A brief history, if I must:

I suppose I adopted an oppositional mindframe at an early age, an immediate predisposition to play devil’s advocate, a love of pushing back against the commonly accepted idea that that which is popular is therefore also the best.  I still accept that for the most part: the falsehood of popular = good.  The majority can not only be wrong, but it often seems to be the rule, not the exception.  Against this early worldview I reached the age of 18 just in time for the 1996 presidential election (in fact, just two months beforehand), and swore to always vote, but never for a major party candidate.  From my very first vote, I would vote protest.

Now, I will not pretend that I was politically savvy at 18, or even really informed at all in such matters, but I proudly cast my vote for Perot and went on about my adolescence.  Later, a president for whom I did not vote would be impeached for getting a blowjob.  To this day I still think: “Look, he’s ostensibly the most powerful man in the world, and such power is going to lead to corruption of some sort.  So, if he must abuse his authority, at least let it be for some awkward mouth sex, there truly are worse things he could do with such capabilities”.  Ah, the foreshadowing is outrageous.

Four more years passed, I reached college and drank myself into an embarrassing stupor, Chia Pet fads came and went, computer programmers everywhere tried to scare the pants off everyone in order to sell extra bomb shelters, porno magazines, and water purifiers…or perhaps they just dreamed to see mass crowds fearfully fleeing pantslessly (yeah, it’s now officially a word, Webster’s can suck it).  Then came another wonderful election, and as I listened to the two-party system wriggle its way forward in time, still secure to ignore the first president’s warning on such things, I heard the words of Ralph Nader as they cut through the bullshit like a warm chainsaw through a pile of fresh cow flop.

I purchased Nader/LaDuke ’00 stickers, buttons, etc.  I bought the new album (at the time) by Pearl Jam signed by Eddie Vedder as a means to raise money for Nader’s campaign (I only recently sold it on ebay).  I debated the perceived infinitesimal differences between Bush and Gore, and pointed out the mirror-like similarities between their contributors.  And when the magical time came, I threw in the ultimate protest vote: as Nader/LaDuke were not actually on the ballot in South Dakota and there is no write-in option, I scribbled in my own oval and wrote in Nader/LaDuke Green Party next to it, thereby likely rendering my entire ballot invalid.

Later in the night, while watching the election returns with my right-leaning roommate and consuming Pabst Blue Ribbon at a rate only recommended by 1 out of 10 doctors, I couldn’t help but notice that Nader’s returns weren’t listed at any point until late in the evening when his 3% looked like it might make the crucial difference between Gore and Bush.  Then, suddenly, it was presented alongside the others as if to highlight that fact (for example: Bush 48%, Gore 46%, Nader 3%).  I immediately jumped up and began ranting that the media was playing up the “spoiler” role of Nader so as to further discourage third-party voters in the future.  Surprisingly, my roommate calmly agreed without any pretense, a rare non-facetious agreement achieved with one of my alcohol-spawned agitations (Two years later, while viewing the Super Bowl with a group of friends, a commercial came on the air trying to tie terrorist attacks with drug, not oil, use.  A similar unaided rant ensued in which the entire room reacted as if I was reading equations from a quantum physics book…further evidence for Schrodinger’s Beer: the theory that one cannot tell whether a beer is skunked or not before it is opened and tasted, and it is, therefore, stuck in an inbetween state of “possibly skunked”).

Later, while the election controversy carried on and before the election was officially stolen, I drunkenly mumbled to anyone willing to listen that “Gore would change nothing, but at least he would do no harm”, admitting, at least to myself, that it did matter who won.  Oh, how the last 7+ years have painfully proven that fact over and over again to me.  I think, in essence, it was a twin attack of youthful ignorance of the political process and an overly developed stubbornness that the only candidate I would vote for MUST agree with me at a higher percentage than is really realistically possible for anyone.  Once a candidate has to find a way to motivate 55 million+ people to vote for them in order to win, it’s virtually impossible that they’ll meet any one person’s opinions by more than 50 or 60 percent.  Maybe I just need to find a very liberal village of 300 people and I could find a candidate for county clerk that agrees with me 99% of the time, and could win…perhaps.

This also ties together with why candidates who actually speak with real substance and call bullshit as they see it can never garner more than 10 or 11% in the primary (I’m looking at you, Ron Paul), and usually end up sitting more in the vicinity of 0.2% (I’m looking at you, Flavor Flav).  In order to make 45% or more of the voting public actually drag themselves to the booth on a f’n Tuesday (and not even a holiday, how come places like Puerto Rico can figure this shit out? Well, except for Oregon–thank you mail-in ballot) it’s best to stay as general in all of your statements as possible.

