inspiration to flow from my fingertips! Of course, Katie was already in there with the door locked, doing her usual boo-hooing. She is a sensitive girl, that Katie, but not in an acute polymath way like me. No, she is more petulant, and childish, and stupid in her sensitivity.
Since I didn't want to listen to any bitching about me getting a job or how hard her life is, I decided to utilize my gymnasium membership, as they have a public hot-tub there. It would be there that the weight of my staggering intellect would finally be articulated on the page. Since I didn't care to get my notebook wet, I decided that my laptop would be the more appropriate tool to utilize for my purpose of writing in the bath. So after rummaging around and finally locating an old pair of my swim-shorts, I loaded everything into my Prius and off I went!
Trouble first began rearing it's ugly head as I dressed to enter the hot-tub. In a brilliant strategic move, I opted to leave my T-shirt on, all the better to conceal the voluptuous nature of my ample belly. The shorts were several sizes too small and it was only with a concerted effort that I was able to pull them over my buttocks and around my waist. Even then, they were much too tight. I wondered if they might have in truth belonged to that damn Ricardo. Or perhaps that damned Katie just shrunk them in the wash as she has nearly ALL my other clothes with the odd exception of my socks. Digression aside, it was with great discomfort that I carried my laptop to the hot-tub area. The elastic waistband was biting into my sides something horrible, and I could literally hear the seams of the nylon fabric straining as I carefully ambled towards my destination.
I carefully lowered myself into the hot-tub, gently placed my laptop on the edge, and hit the button that said "jets." A transcendently pleasant yet forceful stream of bubbles evolved, which when combined with the persistent heat of the all-natural spring water produced a deeply relaxing effect. Or rather, it would have were it not for the constant nagging pinching of these stupid damned shorts. They were biting at my sides so badly that I one point I mused that this must be what it's like for surfers who are eaten by sharks in revenge for polluting the planet. It was, in all honesty, overly distracting from the extremely important work I was wont to do at the moment, and the more I furrowed my brow the more frustrated I became.
Leave it to the gentle wooshing of the hot-tub to engender creative genius, as hot-tubs are wont to do. I realized that the hot-tub's jet-stream would conceal anything below the meniscus of the water. Therefore lowering the waistband to the level of my knees would relieve my discomfort without exposing my naked buttons to the perverse, ogling eyes of passers-by. Of course I did this without a second thought, and discovered that my T-shirt AND my belly provided both second and third layers of protection against any unwelcome gaze. I was chuffed! My work could continue unabated by shrunken/Ricardo's shorts (I neither knew nor cared which, but I digress yet again.) I instantly set upon my laptop and began, at long last, articulating and giving voice to the fountain of genius that has always been welling up within me!
Golden moments such as these are not wont to last, however. Some aged, obese dolt eventually came doddering over and regarded me with a sneer, that I all too eagerly returned hoping to dissuade him from using the hot-tub in tandem with me, which up to this point had been my sole domain in it's entirety. Alas, he made his way in and settled down opposite me, exhaling an exhausted sigh from the concerted effort. Ah - the physical trials of the elderly and aged. After a moment, he opened one eye and looked right at me. I bristled at the thought of having to engage this interrupting codger in conversation.
"You're really not supposed to be using a laptop in the spa, buddy." he mumbled in a gruff yet withering old man tone.
"Au contraire" was my immediate thought, I had reviewed the rules thoroughly and found no such restriction for laptops. This old man's lack of common sense was getting on my nerves. "I am free to enjoy this hot-tub without the restrictions and criticisms imposed by cultural relics such as you, sir!" was my curt and dismissive reply. The gaffer opened his other eye and leaned forward, ostensibly to erroneously admonish me further. Predictably, it was at this point that the jet-stream abruptly ceased and the concealing bubbles quickly dissipated, revealing for this sicko the brilliant alteration I had made to my swimwear. I could tell by the widening of his eyes and the flaring of his nostrils that he found the visage to be sublimely erotic. In short, this man was a pervert and the realization thereof instantly reversed any sense of relaxation and creative flow supplied by the hot-tub.
"HELP!" I shrieked. "HELP!!! THIS MAN IS A SICKO!!" With panic welling up inside me I quickly clambered out of the hot-tub. However, my disheveled swim-haberdashery proved to be an impediment, causing me to trip on the stairs and drop my laptop in to the now-stagnant, tepid water. I felt a small electric current nipping at my toes, and the instinctive jump resulted in my falling backward into the tub and ruefully into the lap of the aged pervert.
This put me into an uncontrollable fugue, as falling into the lap of an elderly pervert clad only in a wet T-shirt and too small shorts lowered to your knees is wont to do. Forgetting the ill fit of the shorts, I yanked them up past my buttocks and in terror felt them split down the middle. This was the worst happenstance ever! I knew without artifice nor evasion that self-defense was the only viable option at this point, and tearing the remains of the shorts from my waist, bludgeoned the offender's head and face with them several times before making a mad dash for the locker room.
Without bothering to towel off I put my clothes back on and ran for the safety of my Prius, not bothering to regale the staff with ANY novel ideas nor literary musings on the way out. That would have to wait for when they remunerate me for my lost laptop and the priceless body of work contained therein. Additionally, that particular laptop was something of an antique which served to enhance it's value, and it is with great curiosity that I wait to see exactly how they intend to compensate me for that! Finally, I fully intend to prosecute the old pervert who attacked me to the maximum extent of the law, and once I discover his name and address will embark upon a campaign of information gathering and evidence collection to bring the hammer of judicial retribution down upon this miscreant with maximum prejudice!
