Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005

Fencepost Chode Indentations

Before I begin, I'd like to say that I'm not sure if this is satire yet. I'm in a mood.

I've always been a big booster of dreams. Of optimism. I happen to be a person that's very concerned with this country's political direction and the effect it has on families of all incomes and locations. My father just found an electrical engineering job two years after his last was outsourced. Eviction and divorce punctuated the years between, so it's personal.

My friend Steve, the fake policeman, espouses exploitation of every loophole available to get over. He looks down with contempt upon any fool he can convince to open their wallet. P.T. Barnum is his spiritual godfather. Several months ago we got into a shouting match over this.

My position grew from my involvement in the Nader 2000 campaign. My notion was that if one million people imagined a better world and tried to make a difference and only one succeeded that all of the effort was worth it. I namechecked Martin Luther King as one example. Steve said that I was an idiot sacrificing myself and that any sane man would look after himself and spend less energy on futile causes. He said such energetic altruism would eventually leave me broken, bitter, and poor. He said I shouldn't try to help people who don't want help. The election results of 2004 seemed to vaildate that, if only by a slim margin.

Since then I've been thinking about that. I dislike struggling to pay my bills. I want my own apartment. Can I make any discernable difference if I can't even support myself?

This leads back to exploitation, selling out, and getting over. I want my slice.

I hate those goddamn magnetic yellow ribbons. I don't believe for a second that much, if any, of the profit goes towards buying body armor or phone cards for US troops. It is exploitation of Joe American's goodwill. Exploitation much the same as cheaply mass-produced American Flag pins were an abuse of Joe American's grief and desire for consolation via false temporary illusions of unity back in 2001.

The truth is, I don't hate the ribbons for their tackiness. Nor do I hate them for their false profession to help. I hate them because I didn't think of them first. I need to save money to prepare for my merchandising assault on Joe American's emotional vulnerability. By my calculation I spent $2,407 a year on cigarettes. I've been quit for eight days now. There's a start. I need to find out whoever is responsible for distributing this asinine garbage to gas stations across the continental 48.

All I need is for something terrible to happen in this country. Like a terrorist attack or a war. Something new, because those ribbons and flags are pretty much whored out and overwith at this point. This time I'll be ready, I'll be first, and I'll get mine.

So, Joe American, fuck you one and all. You like to be stepped on, patronized, and abused. You keep buying it. I'm registering Republican.
10:55 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm


January 14, 2005 2:56 PM, Blogger P/O said...

Brilliant stuff.


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