Well, the next four years promptly ended my streak of voting for anyone but the major party candidates.  I now saw, in glaring detail, that there is a very big difference between a bought politician, and a bought politician who doesn’t even feel like pretending he gives a damn what the people think.  In the words of George Carlin, “even in a fake democracy, the people should get what they want once in a while”.

What is my point to all this?  My point is, I guess, that I understand why people would consider voting for a third party, particularly those candidates that speak with such truth and can step outside the usual paradigms of everyday political discourse (certainly Paul and Nader come to mind).  I understand that people feel that the political process and the major parties in this country are so infested with corruption as to be without any redeeming qualities.  But I have come to realize that our political body prior to Bush is like a human diagnosed with terminal cancer and a finite time to live, and when Bush was elected the “human politic” was in a terrible car crash and began bleeding profusely from the head.  The 2004 election was the time it took for the paramedics to arrive on the scene, and the 2008 election is their opportunity to act.  Which would you deal with first: the cancer or the excessive bleeding?  I don’t expect Barack Obama to fix everything.  I don’t expect him to cure our cancer.

I just want the bleeding the stop.  And that is what I believe Obama/Biden can attend to in 4-8 years.  If not, then, well, I hear Eastern European women are beautiful and willing to share their citizenships.

On a related note: This is what happened in 2006 with the power of Congress in both houses shifting to democratic control.  Obviously, they have not been satisfactory, but to a real extent they have slowed the bleeding.  And with an actual majority there is now an opportunity to not just elect Democrats in name, but those that actually operate as better than Republican-lite.  This is the effort now taking place at the Orange to Blue page maintained by the Dailykos community of kossacks, where they are not just trying to elect democrats, but better democrats.  I highly recommend the dailykos website, very left-leaning and successful enough to raise Bill O’Reilly’s ire (calling them “as bad as the KKK” in as factual a manner as Papa Bear ever states anything), but it’s also the most informative and accurate political website I have ever read.

Remember: “abortions for some, little American flags for others!” (you didn’t watch the simpsons video in its entirety, did you?)

P.S. A great book that touches somewhat on these things, and also ties in with the simpsons (convenient, eh?) is Leaving Springfield: the Simpsons and the possibility of an oppositional culture (thanks to my bro for that one).  It’s a great book about how something strictly and unapologetically oppositional is truer to it’s purpose, but only preaches to the choir; whereas something like the Simpsons can be more effective because it is subtle in its oppositional opinions, but reaches a far greater, and more resistant, audience by broadcasting on a major network and the home of right-wing groupthink known as FOX.  Certainly, I think both efforts are important in changing society, but it sort of sticks a nail in the adolescent angst against the idea of “selling out” in certain instances.  As someone greater than I once said, “you can do a lot more damage within the system than outside”.

Dionysus, like many deities, formed out of strange meldings of different cultures’ worshipping efforts.  Also, as is common amongst such revelry, he was born of some combination of mortal and immortal and popped into existence through some extravagant means.  In this case (according to most sources), Dionysus burst onto the scene when Zeus had a few too many Ouzo shots at the Parthenon and got frisky with a mortal woman by the name of Semele (why do the immortals always have to get the beer goggles for mortals?)  Zeus wakes up with one hell of a case of buyer’s remorse and, discovering Semele is now preggers and threatening to sue him for his entire lightning bolt collection, strikes her down pre-emptively with the lightning bolt version of “Billy Baroo“.  Then, feeling pity of the unborn bastard, he pulls him from the womb and incubates his unborn son within his bulbous thigh muscles (obviously, where else would he stash an embryo?).  Once he delivers his child (through C-section, one can only presume), he naturally pawns him off on some local nymphs (apparently the satyrs were out bowling).

In another similar version, Hera (Zeus’ jealous wife) disguises herself as an old crone or, in some accounts, as a nurse (presumably this was the Greek equivalent of “sexing-up” religion), and convinces Semele to get Zeus to prove that he is a god, which he reluctantly does.  Unfortunately, mortals apparently cannot look directly upon undisguised gods (though apparently they can conceive children with the disguised variety), and something resulted similar to this:

 

Aaaahhhh, Zeus is so sexy is his Superman Under-Rooooooooooooossss!!!

In another version, which is far more complicated and involves more immortal and/or immoral players than the average soap opera, Hera lures a young Dionysus (aka Bacchus, aka Zagreus) into Hades (presumably) using toys (type of toys is not specified, but the imagination runs wild into places men fear to tread) and, along with those wonderfully gifted day-care managers, the Titans, they all tear the boy to shreds in one of those endearing stories of a religious tradition with a good wholesome lesson.  They devour the young lad Jeffrey Dahmer-style, leaving only the heart (damn, if I was going to leave a particular body part off the menu I think I’d have to go with rectum, but to each their own), which Zeus then uses to resurrect Zagreus/Dionysus/Bacchus/Cousin It.  Through it all, however, Dionysus seems to maintain his title as “twice born”, which didn’t catch on nearly as well as the “twice bitten, twice shy” mantra used successfully by another Greek deity known as Great White.  Regardless, the twice born association surely can be seen, in some sense, as having ties to reincarnation beliefs.