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Finally, I Confront Ricardo...
Genteel Readers,
As you are no doubt already aware, for the past several months I have had a rather unwelcome intrusion into my personal life. This intrusion's name is Ricardo, or "Ricky Luv" as he so boorishly refers to himself in the third person thus sacrificing any brevity afforded by the use of personal pronouns such as "I" or "me." His overuse of chemical cologne and poor eating habits consisting solely of protein shakes has left him in an unnatural, ill state of health, so skinny that his ribs and abdominal muscle protrude in bold relief when he walks around my house shirtless in his ridiculous bikini-cut leopard print underwear. He speaks in a disjointed patois in effigy of several of his favorite pop icons, none of whose names come to mind. For some reason, he is always asking Katie for cash (usually to re-activate his phone,) and for some reason she nearly always gives it to him. This is why I have not been able to answer MY phone as of late, but I digress.
Perhaps most disturbing off all is his callous treatment of the bitch whom I have made my life partner, and of course I am referring to Puppy Bear. I feel he pets her too roughly after he takes her out for a walk, and get the distinct sensation that he is trying to edge me away from her, calling her over to play with her whenever he comes over. Katie has been quite considerate in leading him away for a time when she is present in our home, absconding to her room with him for a time, often several hours. Of course, I have wanted to confront him for some time over this, but have not been able to muster the courage to bring his boorish behavior to his attention. This has led to a raisin thumb from all the thumb-sucking I've had to do, and a great deal of rocking back and forth in the fetal position in what remains of my quilt. Of course, I've had to smoke so much my house smells like an ashtray, or at least that's what Katie claims it does every damn time she walks in the door.
It was after one especially egregious violation wherein Ricardo had the nerve to serve Puppy Bear a non-organic snack that I finally snapped and stomped out the door to walk to the corner store and purchase a pack of 'Slims from the pumpmistress, who has become something of a confidant of mine in the past several weeks. She always starts laughing in joy whenever I walk through the door and listens in silent glee to my many anecdotes and ramblings about books I have planned. As I walked in sullen and broken in the soul, laughter started sparkling in her beady little eyes and a smirk appearing in the corners of her ample chubby cheeks. I confessed everything - the intrusion of Ricardo into my life, his unusual friendship with my sweet wife, and the fact (I minced no words here) that I though he might be trying to move in on my bitch.
The levity disappeared from her face "You damn right he tryin' to move in on yo' bitch!" she exclaimed. "You need to be a man 'bout this and make sho' that motherfucker don't never do that again!" Pumpmistress does this delightful thing where she is at once boldly confident and ungrammatical, and her temerity spurned a special kind of fire in my belly. I would indeed confront this Ricardo, and communicate very clearly with all my genius and genteel spiritual acumen. Much to my joy, pumpmistress was able to procure for a me a single Xanax, which when combined with a half pack of mentholated 'Slims made me feel like no less than a mighty demigod. Ricardo was about to get his due.
When I came home, Puppy Bear was sleeping soundly on the couch. I went to Katie's room, where Ricardo often sleeps on the floor. Turning the knob, the door was locked. No matter. I used my spare key and slipped inside. What I saw when I entered made me want to poke out my mind's eye; Ricardo was in fact making very aggressive love to some trollop whom I recognized from the local grocery store with Ginuwine's smash hit song "My Pony" blaring in the background. The trollop's grotesque and misshapen fat body reminded me of an adult film I had recently encountered on askjeeves, oddly titled "Baker's Dozen." His eyes widened in shock when he saw me darkening his door. No matter. I was not about to let the crushing awkwardness of the moment dispel the strength I had mustered.
"Ricardo, I confront you!" I shouted, looking down at him over the top of my glasses. "I confront you very much!" Ricardo froze in terror momentarily as my awesome presence permeated his consciousness, then in a blind panic began scrambling for his clothes, his ripped jeans, tank top, and flip-flops. Obviously his interest in my speech had not been piqued, and it briefly occurred to me that I should have first retrieved my pistol. The trollop had already deftly climbed out the second-story window and was making her way down a trellis wrapped in one of Katie's sheets. Staring intensely as to maintain my spirit grip on his feeble will, I approached him from across the room. He fell to the ground and began softly crying as the overwhelming power of my spiritual presence began to cathartically exorcise the evil from him.
"She started it bro, you gotta believe me!" He whimpered "She always felt guilty, too! You know how it is, I'm a guy, you know? I just do what I gotta, man!" as pathetic elephant tears rolled down his face.
"She's a sweet dog," I replied, "but she's still just a dog. She can't make you do anything. I say this without artifice nor evasion - never are you to serve her any treats without my explicit written approval. I am a professional writer, so writing the approval will pose no trouble should you choose a proper, organic treat!"
There was a long pause as his face twisted in confusion. The poor rube was so enamored of his pop-culture patios that he barely understood proper spoken English, and a curt "Huh?" was his dull-witted reply. Just then, I heard a door slam. Katie had returned home and was quickly making her way towards her room. Good, I'd like to involve her in this as well. She saw Ricardo and I in the midst of our confrontation, and somehow put two and two together, reaching down to pick up the trellis-trollop's discarded, extra large cotton panties.
