country bumpkin #357
2001-07-08 - 12:19 p.m.
*listening to: Keith Urban, �Where The Blacktop Ends�* So...I got back to Houlton last night. It�s been a week-long weekend.
Sidenote: Step-mother seriously thinks that people are Judged (whether they go to heaven or hell) on how healthy they ate while they were living. And she is deeply perturbed by the idea that she can�t live forever.
It all started out (as most things tend to do) as an argument. Step-mother had a phone number, and I just wanted her to tell me what it was...the phone book was opened to the right page and everything. And she refused to tell me the number, because she �is not my secretary�, and I got pist because I have, on numerous occasions, taken out the trash or walked the dog (little things that her organized mind insists on doing) to help her get ready to leave somewhere. Expecting courtesy back is like expecting the earth to open up and eat you when it would be most convenient. Anyways, the PMS was bouncing off the walls, so I guess it was a good thing that I was driving. Of course, she *had* to blast her �books on tape� all the way down, which nearly had me cutting the wheel in this-is-the-worst-writing-I�ve-ever-read/heard-and-I-can�t-believe-people-get-awards-for-this-bullshyt agony. But I didn�t cut the wheel and kill everyone. That�s what counts, right? Besides, there are better ways to get back at people, and evil Step-mothers always get their comeuppance.
�When I wake up in the mornin�, when the sun comes up, I wanna tell you how I feel...and I feel no one�s luCier than me...� �Rancid
The days leading up to and slightly after my graduation were spent in a psychological process of encouragement...encouraging Father to be more social. Previously, I had attributed his lack of social behaviour to a traumatic influence from Step-mother (penis-in-a-jar syndrome). But as the days of summer roll by, I�m understanding him much more easily...though a comparison between him and myself. I convince myself that it�s detrimental to the life of an individual to not �get out� on the occasion, to not hang out with friends. And then I see myself, with a single friend. A single person that I can really trust. And to think, we refused to talk to each other for a year. Who was I, in that brief time? Take the example of Ms. Mike, who seems to catch some sort of spontaneous sickness every time I�m within visiting range. No matter. Goodbye is only a four-letter word. [Such is the insanity. Such is The Way.]
Blue eyes today. Artic Blue. Stunning.
I�m a long way from realizing what life IS, but I discovered what birth is today: There�s a pinstriped guy on a pedestal, and he�s looking at his watch. �You�ve got 72 years�. Years might as well be minutes. Seconds. You hear the gun being fired...suddenly you�re off running. And suddenly you�ve got to play your music louder, fuck harder, mosh harsher, curse jihad-ier, etc. A 72-year marathon race, and you have to run faster than you ever thought was possible, so that when you�re dying from cancer (because very few people in this god-forsaken country are allowed to die from anything else), you dig back through your mental photo album and remember it all. And you can finally lay your head back with a smile on your face, knowing that you accomplished Everything.
*stealing construction cones for my sisters* Yes, this is what I do in my spare time. Sad, really. But it�s beats twiddling my thumbs. (They�ve long-since been over-twiddled.)
From the catalogues of the non-existant son of Futurejason: �Dad always would scrub. When I was bigtall, he even let me rinse. But it was always two separate jobs, rinsing and scrubbing. He tells me, he says, when I�m bigger, I can scrub the dishes, and he�ll be the rinser. But when I gots to school, the other kids had no clue what the difference was, between the two. Even when we grew older, and they �did the dishes� they complained that it was too much of a chore. To me, it was a dream, to be allowed the duty, the responsibility, of washing the dishes. A long time�s past since then. I stopped in to see him last night, still fussing over pads of paper, fighting off sleep with pen and ink. And I bend over to him and I tells him, I says to him that I�ll scrub the pans, and he can help me to rinse them if he so wishes.�
Art: abstract of cows standing. When turned sideways, reveals the �face of Jesus�. Monochrome. I will eventually do this one, and it will be beautiful.
There are few things in this world that scare me (other than scuba diving equipment). World War III is one of �em. And it�s really not that farr off. Bush puts up a new missile defense system in a time of peace and prosperity. He bosses china around like a ragg doll, not realizing that it only takes one man to be a terrorist, and they have more than a billion. I�m not going to go to war immediately, but Mitch says he would. Better than sitting at home waiting for the bombs to dropp and the shyt to his the ceilingless fan, I guess. When I get drafted, near the end of the war, I�m going to ask to get paid by the head. I�ll walk right into the whitehouse, and hand them the head of the man who blew up the wall of china, the man who poisoned the Yangtze, the man who flattened Hong Kong. And this, of course, scares me.
Advertisement: *pic of H-bomb exploding* *shoot to guy on a couch* �ahhhh...� THE TRUE CROTCH ROCKET. OWN YOUR OWN H-BOMB TODAY!
I celebrated the fourth early, but the party seemed to drift into the fourth, which was good because it meant none of the vodka/weed/Jack Daniels (TM)/various other typs of beer went to waste. They says that the only sure-fire way to prevent a hangover is to stay drunk...and I�m pretty sure that�s what we did, but thinking back on it, I don�t remember it all that well. Drunk and stoned and surrounded by none other than my fellow country bumpkins, I saw no noticeable difference in my behaviour, with the exception that I had a raised internal/trunk temperature, and couldn�t piss straight. Actually, come to think of it, I dunno exactly whom/what I was pissing on, to discover that last parcel. Hmmm.