As Dionysus became a man he learned how to culture grape vines and extract their “precious juices”, but Hera went after him in yet another manner and struck him with “madness” (i.e., made him do wine keg-stands) and he wandered through the countryside aimlessly muttering to himself about the price of sheep’s wool.  Occasionally he would mark his path with urine (you can only really rent “Hera’s madness”) and yell at local peasants about horrible things he’s like to do with their livestock.  Thankfully, all returned to normalcy when Cybele/Rhea returned him to sanity/sobered him up, and taught him a few religious rites/cool card tricks.  He then bumbled off to India for several years, presumably to introduce the locals there to “Hera’s madness” and perhaps a little “Montezuma’s revenge” as an unavoidable side effect.

Upon returning to Greece, Dionysus was opposed by the princes there, so in response he decided to spice up any and all future religious texts with a few completely nonsensical magic acts.  When some sailors attempted to capture him and make him a slave, Dionysus reacted by: 1) turning into a lion, 2) unleashing a bear onboard the ship (it doesn’t say whether the crew had the bear to begin with or whether Dionysus pulled it out of his ass), 3) turning the mast and oars into snakes, 4) filling the vessel with ivy and the sound of flutes so the sailors went mad and jumped into the sea, and finally he 5) turned all sailors jumping off the ship into dolphins.  Surely, the use of only one of these powers would have been sufficient to dispel his captors, but no, when it’s time to turn all types of inanimate objects into dangerous animals, Dionysus doesn’t fuck about.

In the end, Dionysus was the god of wine and the inducer of ritual madness and ecstasy.  Hence, he was naturally very big in the ancient Greek rave scene.  Indeed he is also the patron deity of the theatre (read: laser-light show and glowsticks) and of agriculture (uh…gots to grow grapes, right?).  His godly mission was to use music to end care and worry.  He also was rather “womanish” in appearance (despite the large beard and hairy buttocks) and could mediate communication between the living and the dead (“no, no, hold on, let the dead guy talk…wait for it…”).  Not a bad set of supernatural powers, all in all, and a damn fine mission as well.  Imagine how different the world might be had the cult of Bacchus caught on.  Then again, perhaps the particular deity of worship is unimportant, as the powers that be will always bend the wholesome intentions of mythological super-men, super-women, and super-eunichs, into forms that serve only the basest of human behaviors and intentions.  Hell, even if we worshipped Barney the dinosaur our leaders would still convince us that certain ethnic and religious groups were not meant to be included in the “I love you, you love me” song of the great purple one in the sky.  Worship of Bacchus, in turn, would only lead to the banning of three of my favorite things: wine, madness, and dancing to music until reaching pinnacles of ecstasy (or conversely: taking ecstasy until reaching pinnacles of dancing).  And without these things, my interesting Judeo-Christian friends, we’d be in an even worse boat then we are now.  And I’m fresh out of ivy and flutes.

Gas is, in fact, now only 1/10th of what it should be, i.e., 41.9 cents per gallon.  But, for five minutes every day, chosen at “random”, gas suddenly becomes 10x what it normally is, i.e., 41.99 per gallon, for all customers unlucky enough to purchase anything in that small window.  Obviously some of these numbers would have to be tweaked in order to make the whole venture profitable, but you don’t think customers would be lining up around the block for their 41.9 cent gas?  Shiiiiiiiit.  Of course, the problem here is that it’s only a matter of time before someone with a hot temper and plenty of firearms gets screwed in the five-minute window and returns to destroy any and all with extreme prejudice, then grabs a “free” 48 oz. Mountain Dew and waits for the cops to arrive.  This is perhaps an idea whose time has yet to come.

And the fuel shortage/cost rise thing, seriously, stop bitching.  Americans have had it too good for too long anyway.  I’m not suggesting that there aren’t reasonable middle class people who have purchased their lifestyle in a mature and informed manner who are now feeling the pinch hard.  But what I am suggesting is that for every one of them there are about 100 who bought all their unnecessary shit on credit thinking a huge truck or Hummer to boost their ego was more important than getting double-digit gas mileage.  I still see people in oversized vehicles driving with no eye to fuel economy and honk at me angrily because I’m going 55 or not speeding up to red lights.  These are the same people who think that more offshore drilling is the answer to our energy problems and would vote for anyone who can promise $1.19 gas again.  Listen, Greenspan, we hit peak oil production in this country over 30 years ago, and the world is peaking now.  Add to that the demand of places like India and China matching ours with populations several times greater than ours, and prices aren’t ever coming down again.  Time to accept it, writing’s only been on the wall since the 70′s.  The only way to bring oil prices down is to reduce our demand, y’know, by doing that really inconvenient thing like planning, or buying human-sized vehicles that you can drive more than two blocks without having to fill up again.