"Ricky Luv how could you?!" she exclaimed. Ricky lunged forward, ostensibly to hug her so I punched him in the face and he fell back onto the bed. "GET YOUR OWN DOG YOU RUBE!" I snarled for effect. He burst into tears and, strangely began apologizing profusely to Katie between sobs. The pain in my wrist was making me dizzy, so I excused myself and went to the bathroom. No sooner had I left than Katie locked the door behind me, and I had left my cleverly crafted key in her room somewhere. Damnation! However, judging by the furious screaming and crying from behind the door, my trusty wife Katie was continuing the confrontation I had began. Ricardo departed a few moments later, still in tears, without bothering to say a proper good-evening as rubes are wont to do.
I went to thank Katie, but the door was once again shuttered tight, and several minutes of very genteel knocking only yielded increasingly irritated shouts of "Go away!" and "I hate you!" No matter. I shall simply say what I have to say to her via this web log. Katie, thank you very much for helping confront the boorish rube Ricardo! Your days as an ignoramus are certainly numbered, as you shall one day be enlightened, yet!
As you are no doubt already aware, for the past several months I have had a rather unwelcome intrusion into my personal life. This intrusion's name is Ricardo, or "Ricky Luv" as he so boorishly refers to himself in the third person thus sacrificing any brevity afforded by the use of personal pronouns such as "I" or "me." His overuse of chemical cologne and poor eating habits consisting solely of protein shakes has left him in an unnatural, ill state of health, so skinny that his ribs and abdominal muscle protrude in bold relief when he walks around my house shirtless in his ridiculous bikini-cut leopard print underwear. He speaks in a disjointed patois in effigy of several of his favorite pop icons, none of whose names come to mind. For some reason, he is always asking Katie for cash (usually to re-activate his phone,) and for some reason she nearly always gives it to him. This is why I have not been able to answer MY phone as of late, but I digress.
Perhaps most disturbing off all is his callous treatment of the bitch whom I have made my life partner, and of course I am referring to Puppy Bear. I feel he pets her too roughly after he takes her out for a walk, and get the distinct sensation that he is trying to edge me away from her, calling her over to play with her whenever he comes over. Katie has been quite considerate in leading him away for a time when she is present in our home, absconding to her room with him for a time, often several hours. Of course, I have wanted to confront him for some time over this, but have not been able to muster the courage to bring his boorish behavior to his attention. This has led to a raisin thumb from all the thumb-sucking I've had to do, and a great deal of rocking back and forth in the fetal position in what remains of my quilt. Of course, I've had to smoke so much my house smells like an ashtray, or at least that's what Katie claims it does every damn time she walks in the door.
It was after one especially egregious violation wherein Ricardo had the nerve to serve Puppy Bear a non-organic snack that I finally snapped and stomped out the door to walk to the corner store and purchase a pack of 'Slims from the pumpmistress, who has become something of a confidant of mine in the past several weeks. She always starts laughing in joy whenever I walk through the door and listens in silent glee to my many anecdotes and ramblings about books I have planned. As I walked in sullen and broken in the soul, laughter started sparkling in her beady little eyes and a smirk appearing in the corners of her ample chubby cheeks. I confessed everything - the intrusion of Ricardo into my life, his unusual friendship with my sweet wife, and the fact (I minced no words here) that I though he might be trying to move in on my bitch.
The levity disappeared from her face "You damn right he tryin' to move in on yo' bitch!" she exclaimed. "You need to be a man 'bout this and make sho' that motherfucker don't never do that again!" Pumpmistress does this delightful thing where she is at once boldly confident and ungrammatical, and her temerity spurned a special kind of fire in my belly. I would indeed confront this Ricardo, and communicate very clearly with all my genius and genteel spiritual acumen. Much to my joy, pumpmistress was able to procure for a me a single Xanax, which when combined with a half pack of mentholated 'Slims made me feel like no less than a mighty demigod. Ricardo was about to get his due.
When I came home, Puppy Bear was sleeping soundly on the couch. I went to Katie's room, where Ricardo often sleeps on the floor. Turning the knob, the door was locked. No matter. I used my spare key and slipped inside. What I saw when I entered made me want to poke out my mind's eye; Ricardo was in fact making very aggressive love to some trollop whom I recognized from the local grocery store with Ginuwine's smash hit song "My Pony" blaring in the background. The trollop's grotesque and misshapen fat body reminded me of an adult film I had recently encountered on askjeeves, oddly titled "Baker's Dozen." His eyes widened in shock when he saw me darkening his door. No matter. I was not about to let the crushing awkwardness of the moment dispel the strength I had mustered.
"Ricardo, I confront you!" I shouted, looking down at him over the top of my glasses. "I confront you very much!" Ricardo froze in terror momentarily as my awesome presence permeated his consciousness, then in a blind panic began scrambling for his clothes, his ripped jeans, tank top, and flip-flops. Obviously his interest in my speech had not been piqued, and it briefly occurred to me that I should have first retrieved my pistol. The trollop had already deftly climbed out the second-story window and was making her way down a trellis wrapped in one of Katie's sheets. Staring intensely as to maintain my spirit grip on his feeble will, I approached him from across the room. He fell to the ground and began softly crying as the overwhelming power of my spiritual presence began to cathartically exorcise the evil from him.
