Currently on my IPOD: Wake Up Call: Maroon 5
Today was another crack-pot day in my life. So, I thought I would share something with you.
I wrote this after a few glasses of wine and I happened to get a rise out of a friend, whose opinion I highly value...And then had to write her saying it was all tongue-in-cheek fun. Isn't most of my writing that way?
Please don't take me seriously. Ever. Except with the novel writing.
Anywho, here is my diddy, and like always, let me know what you think.
The Bother of the Uncultured
I am absolutely failing at my life. I have been trying to save the world, but it is no longer worth the bother. The wounded and insane have nothing on me. After all, I can't even get my cats to take their Prozac. Who the hell do you think you are? I, the crazy lady down the street, have no purpose, no stated life, and no exercise in futility to keep my mind contained within the streets of the living, right? Wrong. I have plenty to think about. Television proves it.
Every day I see them. They walk up and down the aisles of our local discount mart, they take orders through the processed food-o-rama drive throughs, they live their lives just to have the beer with no label greet their digestive systems with pure, simulated nutrition bombing on a Friday evening. Theirs is the whole subculture of uncultured beings. I am plagued by their stupidity, by their inane ability to ignore everything that is given to them through sight, taste, smell and touch. Their sight should be taken away for they do not even understand even the most basic instruction on how to use it.
Art is wasted on them, instead, hanging from their walls are velvet prints of dead-obese swinging hip singing Elvis. Looming in their pantries are processed Velveeta with Cocoa Puffs and overly salted generic potato chips whose flavor has been so far removed that the sadness of the chips is apparent through the crumbles they leave behind in the grease pit at the bottom of the bag. An intellectual conversation is something of foreign ground lending itself to the ho-hums of boredom and insanity that will inevitably follow the intelligence out of the room merely leading to a certain death after it jumps off of the roof. And to taste something savory, oh lets call it a taco cheesy melt with extra seasoning, meaning of course, MSG, from exquisite dining experience of a place also known in some social circles as Taco Hell.
Education is for the rich, the snobs, the ones who keep their teeth in tact and their waist line in check, right? Of course. If you lived among this extremist culture of non-culture, you would start to think this too. Literature is something the doctor gives you when he has to teach you about Gallbladder stones and Bladder infections. A factory of mass producing harlequin writers might as well be the Pulitzer winners. As a matter of fact, the fate of the world lies in the hands of Sammy. If she finally gets back with Lucas and Billy and Bo find out, then the whole three-some they had the night before the last episode will be null and selling their Days-of-Our-Lives souls will be a sell out to the devil. Stay tuned and see what happens next.
But what happens next is not pretty, intellectual or surprising. For we all know what the end of the story is. They live and they die, producing mass numbers of off-spring in their place at the ripe age of fourteen and find out that government help isn't so bad after all and the cheese is just as good as any other cheese you buy with money, only this is the free stuff. The food stamp righteous, the free hand out while you have two good legs and fifteen children by the age of 22, isn't that bad of a life. God-forbid, that this sub-species continue to thrive among the progression the rest of the world is making. The progression the rest of us are striving to continue, the advancement of intelligence and the retraction of stupidity.
Yet, I just sit on my porch, shot gun in hand, watching the fat girl across the street talk with a drawl thicker than Jimmy Carter's and a third tire form around her waste as she eats her chips and "ready made" dip in the jar as fast as she can, talking on her cell phone completely ignoring my pleas for the world to suddenly be right. Maybe it is the village idiot from Texas on the phone, speaking of his war in Iraq and how he promises to get her man back home alive. Never mind the fact that he may have post-traumatic stress disorder, or missing a limb or part of his face, for we are fighting for their freedom, right? We are fighting for the same things they are fighting for…Control over the world. Who's the biggest terrorist now? Terrorizing the minds of others while telling them that it is the truth and the only way out of their life? Terrorism is not selective about who it takes under its wings.
My requests go unanswered and I expect nothing less, nothing more. What else would I have to do if it weren't for the mind-boggling lack of IQ among my neighbors? What would you do? We would sit around and talk about the books, the arts, the music being made by and between the silences during conversations with friends. We could smell the roses and understand why they give their scent. We could live out our lives with the most stimulating thoughts and fine chocolates offered.
But, it takes a village; a village idiot and a plan to make the world cease its progress towards the betterment of man kind. Only this time, I am not going to be the one who bothers with the thought of this uncultured idiocy which lies in abundance all around me. Instead, I will be the freak, the eccentric, the unaccepted social butterfly who sits in her cocoon spinning wings of which I can fly away from this place to a more accepting culture.
Yours in Bothersome Pieces of Fiction, Burdening your Friends with Terrible Writing and Blowing Smoke Out My A*s,