And nuclear energy?  C’mon, even if it didn’t come with all kinds of wonderful possible Chernobyl-like side effects, do you really think uranium is a renewable resource?  Could we possibly find another form of energy to base our entire infrastructure on that is rarer, more dangerous, and leaves more horrible by-products to dispose of for the next several thousand years?  Like maybe petrified Dodo poop mixed with lead and mercury?

We are in the hunter-gatherer stage of energy consumption, it’s time to start growing our own now.  It’s been a fun ride, but really, I’m done listening to Exxon the Neanderthal’s constant pleadings that more berries and meat are just around the corner if we keep looking, and that there are no dangers to continuing the hunt.

On a completely unrelated note:

Why is that some hardcore Christian types have a problem with swearing, supposedly because the Bible doesn’t use those words?  You know why the Bible doesn’t use shit, piss, fuck, cunt, etc.?  Because they didn’t exist.  English didn’t exist.  I’m sure they had equivalent words, I mean, people didn’t herd animals in the desert without knowning what “shit” was…but just because someone translated it as “manure” doesn’t make it a cleaner word.  It’s the same damn thing.  Just because it says that so-and-so “knew a woman” instead of “he fucked her”, doesn’t change the meaning of the action the words try to describe in the abstract.  This is the biggest concern troll amongst a group with little else to do but fake outrage.

No attempted humor today, some days are rant days.

So, in the interest of moving forward with this so-called “blorg” and not letting it rot away in the corner like so many hobbies of old (sorry, balloon-animal zoo, but I just couldn’t get that f’n porcupine to work), I’ve decided to simply buy some time by posting a collection of completely non sequitar nonsense blurbs.

Apologies to those who recognize a few from previous “blorg” incarnations, but I needed what we call in the business “filler”.  Let the games begin!

Reasons to blog:

Lack of beer in house, conversely, entertainment when beer supplies are ample

As an organizational tool for plotting the conquering of Earth (if only Lex Luther had a blog):  1) Spend many years thinking about conquering the Earth, advantages (big parking spot), disadvantages (higher tax bracket, guerillas); 2)  amass a large amount of personal income through one or more criminal schemes planned alongside my equally clever criminal associates, a la Oceans Eleven (or Oceans Twelve, depending on how many clever criminal associates you can locate through craigslist); 3) Buy large tracts of land in remote area for base of operations, and for large amusement park to pass the time (dont forget Tilt-A-Whirl you fool!); 4) Hire greatest scientific minds of my generation, then create resurrection machine and hire greatest scientific minds of all generations…actually, time machine would be better as it could get future scientific minds as well…no, too cliché, stick with resurrection machine, originality is better than rationality in such take over the world schemes; 5) Have a Dr. Pepper; 6) Write nice email to world letters asking for permission to take over control of the world, if doesn’t work (damn uncooperative Luxembourg) ask again with pretty please and sugar on top, if failure persists see step 7; 7) Create irrational plot using worlds combined pinball games and the power they possess to blackmail world leaders into signing over sovereignty; 8 ) if plot fails, retire to compound and try to beat high score on Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom while enjoying reruns of Crocodile Dundee 3.

Much needed break after week long porn search; conversely, porn offers much needed break from week long ”blorg” marathon

Distraction from constant wails of poltergeist trapped in hallway closet

Means to solicit cheap pinball games

Outlet to vent frustration on multiple home projects failing to move forward: perpetual motion machine, alchemy, sequel to the Bible (soon to be a major motion picture), super-hamster genetic line, grape-flavored Tang.

Johnny?  What has happened to our love?

Distraction leading to future comments by stupefied neighbors: He was always a quiet fellow

Podium to preach on the evils of Chow-chows

A + W = $

Avenue for discussion of my dissertation in progress: Isosceles triangles: how do we harness their power?

Screw the “blorg”, remember the Blalamo

Siegfried with Boy

My fears concerning the abominable snowman have never had anything to do with the physical harm he could inflict upon me, but rather my concerns that his views on hip-hop music could drastically change the industry…forever

C’mon Mr. Barker, come clean, Plinko was fuckin’ fixed!

Dog + Catapult = Freedom

Donald Rumsfeld owes me 7 dollars!

If the words coming out of your mouth prevent you from getting sex action, could that be described as “self-blocking of cocking”?

How come everytime Mario and Luigi rescue the princess from a rather immobile dragon, she’s the wrong f’n princess?  Can’t they just skip straight to the real princess?  Or better yet, can’t they take their stereotypical asses somewhere altogether different, like maybe a stint in Grand Theft Auto or perhaps a pornographic game where they can get it on with their incestuous 16-bit selves?