"She started it bro, you gotta believe me!" He whimpered "She always felt guilty, too! You know how it is, I'm a guy, you know? I just do what I gotta, man!" as pathetic elephant tears rolled down his face.
"She's a sweet dog," I replied, "but she's still just a dog. She can't make you do anything. I say this without artifice nor evasion - never are you to serve her any treats without my explicit written approval. I am a professional writer, so writing the approval will pose no trouble should you choose a proper, organic treat!"
There was a long pause as his face twisted in confusion. The poor rube was so enamored of his pop-culture patios that he barely understood proper spoken English, and a curt "Huh?" was his dull-witted reply. Just then, I heard a door slam. Katie had returned home and was quickly making her way towards her room. Good, I'd like to involve her in this as well. She saw Ricardo and I in the midst of our confrontation, and somehow put two and two together, reaching down to pick up the trellis-trollop's discarded, extra large cotton panties.
"Ricky Luv how could you?!" she exclaimed. Ricky lunged forward, ostensibly to hug her so I punched him in the face and he fell back onto the bed. "GET YOUR OWN DOG YOU RUBE!" I snarled for effect. He burst into tears and, strangely began apologizing profusely to Katie between sobs. The pain in my wrist was making me dizzy, so I excused myself and went to the bathroom. No sooner had I left than Katie locked the door behind me, and I had left my cleverly crafted key in her room somewhere. Damnation! However, judging by the furious screaming and crying from behind the door, my trusty wife Katie was continuing the confrontation I had began. Ricardo departed a few moments later, still in tears, without bothering to say a proper good-evening as rubes are wont to do.
I went to thank Katie, but the door was once again shuttered tight, and several minutes of very genteel knocking only yielded increasingly irritated shouts of "Go away!" and "I hate you!" No matter. I shall simply say what I have to say to her via this web log. Katie, thank you very much for helping confront the boorish rube Ricardo! Your days as an ignoramus are certainly numbered, as you shall one day be enlightened, yet!
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Why I Choose to BOYCOTT The Sea Hawks (And You Should Too!)
Today whilst many of you will be starting completely slack jawed and agape at your television HD sets watching Monday Evening Foot Ball featuring the Sea Hawks, I will be doing other, much more important things. This may seem shocking to you, but after you read the reasons I have outlined I am certain you will follow suit and do something, anything, other than engage in a racist (yes, RACIST) activity which pollutes body, mind, spirit, and planet.
First of all, don't think I didn't notice the content of your many "woops" last week, in which you admonished the Sea Hawks to "beat the Washington Red Skins." Being well acquainted with several of the local Indian tribes via my partaking of their exceptionally low prices on Virginia Slims, I can say with 100% certainty that they are both wise and peaceful. It was with a heavy heart last week that I read your team had most certainly followed the wishes of the unenlightened crowd and indeed beaten the Red Skins of Washington. I was not familiar with that particular nation, and now I fear I shall never be. I can only wonder what manner of steep discount they could have offered me on my 'Slims I also wonder how that degree of violence and bullying could possibly contribute to the cause of Monday Evening Football. After all, at the end of the day this is a sport, is it not? These activities demean you, genteel reader. They are a serious roadblock in your quest to enlightenment and as your mentor I must insist you abandon such things at once.
Ironically, as I was studying a display of cheap snack foods and inorganic, mass-produced ale it dawned on me that the Sea Hawks' logo is little more than a rip off of local native art, albeit in gauche shades of brandeis and teal rather than the traditional red and black. So on one hand, foot ball reveres the plight of the native, whereupon the other hand, the athletes are expected to "kick the Red Skins' asses" as some sort of grotesque prelude to a sporting event? You people are vile and stupid and sick.
This bring me to the next point which I shall not belabor, having harangued at length on the subject in previous posts; inorganic snacks will make you fat. I only avail myself of organic foods and other ethically produced goods. This has resulted in my being pleasantly chubby rather than fat. You should follow suit, let your conscience be your guide!
Foot Ball is bad for the planet and pollutes the very air we breathe! Though I did little numerical research, I contemplated and pondered about the subject at length. I came to the conclusion that flying teams to and fro to various cities, the mass movement of fans from their squalid trailers to massive coliseums in what I assume to NOT be Toyota Prii, must produce a MASSIVE carbon footprint and is equivalent to an entirely new commute. Is your weekly televised orgy of pain and gladiation really worth adding extra carbon monoxide to our planet's atmosphere? I shouldn't even have to pose that question in the first place!
Finally, by taking the 60 minutes each week to watch the game, and perhaps 10 or 15 to prepare for watching the game, you are squandering 60 minutes that you could have spent reading a classical work of literature, a comic book, or for the non-literatti among you, a candy wrapper you found outside your bloated McMansion. (Of course, the preparation time would still apply, but would certainly be of benefit as prepping a bowl of organic fruit such as kumkwats is an appropriate use of one's very precious time!)
Anyways, I hope I have really given you something to think about here. Katie and Ricardo have already began their whooping and eating of revolting foods, even though the game has not yet commenced. Though I asked them to move it to the bedroom, they only briefly complied and have come out and turned on the TV again. So I guess this concludes this 'blog post. I am going to try and find some tissue to conspicuously place in my ears while I plop down next to them on the couch and scowl while reading a large book on organic gardening.