�Slowed the processor, virtual 386 not supported...surprisingly comfortable. Second decisions. Realizing their [they�re] watching me. Repetitive [forms thereof]. Memory at 150%. Cuddle-long-and-hard, 248%. Coordination: [scribble]% [scribble]fine.[scribble] Left-hand morning.� I have no idea what these scribbles pertain to. This is the singular reason why I do not write while intoxicated/stoned. Not exactly my idea of funn.
It is time, my friends, to address the insectivore. The insects of the world have �guts� much the same as a cantaloupe can be said to have �guts�, with a hard shell (exoskeleton) on the outside, and progressively softer materials on the insides. This, of course, follows the train of thought that supports the idea that ants are fruit. While I do not agree that ants are fruit, I can at least deduce that insects can be included as part of the vegetarian diet. The ant itself is really composed of no more �meat� than a peanut is composed of �meat�. Sure, there�s protein, and the ant might fit in the �meat� group, but I doubt that it really counts as a �meaty� food. This, of course, has left me confuzzled as to why not a single vegetarian I�ve talked to includes �bugs� in their regular diet.
I can make my dos prompt green. *does so* It�s easier on the eyes this way, and it sorta goes with the rest of the green-ness that is my pooter *huggs my currently unnamed patchwork of a machine*
Invention #a: Marshmallowmaker2000. The ultimate in marshmallow-cooking technology. This consists of a hexagonal pipe with five rotatable spikes leading into the centre. The remaining corner has no spike, because it goes off to the handle. Put a marshmallow on each spike, and use the �knobs� of each spike (on the outside of the hexagon) to rotate individual marshmallows. The Marshmallow3000 rotates all the spikes electronically, and comes with it�s own set of batteries. Just for those people that want to have a �real camping� experience; farmer�s tan* at no extra charge.
Invention #b: Carbonated pig blood. Not unlike a bloody version of other well-known carbonated drinks, combined with the pig-brains-in-a-can idea (not mine...they really sell this stuff, like hotcakes). Mostly, this would be a drink for wanna-be gothic types, who like to drink blood but are running out of their own. Who knows, it could even be sold as an �energy enhancer�.
Sidenote: Chances are, if you�re reading this: I have your address. I know who you are. It is not uncommon for me invite myself to other people�s houses. My typical mode of entry is through the front door, just so you know. I weasel my way through the door, do the dishes, and then leave.
Five Fun things to do with twin children that I currently do not have: Five. Reading them �Frog and Toad� stories late into the night, knowing that they probably won�t get to sleep any faster, but not minding the personal sacrifice of a few hours of sleep. Four. Trying to figure out whether to tell them that Santa Claus, most likely, does not exist (even though Step-grandfather clamed to be the one-and-only). Three. Trying to figure out whether to tell them that I �stuff dead people� for a living. Two. Being pounced on from the right and left at once. One. �Thing One� and �Thing Two� pajamas, just like in the �Cat and the Hat� book.
�When the other girls aren�t around, she can be a real boy, ya know?� �conversation in Exeter
So now, for the highlight of my vacation: camping with Micthipoo. It�s been a relly long time since I�ve done this. So long, in fact, that I remember staying up one night to watch their �pet� mouse scurry on the eaves of the cabin. The mouse hung itself on/from the porch siding more than a year ago. And I had a really good time...wonderful view, wonderful pictures. We walked the path to the hillside campsite a total of six times, because he forgot the keys, and there wasn�t enough water...but it was funn the whole time. Then we set up a lean-to, for no other reason than �because� and skipped rocks off the clouds in the morning. Mitch is a much better rockskipper than I am. Then there were the coal-black frogbirds, with the white streaks/dots. Male and female, croaking love songs to each other and plummeting for each other like large, plummeting objects have a tendency to do. We had come out to watch the stars, but the birds were flying only several feet above our heads at times, blocking our view of the cloud-filled sky. But the fireworks...you could see the pre-independence-day fireworks out over the water below. There weren�t any real good pictures of �em, but the memory suffices. Late into the night (because there was no Patrick McManus book to be had) we discussed our future plan as weekend witch-hunters, investigating abandoned/haunted houses in-between college homework assignments. And it was just like old times.
�...Oh, I believe in miracles, I believe in a better world, for me and you...� �Ramones
�I think they tricked you, and put more orange in there� �Mum ...And thus came to an end the adventures of the pseudo-rubix-cube. As much as I hate to admit to things like this, there comes a point where you just have to give up. This point really *does* exist. Even a devout soul can only hammer on the gates of Heaven for so long before admitting to itself that God is �out to lunch� and it wanders off to limbo.
*farmer�s tan: A sunburn on the forearms and neck, with sharp tan lines in the form of a plain white T-shirt. The species �Rednecks� (more commonly known as its proper genus �Hicks�) gets it�s name from this distinctive marking. See also: �Jeff Foxworthy (TM)�.