It’s time to reconsider one’s whole direction in life when incest jokes about video game characters cause giggles.  Or bowel movements.

Yeah, that about sums it up these days, as my mind searches for punchlines all it can summon are three things: fish, sex, and dwarves.  Separately, each of these subjects holds promise for comedy, but together, well, let’s just say that good taste wins out, and I draw the line at bowel movements.

Consider this “blorg” entry, mercifully, finished.

Now, I’m not suggesting we should hunt and/or kill bigfoot, or even track him/her in order to collect footprints, photographs, or other evidence of his/her existence, but rather, let’s tantalize him/her with modern products and conveniences.  I, for one, spend my weekends camouflaged in the bushes of the Cascades Mountains, planting trails of meat to stockpiles of Us and People magazines.  I smear pheromones around lone IPod minis with a full storage of the latest top 40.   I pool the sweet, sweet nectar of honey on bottles of Budweiser.  Oh yes, the market can yet expand.

And speaking of weird phenomena, remember crop circles?

These are bloody bizarre, to say the least…

And remember how these guys admitted in 1991 to starting the whole crazy crop circle fiasco in 1978?  They used fancy technology like boards and strings, and baffled people into believing in UFO communication through crop circles for 13 years?  Wow.  One problem: others claim that crop circles have been documented throughout the 20^th century, and possibly even as far back as the 1600s.  Not to mention those wily Englishmen would have had to have inspired copycats in over 30 countries including the U.S., Canada, Italy, Switzerland, Germany, and others.  Though it is curious that most crop circles have appeared in developed nations.  Others also claim that crop circles lack physical damage characteristics that would necessarily follow crushing by a board and human weight, such as a lack of plant damage, soil compression, and footprints.  Now, it’s completely possible that all the “experts” on one side of the argument are full of shit, and all the “experts” on the other side are telling the utmost truth, but since that kind of speculation can tear down any base of knowledge (e.g., all the claimers that the “Earth is round” are full of shit, all the Flat Earth Society members are telling the truth…oh shit, we have a problem), so I’ll have to accept, for the moment, that both sides have a statistically equal number of bull-shitters and truth-tellers.  Most people would likely slough it off at this point and say “ah, humans admitted to doing it, therefore it must have been done by human hoaxers”.  However, and I’m not suggesting that aliens or UFOs really have anything at all to do with this, nor am I speculating as to whether either exists*, but is it really more ludicrous to suggest that aliens (presuming they have superior technology and an artsy means of communicating with us) did this than to suggest that humans have been creating intricate designs in crop fields for 100+ years in multiple countries for no apparent reason?  Could it be some Masonic conspiracy, or perhaps a joke concocted by the local Illuminati?  Perhaps. But, aliens?  C’mon…

But then, strange things like this happened:

And this was discovered:

And this is still around:

And these once existed:

…unless you’re Ben Stein.

On the other hand, humans did this:

And this:

We fought this guy , whose name was Schicklgruber for some time, and later he burned books.

Eleven years later our government burned this guy’s books, who had fled from the previous guy’s regime for suggesting the former’s political party was based on sexual repression…

Reminds one of this guy a bit.

Hmmm…and this guy’s story is far too weird all in all. 

So, the point is that the world is strange beyond explanation…and human behavior is strange beyond explanation.  So is one outlandish explanation more likely than another outlandish explanation?

Shit…crop circles?  I blame the giant doilies being dropped on our crops by an omnipotent grandmother.

*The acronym “UFO”, let’s remember, actually stands for “Unidentified Flying Object”, so really, any piece of matter that is not physically touching the ground, and is observed by a human who can not accurately identify it at the time, is officially a “UFO”.  I could throw dog turds into the air and claim we have experienced a UFO encounter, providing my captive audience is stupid enough not to recognize canine feces in its airborne form.

            In my strivings to travel as cheaply as possible, I scoffed at the extra 50 Euro necessary to have one’s own quarters during the 19-hour trip from Cherbourg, France, to Rosslare, Ireland.  Additionally, I haughtily refused even the 11 Euro for a “seat” that one could, presumably, sleep in.  Besides, I have a bar packed full of delicious dark Irish ales and a pack of smokes, and if worse comes to worse I’ll curl up topside of the ten-story ferry with a bellyful of liquid peace and whatever clothing articles of warmth I can scrounge from my backpack of mysteries (or so its contents had gradually come to be mysterious to me after ten weeks on the road).  On the other hand, perhaps the luck of the Irish will shine upon me somewhat prematurely and a fine young (or not so young) maiden with a heart of gold and some extra real estate will take me in out of the cold.  Not that this type of scenario is common on a trip such as this, or in life in general, but I must maintain such fantasies to justify my behavior after incessantly waking up in strange uncomfortable places wondering, “why did I think this was a good idea again?”