First of all, don't think I didn't notice the content of your many "woops" last week, in which you admonished the Sea Hawks to "beat the Washington Red Skins." Being well acquainted with several of the local Indian tribes via my partaking of their exceptionally low prices on Virginia Slims, I can say with 100% certainty that they are both wise and peaceful. It was with a heavy heart last week that I read your team had most certainly followed the wishes of the unenlightened crowd and indeed beaten the Red Skins of Washington. I was not familiar with that particular nation, and now I fear I shall never be. I can only wonder what manner of steep discount they could have offered me on my 'Slims I also wonder how that degree of violence and bullying could possibly contribute to the cause of Monday Evening Football. After all, at the end of the day this is a sport, is it not? These activities demean you, genteel reader. They are a serious roadblock in your quest to enlightenment and as your mentor I must insist you abandon such things at once.
Ironically, as I was studying a display of cheap snack foods and inorganic, mass-produced ale it dawned on me that the Sea Hawks' logo is little more than a rip off of local native art, albeit in gauche shades of brandeis and teal rather than the traditional red and black. So on one hand, foot ball reveres the plight of the native, whereupon the other hand, the athletes are expected to "kick the Red Skins' asses" as some sort of grotesque prelude to a sporting event? You people are vile and stupid and sick.
This bring me to the next point which I shall not belabor, having harangued at length on the subject in previous posts; inorganic snacks will make you fat. I only avail myself of organic foods and other ethically produced goods. This has resulted in my being pleasantly chubby rather than fat. You should follow suit, let your conscience be your guide!
Foot Ball is bad for the planet and pollutes the very air we breathe! Though I did little numerical research, I contemplated and pondered about the subject at length. I came to the conclusion that flying teams to and fro to various cities, the mass movement of fans from their squalid trailers to massive coliseums in what I assume to NOT be Toyota Prii, must produce a MASSIVE carbon footprint and is equivalent to an entirely new commute. Is your weekly televised orgy of pain and gladiation really worth adding extra carbon monoxide to our planet's atmosphere? I shouldn't even have to pose that question in the first place!
Finally, by taking the 60 minutes each week to watch the game, and perhaps 10 or 15 to prepare for watching the game, you are squandering 60 minutes that you could have spent reading a classical work of literature, a comic book, or for the non-literatti among you, a candy wrapper you found outside your bloated McMansion. (Of course, the preparation time would still apply, but would certainly be of benefit as prepping a bowl of organic fruit such as kumkwats is an appropriate use of one's very precious time!)
Anyways, I hope I have really given you something to think about here. Katie and Ricardo have already began their whooping and eating of revolting foods, even though the game has not yet commenced. Though I asked them to move it to the bedroom, they only briefly complied and have come out and turned on the TV again. So I guess this concludes this 'blog post. I am going to try and find some tissue to conspicuously place in my ears while I plop down next to them on the couch and scowl while reading a large book on organic gardening.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
I Am Wise Chief Energy Tree...
As I reflect upon my most halcyon days of youth, playing and frolicking in damp autumn garlands in the tranquil rural town in which I was raised, my current affinity for all things natural seems almost preordained. It is for this reason that I recently volunteered as a counselor for an overnight camp for disadvantaged youth that my gymnasium hosts perennially. When I received the gymnasium's email requesting that I, personally, engaged these raggamuffins giving them their first ever iota of hope for being something other than a crass drill-and-shovel person (or worse, prison denizen!) it was my most generous wont to aid these yet unspoiled youth. I saw myself as a wise Indian chieftain of yore (they say that my great-great- grandmother was a real Cherokee princess!) guiding these wretched children on a journey of self discovery, much like my favorite movie Dead Poets Society. But unlike the movie, it would be held in nature's original University; nature. In lieu of a cruel professor who distributes bad grades and shames creativity, it would also involve a wise Indian chieftain, yours truly.
There was something of a struggle as the person whom I had sign me up for a volunteer counselor position insisted the email I had received was inviting me to donate and not counsel. But Katie has been earning very little extra money ever since she met that Ricardo, and my suggestion that I donate my own literature to the effort was met with a roll of the eyes. But after much genteel insisting and some not-so-genteel name-calling on my part, the promised volunteer opportunity was secured and my thumbprint along with my signature was submitted to the Washington State Patrol, no doubt to be added to what I imagine to be an enormous plaque with the names of good citizens on it.
When the much anticipated day arrived, I solemnly packed my native garb I had secured in early November at a Halloween store, with a pair of Uggs I had deftly converted into moccasins by shaving the fuzz off the rims of the boots. I loaded up my prius with the few tools a genuine scion of a Native princess would ever need, a fishing rod, a knife, and an axe (though my people prefer to call it a "mohawk.") Being at one with nature allows for light travel, and I left behind most of the items on the ridiculous packing list furnished by my gymnasium. Tent shment, I say!
The convoy to the campsite was eventless, save for the other alleged Indian Chieftains having to stop for gas at one point because - shocking! Their SUV's weren't fuel efficient! I made a most genteel point by waiting in the parking lot and loudly honking my horn as they gassed up their ferrous behemoths.