            Such conjectures of the mind fade quickly, however, when entering the bar, as I determine, much as I should have assumed given the nature of this ferry travel whatnot, that this is more of a family-oriented expedition.  A moment contemplating what this means for me is immediately broken by the sight of multiple dark Irish brews on tap, and I become more concerned with stashing my bag somewhere, anywhere, and freeing my whole body up for the battle to come.  I dump all my belongings minus my notebook and pen onto the nearest ferry employee who, though kind enough to assist me, does not possess the heart of gold I am seeking, nor does she bother to mention the fact that she is going to lock my possessions up into a closet, where they will remain inaccessible until freed the following morning upon arrival on the emerald island.  This is information that might have proved useful considering future stages of the night.

            Nonetheless, I waste no further time in acquiring my first dark beverage and quaffing it feverishly while opting for a seat near the window.  Here I can adequately observe both my internal and external surroundings.  I start my surveyance within the bar/restaurant, looking for fellow aimless wanderers, single girls, heavy dependents on drugs and alcohol, physical manifestations of mythical creatures that would clearly indicate that someone slipped hallucinogens into my drink, and, barring any of these things, at least a cordial and lonely old man with whom I can trade rounds of drink, talk about past times forever lost, and slowly get annoyed with as the evening progressed.  Alas, none of these things materialize, so I look out the window instead, hoping that with each successive beer these things will be more likely to appear, either in the real world or within my mind.

            One beer turns swiftly into three and four, but nothing comes to end my ennui.  I begin to scribble in my notebook a sort of stream of consciousness, which I now reproduce in its entirety for the benefit or folly of those who find themselves at this point of my story:

They’ve trapped me now, luggage is locked up til morning.  What I’ve got is what I’ve got til morning…unless I buy some shit, and really, what am I gonna do with perfume duty-free at this point? A guy taking pictures of himself.  The only group of single girls playing cards together, ignoring all come-ons outright.  Nobody travels alone anymore, and saying that only exposes my romantic ideal that it wasn’t always that way.

I guess alcohol will have to get me through this night…again.

How much can my old friend really comfort me? He/She has always done well before, but shit man, even the best of friends falters now and again.  What you got in you tonight, beer?  Alcohol, eh?  Well, that’ll have to do.

Back to this whole traveling alone thing and what happened to the single girls, anyway?  Was this trip marked ‘couples only’?  Where’s the ‘singles only’ one?  ‘Alcohol only’?  A bunch of beers hanging out laughing off the flirtations of the occasional vodka or whiskey that try their luck.  Sign me up.  A cute Guinness?

There goes the guy w/ the solo pictures, off to the ‘Adults only’ lounge.  They got strippers up there?  Shit.  Maybe he knows something I don’t know.  Nope, here he comes on retreat.  Sheryl Crow – Greatest Hits.  Cheer me up?  Arrr.  Not that I am depressed, got beer, no cabin, so apparently I have to crash on the floor somewhere.  I thought the attendant was kidding, but 11 Euro is 11 Euro.  And that was just for a reserved reclining chair (?).  I’ll sleep in the lifeboat.  Just in case.  On the assumption that the captain is having as many tap beers as I, but then, he’s got to go down w/ the ship.  12 beers against the cold, cold ocean depths.  Whee!  Armed only w/ the cockring, or so the story goes.

Grinning fat man.  Hopefully at the bottom of the sea there’s also a grinning fat man.  That would help somehow.  Perhaps St. Peter is a grinning fat man.  ‘Hello, welcome to heaven!  Stop at the McDonald’s.  Good eating!’  And then, Bush starts making sense.  Heaven is made up of burgers and oil.  Oil also seems to be tied to the grinning fat man.  Unless you’re Cheney.  Humorless fuck.  He’s the hell-oil connection perhaps.  Works for me.  Even the heavens are fighting over Texas tea.”

            And so it went.  Should I have reproduced that intoxicated rambling with a nugget of poignant satire in its entirety here?  Perhaps not.  But the decision has been made and I stand by it.  Besides, at this point in the evening I find myself shivering through multiple back-to-back cigarettes while watching the sun go down from the top deck.  Then I realize the buried mysteries of my backpack would do me no good tonight, and the only means by which my possessions can aid me against the cold bite of an ocean-going evening would be if I promptly smoked my entire pack of cigarettes as a prelude to lighting myself on fire.  It’s a two-pronged attack: first, fire is warm; second, fire consumes nerve endings, which would be causing me to feel chilly and uncomfortable in the first place.  Win-win.  My senses then return to me briefly so that I might reconsider my self-immolation in flames and mull over other options that would not result in my untimely death.  Beers are a great assistance in times of need, but at my current level of intoxication I would soon be locked in mortal battle between passing out and going broke.  I need an alternative.