The arrival is where things started to go seriously awry. The campers assigned to me, "braves" as I called them, seemed more interested in acting like little shits rather than disadvantaged youth interested in reform. None of my ploys worked, not the "talking stick," not sitting in a circle Indian style, not even showing them my handgun or my mohawk. They all just exclaimed "Can I see that? Do we get to shoot it!" They refused to listen to my lecture on the wisdom of trees that Dan and the bikers had found so fascinating just the week prior, opting instead to blankly munch on the NON-ORGANIC snack foods, some kind of concoction of graham crackers, marsh mellows, and chocolate heated in a microwave in the trunk of one of the faux-cheiftains large-carbon-footprint SUV. I mentioned that I could use my Mohawk to dig up ample roots for the braves to chew on, which apparently was enough to earn me a contemptuous glance from the biggest, dumbest poser there, an oafish galoot who went by the moniker "Rick."
"You mean tomahawk, but's that actually a hatchet, guy." I wondered who the hell he thought he was. Here we were, in nature, and he had the nerve to disrespect me, the chieftain? This large stupid oaf in his flip-flops with wool socks? He wasn't even in proper native garb, meaning the children would learn nothing. And what of referring to me as "guy?" What manner of disrespect is this? I had introduced myself as "Energy Tree" at the impromptu "Meaten Greet" ceremony held in the parking lot prior to the convoy, and was even wearing a nametag to that effect. I explained that the snacks were neither natural nor organic, and that the tree roots would be organic by default. He scoffed and shook his head and turned his back towards me to load another toxic dose of marsh mellows into the microwave. I felt rage well up within me and my lower lip begin to quiver.
Then I stepped back. This was not about him, nor me, nor the braves nor even the trees. This was about communication, and a wise chieftain always opens the lines of communication. So I used my best move, and removed the pistol from my belt. "Hey Rick, look what I've got!" Certainly this would open him up to further discussion. Rick turned around with a sneer but his eyes widened in delight as he realized he was staring down the barrel of a real-live .45 pistol! Feeling a sense of calm come over the camp as everyone stopped talking and came to a peaceful presence with all of us, I decided, as a wise cheiftan is wont to do, to make peace thunder.
"Richard, I am going to make thunder." I said solemnly, as an Indian chieftain is wont to do. Richard begin to say "Vuh vuh vuh - vf - vfff v-v-v-v" in a high pitched voice as my spiritual power embraced him. I then raised my pistol high and "BOOM!" I triumphantly loosed a single round into the air! The report echoed through the trees and the forest, birds taking aloft in celebration and veneration of my spirit medicine as a wise Chieftain. Richard, in an exuberance of joy began running, but sadly couldn't see in the lingering twilight and stubbed his toe, falling and hitting his head hard on a large forest-boulder. Feeding him several medicinal roots I procured with the aid of my mohawk did little to awaken him.
So now here I sit, in the emergency room typing this tale of wisdom while Richard is put into traction. I was the only one with sufficient fuel left in his car to efficiently transport him to the hospital. I made an sacred indian oath before I left that I would be the first person Richard would see whence he awoke from his slumber. And so I wait, ready to greet him when he returns from his trip into the spiritual wilderness, an awakened enlightened. I have with me two chamomile teabags along with tea mugs, that we may drink the peace tea upon his return.
There was something of a struggle as the person whom I had sign me up for a volunteer counselor position insisted the email I had received was inviting me to donate and not counsel. But Katie has been earning very little extra money ever since she met that Ricardo, and my suggestion that I donate my own literature to the effort was met with a roll of the eyes. But after much genteel insisting and some not-so-genteel name-calling on my part, the promised volunteer opportunity was secured and my thumbprint along with my signature was submitted to the Washington State Patrol, no doubt to be added to what I imagine to be an enormous plaque with the names of good citizens on it.
When the much anticipated day arrived, I solemnly packed my native garb I had secured in early November at a Halloween store, with a pair of Uggs I had deftly converted into moccasins by shaving the fuzz off the rims of the boots. I loaded up my prius with the few tools a genuine scion of a Native princess would ever need, a fishing rod, a knife, and an axe (though my people prefer to call it a "mohawk.") Being at one with nature allows for light travel, and I left behind most of the items on the ridiculous packing list furnished by my gymnasium. Tent shment, I say!
The convoy to the campsite was eventless, save for the other alleged Indian Chieftains having to stop for gas at one point because - shocking! Their SUV's weren't fuel efficient! I made a most genteel point by waiting in the parking lot and loudly honking my horn as they gassed up their ferrous behemoths.
The arrival is where things started to go seriously awry. The campers assigned to me, "braves" as I called them, seemed more interested in acting like little shits rather than disadvantaged youth interested in reform. None of my ploys worked, not the "talking stick," not sitting in a circle Indian style, not even showing them my handgun or my mohawk. They all just exclaimed "Can I see that? Do we get to shoot it!" They refused to listen to my lecture on the wisdom of trees that Dan and the bikers had found so fascinating just the week prior, opting instead to blankly munch on the NON-ORGANIC snack foods, some kind of concoction of graham crackers, marsh mellows, and chocolate heated in a microwave in the trunk of one of the faux-cheiftains large-carbon-footprint SUV. I mentioned that I could use my Mohawk to dig up ample roots for the braves to chew on, which apparently was enough to earn me a contemptuous glance from the biggest, dumbest poser there, an oafish galoot who went by the moniker "Rick."
"You mean tomahawk, but's that actually a hatchet, guy." I wondered who the hell he thought he was. Here we were, in nature, and he had the nerve to disrespect me, the chieftain? This large stupid oaf in his flip-flops with wool socks? He wasn't even in proper native garb, meaning the children would learn nothing. And what of referring to me as "guy?" What manner of disrespect is this? I had introduced myself as "Energy Tree" at the impromptu "Meaten Greet" ceremony held in the parking lot prior to the convoy, and was even wearing a nametag to that effect. I explained that the snacks were neither natural nor organic, and that the tree roots would be organic by default. He scoffed and shook his head and turned his back towards me to load another toxic dose of marsh mellows into the microwave. I felt rage well up within me and my lower lip begin to quiver.
Then I stepped back. This was not about him, nor me, nor the braves nor even the trees. This was about communication, and a wise chieftain always opens the lines of communication. So I used my best move, and removed the pistol from my belt. "Hey Rick, look what I've got!" Certainly this would open him up to further discussion. Rick turned around with a sneer but his eyes widened in delight as he realized he was staring down the barrel of a real-live .45 pistol! Feeling a sense of calm come over the camp as everyone stopped talking and came to a peaceful presence with all of us, I decided, as a wise cheiftan is wont to do, to make peace thunder.
"Richard, I am going to make thunder." I said solemnly, as an Indian chieftain is wont to do. Richard begin to say "Vuh vuh vuh - vf - vfff v-v-v-v" in a high pitched voice as my spiritual power embraced him. I then raised my pistol high and "BOOM!" I triumphantly loosed a single round into the air! The report echoed through the trees and the forest, birds taking aloft in celebration and veneration of my spirit medicine as a wise Chieftain. Richard, in an exuberance of joy began running, but sadly couldn't see in the lingering twilight and stubbed his toe, falling and hitting his head hard on a large forest-boulder. Feeding him several medicinal roots I procured with the aid of my mohawk did little to awaken him.
So now here I sit, in the emergency room typing this tale of wisdom while Richard is put into traction. I was the only one with sufficient fuel left in his car to efficiently transport him to the hospital. I made an sacred indian oath before I left that I would be the first person Richard would see whence he awoke from his slumber. And so I wait, ready to greet him when he returns from his trip into the spiritual wilderness, an awakened enlightened. I have with me two chamomile teabags along with tea mugs, that we may drink the peace tea upon his return.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Requiem for a Christmas Tree
Genteel Readers;
I sit here now, pondering precisely why western culture finds it even mildly appropriate to celebrate the death of a beautiful evergreen tree by conspicuously suspending it in the living room, placing celebratory decorations on it's corpse, and the piling presents underneath it for children to open on Christmas morning. If you ask me, it is a manipulative and mendacious campaign by the logging industry to make children associate their ongoing arbicidal holocaust with material wealth, which in a way I suppose is appropriate. But in another, more accurate way it is revoltingly beneath contempt to even consider killing nature's oldest, wisest, and most intelligent being, the lovely tree, simply to produce McMansions and toothpicks and furniture. Self-worth cannot be purchased at the market, it must be developed slowly and steadfastly by the ancient art of reading and writing books which perhaps surprisingly and certainly unprofitably involves no murder whatsoever. Ponder this during your meditations, I challenge you!
But I did not write this post to chastise, but to share a story about one of the little people, my neighbor Dan. Dan (as I may have previously mentioned,) is one of the little people. But by observing him through mostly closed blinds and other covert means, I have found a thing or two about him that an enlightened like myself can admire. For example, he is clever with his hands. I notice he once took a sliding shower door I had discarded and re-appropriated into a window for his shed. Delightful recycling! But I do wish he would ask before rummaging through my garbage. Another thing I admire is his adherence to his convictions. Oftentimes during our brief conversations he lets slip a curse word, and I quickly remind him that such utterances are countermanded by his religion (he regularly attends Sunday services at a local Christian place of worship.) He then rolls his eyes at his own personal failing and walks away, no doubt to make meaningless ritual amends to the powerful God he fears rules us all.
It is once such brief conversation, relating to the death of trees that brings me to this purpose of this blog post. I was watching his yard for inspirational literature-worthy activity such as rigging up a trailer or doing some manner of hammer or wrench-work, as Dan is wont to do. He came puttering down his driveway in his rustic, rusty, pick-em-up truck and the color drained from my face in horror when I saw the decaying, tinsel strewn corpse of a Douglas fir in the trunk. I immediately ran outside to confront and correct this wayward rube, and on the way slipped on a pair of Ricardo's dirty leopard print boxer-briefs, which put me in a foul mood.
As I stomped outside huffing and puffing, Dan was ghoulishly dragging the tree's remains out of the trunk of his pick-em-up truck, aided by two frightening bikers.
"Dan!" I shouted authoritatively. "Daniel, step away from that body and come speak with me this instant!" His biker buddies smirked and leaned against the pick-em-up truck as Dan walked towards our mutual fence. "What can I do ya for?" he asked cheerily. The poor rube. He hadn't the slightest notion he was doing anything at all immoral. Smiling to acknowledge his stupid greeting pun, I explained I wanted to discuss his choice of Yuletide decor with him. He just looked puzzled, so I simply said "The tree, Dan. I want to discuss the moral aspects of murdering that tree with you."