            I wander aimlessly up and down the endless decks in a half-drunken giddy, but the best alternatives I can find are a movie theatre playing the latest Will Smith epic and a room full of half-assed video games.  I stall on a decision by walking more, grabbing another beer, and once again wandering the upper deck, smoking a cigarette, and staring out at the endless ocean.  I scan the area persistently for mermaids, giant squids, the Loch Ness monster, Poseidon, and travelers of the female persuasion whose similar aimless wanderings have brought them to this place, at this time.  Alas, all of these dubious creatures elude me, robbing me of a far more interesting evening than the one I seem destined to experience.  I pull in one last drag, sigh, and resign myself to a movie, just to kill an hour or two until the bar picks up.

            I mosey down two floors of the ship and reach the cinema just in time to hear the ticket-taker tell the people in front of me that the projector isn’t working.  Hmm…fate saving me, or tormenting me further?  I swing up to the video games but can only entertain myself there briefly.  It all leads me back to the bar, another beer, and a further cigarette on the top deck watching the sun go down.  It is beautiful, in fact, and there are very few people up top to enjoy it with me, as the air has turned quite chilly in the last hour.  It mellows me quickly, and the view of time changing palpably as the sun disappears combines with the alcohol in my blood and the smoke in my lungs to bring the shortness of life to the forefront of my mind.  I sense the temporary.  I can sense my own death approaching in the distance.  And I feel alright about it all.

            I take my stoic ass back inside, and as I enter the bar there are two musicians playing acoustic guitars.  Smiling involuntarily, I order a beer with a mindlessness approaching instinct or reflex.  I sit up front and lean back in the chair with my beer close by and forget about all the things that led up to this.  For all my attempts to fashion and mold my evening and life into something I imagine it should be, the result comes out very differently…but equally good, or better.  The duo breaks into a rendition of Jim Croce’s “Car Wash Blues” and I drift into thought…

            I often think of life as an endless river flowing through a canyon that is far too steep to be climbed.  There are infinite bays and coves and places to explore along the river, but ultimately you must put yourself at the whim of the river in order to find new places.  That is to say you cannot just start hiking overland.  So, you must jump into the merciless flow and, when a desirable stopping point is found, you must paddle tirelessly to reach it.  But the desired cove may not be attainable due to local rapids or high water discharge, or the cove that seemed full of promise from a distance may really only trap you in a barren land of brush and stinging nettles, waiting for another opportunity to float in search of better locales.  The river is my metaphor for how we each control our own destinies, but only to a point, and how we must choose carefully between fighting like hell to reach the coves of our choosing, and when it may simply be better to let the river take us to a wonderful place we never knew we wanted…

            Of course, the night ends shortly thereafter, with the bar closing at 10pm, robbing me of the right to get shit-eating drunk and pass out in the inappropriate location of my choice.  Instead, I crash between the aforementioned 11-Euro chairs (between, because the chairs don’t recline properly), which apparently no longer cost anything, with my shoes as pillows and not nearly enough alcohol in my system to make it acceptable.  This will have to suffice as my cove for the night, stinging nettles and all.

Swimming lessons begin again tomorrow, bright and early.

            “May you get what you want” –Old Gypsy Curse-

The proceedings are already underway: Senate makeup: Brain Party (BP): 50 members; Penis and Testicles Coalition Party (PTCP): 50 members 

Split decisions fall on the Vice President as the deciding vote. The current VP is a member of the PTCP, but is a moderate and known to only side with his own party when his own current and specific interests are at stake.  The President, on the other hand, is a strong proponent of the PTCP platform, and will quickly sign into law any bill passed by his party.

VP: “Ladies and gentlemen of the Senate, please, let’s have order.  We are here to debate the bill before us: SR1948C, more popularly known as the “should we hook up with this random girl at a party” bill.  This bill is urgent, as any extended debate will limit the possibility of carrying out the recommended measures.  I open it up to the floor.”

Announcer: “The floor recognizes the Senator from the right testicle, member of the PTCP (PTCP-RT).” 

PTCP-RT: “Thank you, good sir.  It is clear what must be done here and the fine people of the Senate know it.  This is a fine party we have attended as a united body, with many available alcoholic beverages and many fine young females, which, if I may be so bold, could be described as ‘bootylicious’.  We have consumed several drinks, both of the beer and ‘jungle juice’ variety, and now this fine young woman has taken an interest in us.  It is clear to us all what must be done for the good of the United Body Parts of Male.  We must take advantage of this wonderful opportunity before us, because life is for the living, and none of us knows how long any of us will have.  Surely, we should enjoy our lives and experience all we can.  That is all I have to add, thank you all.” 