He paused briefly, then started laughing that kind of "hyuk hyuk hyuk" laugh and slapping his knee that lower-class people do when they're ashamed. The bikers started doing it as well. I am always so fascinated by how contagious a sense of conscience is. Once they had completed their catharsis, I went on to explain that the tree is a living organism and not a variety of mineral as I am certain he had assumed. At one point, Dan actually called his biker chums over to better hear what I had to say regarding the sanctity of nature and the wisdom of trees. Quite often, I would say something that sparked hoots of cathartic conscience from these three rubes. The suggestion that I aid them in composing a requiem sonnet for the tree they had murdered elicited a particularly intense round of guilt-laden laughter.
Once they got up off the ground, Dan clasped my hand (which rather hurt, I must say,) and exclaimed in a gruff voice "Mister, you're all-right!" as the bikers got on their bikes and started whooping and pedaling down the driveway. The tree remains in the trunk of the pick-em-up truck, and I suspect Dan is making proper arrangements for the care and disposal of the body, though I do wish he would wrap it in a blanket of some sort to protect it's dignity and to alleviate the anxiety of of other trees in his yard. I can't imagine how this must unsettle them, but I can almost hear them discussing it as the January wind whistles through them whilst I lay on my couch at night.
I sit here now, pondering precisely why western culture finds it even mildly appropriate to celebrate the death of a beautiful evergreen tree by conspicuously suspending it in the living room, placing celebratory decorations on it's corpse, and the piling presents underneath it for children to open on Christmas morning. If you ask me, it is a manipulative and mendacious campaign by the logging industry to make children associate their ongoing arbicidal holocaust with material wealth, which in a way I suppose is appropriate. But in another, more accurate way it is revoltingly beneath contempt to even consider killing nature's oldest, wisest, and most intelligent being, the lovely tree, simply to produce McMansions and toothpicks and furniture. Self-worth cannot be purchased at the market, it must be developed slowly and steadfastly by the ancient art of reading and writing books which perhaps surprisingly and certainly unprofitably involves no murder whatsoever. Ponder this during your meditations, I challenge you!
But I did not write this post to chastise, but to share a story about one of the little people, my neighbor Dan. Dan (as I may have previously mentioned,) is one of the little people. But by observing him through mostly closed blinds and other covert means, I have found a thing or two about him that an enlightened like myself can admire. For example, he is clever with his hands. I notice he once took a sliding shower door I had discarded and re-appropriated into a window for his shed. Delightful recycling! But I do wish he would ask before rummaging through my garbage. Another thing I admire is his adherence to his convictions. Oftentimes during our brief conversations he lets slip a curse word, and I quickly remind him that such utterances are countermanded by his religion (he regularly attends Sunday services at a local Christian place of worship.) He then rolls his eyes at his own personal failing and walks away, no doubt to make meaningless ritual amends to the powerful God he fears rules us all.
It is once such brief conversation, relating to the death of trees that brings me to this purpose of this blog post. I was watching his yard for inspirational literature-worthy activity such as rigging up a trailer or doing some manner of hammer or wrench-work, as Dan is wont to do. He came puttering down his driveway in his rustic, rusty, pick-em-up truck and the color drained from my face in horror when I saw the decaying, tinsel strewn corpse of a Douglas fir in the trunk. I immediately ran outside to confront and correct this wayward rube, and on the way slipped on a pair of Ricardo's dirty leopard print boxer-briefs, which put me in a foul mood.
As I stomped outside huffing and puffing, Dan was ghoulishly dragging the tree's remains out of the trunk of his pick-em-up truck, aided by two frightening bikers.
"Dan!" I shouted authoritatively. "Daniel, step away from that body and come speak with me this instant!" His biker buddies smirked and leaned against the pick-em-up truck as Dan walked towards our mutual fence. "What can I do ya for?" he asked cheerily. The poor rube. He hadn't the slightest notion he was doing anything at all immoral. Smiling to acknowledge his stupid greeting pun, I explained I wanted to discuss his choice of Yuletide decor with him. He just looked puzzled, so I simply said "The tree, Dan. I want to discuss the moral aspects of murdering that tree with you."
He paused briefly, then started laughing that kind of "hyuk hyuk hyuk" laugh and slapping his knee that lower-class people do when they're ashamed. The bikers started doing it as well. I am always so fascinated by how contagious a sense of conscience is. Once they had completed their catharsis, I went on to explain that the tree is a living organism and not a variety of mineral as I am certain he had assumed. At one point, Dan actually called his biker chums over to better hear what I had to say regarding the sanctity of nature and the wisdom of trees. Quite often, I would say something that sparked hoots of cathartic conscience from these three rubes. The suggestion that I aid them in composing a requiem sonnet for the tree they had murdered elicited a particularly intense round of guilt-laden laughter.
Once they got up off the ground, Dan clasped my hand (which rather hurt, I must say,) and exclaimed in a gruff voice "Mister, you're all-right!" as the bikers got on their bikes and started whooping and pedaling down the driveway. The tree remains in the trunk of the pick-em-up truck, and I suspect Dan is making proper arrangements for the care and disposal of the body, though I do wish he would wrap it in a blanket of some sort to protect it's dignity and to alleviate the anxiety of of other trees in his yard. I can't imagine how this must unsettle them, but I can almost hear them discussing it as the January wind whistles through them whilst I lay on my couch at night.
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