Announcer: “The floor recognizes the Senator from the frontal lobe, member of the BP (BP-FL) 

BP-FL: “Thank you, gentleman speaker.  Despite what my esteemed colleague from the other side of the aisle may say, this action is not in our best interests.  It is clear that this fleeting moment of pleasure, no matter how wonderful, is laced with intrinsic dangers.  First, we know nothing of this girl other than her physical appearance; there are clear possibilities for future troubles involving disease, pregnancy, angry boyfriends/husbands, stalking, and fierce rumors that could cost us future endeavors of greater value both in career, love and our own mental integrity.  Furthermore, our time could be better spent in creative pursuits, business pursuits, friendships, etc., all of which will be increased by an early turn-in to bed and a bright and non-hangover related next day.  Thank you for your time and vote against this heinous proposition.” 

Announcer: “The floor recognizes the senator from the vas deferens, member of the PTCP party (PTCP-VD)” 

PTCP-VD:  “Thank you honorable speaker.  I’d like to digress a moment here to find common ground with my great colleagues from the Brain Party.  Time is of the essence, this is true, but we must find a way to meet on common ground here, or no one wins.  I think we should take a minute to dance a little, talk to the girl a bit more, and perhaps have another drink or two.  I think the Senators representing the brain can agree that such a sexual encounter as this is not only beneficial for those of us from the penis and testicle region, but that the brain, too, experiences immeasurable benefits in terms of an ego boost and the feeling of attractiveness that often follows approval by the opposite sex.  Why must we always focus on the negative aspects for the brain?  I would argue that the brain benefits at least as much as we do.  Just think about the enjoyment that will come from the bragging rights one will have with one’s friends both present and future.  These are all points to consider, and while you do, please enjoy another fine shot of tequila.  Thank you for your time.” 

Announcer: “The floor recognizes the Senator from the cerebral cortex, Senate leader for the BP (BP-CC).” 

BP-CC: “Friends, countrymen, hormones!  Can’t you see what they are trying to do to you?!  They are feeding you drinks and kind words, trying to get you to dance and loosen up, but only for their own gain!  Bragging rights with a bunch of rogue bodies whose governments are run by majorities of their kind is not worth this risk!  Our electorate deserves better!  Do not be mislead!  Our ego is stronger than this and does not require such absurd means of validation.  Stand with us and we will lead you to greater things ultimately!” 

Announcer: “The floor recognizes the Senator from the penis, Senate leader for the PTCP (PTCP-P).” 

PTCP-P: “Thank you speaker.  Let me speak freely.  This is not just about my own pleasure.  We all know that the interests of the body politic come with the satisfaction of each of its parts.  Along this line of thinking it seems relevant to mention the one-year hiatus this body has taken from events of sexual congress.  Meanwhile, the brain continues to read all it wants, enjoy drugs and alcohol freely, watch movies and other forms of entertainment at free will, and bathes in the pleasure neurotransmitters that all parts of the body provide for it.  What we ask is hardly selfish, especially considering that the brain receives pleasure from this as well.  Must we continue to be subservient to this pleasure despot?  Please vote affirmative before it is too late and once again this opportunity walks away.  Also, have another drink.  Thank you.” 

Announcer: “And last for the debate, please welcome the Senator from the hypothalamus, member of the Brain Party (BP-HT).” 

BP-HT: (approaches podium with plastic cup of jungle juice, which he frequently spills along the way creating a trail of fruity goodness) “Ladieeees and gentleman, I could…uh, debate this thing all night and shit but, let’s face it, she’s got great titties, whoo-hoo!  Let’s get neeeked! Party!!!” (he promptly spills the remaining jungle juice over his head and charges back to the PTCP table to get more, screaming incoherently) 

Announcer: “Let’s place the vote.” 

Time passes, much grumbling is heard from the BP side, yells of “traitor!” are directed in the hypothalamus’s direction, and then the votes are in. 

Announcer: “It appears we have a 51-24 victory for the PTCP as several Senators from the BP have passed out and abstained from voting.  Besides, they have now cranked “The Blarney Stone” by Ween to top volume and it’s time to party.  Senate adjourned.”

Or so it goes.  Though I assure you at times the Brain Party does win out.  I swear.  No really, it happens. 

“You don’t say!” I exclaimed, fashionably drooling in an effort to attract the many members of the opposite sex hovering about my general vicinity, “And here I thought that was one of George Carlin’s seven words you can’t say on television!”  Twat.  I was informed that I was actually thinking of the colorful single-meaning ‘twat’, and not the rather un-enjoyable half-whispered (perhaps due to its origin of being whispered between seventh-grade males in English class) multiple-meaning ‘bush’ that I had often considered far more crude in common parlance.  Twat vs. Bush?  A crime…sheer crime.  Bloody FCC.

But then I knew what must happen in this state of affairs: someone as blissfully unaware of the state of things as me, either because of or in spite of their frequent consumption of legal drugs, must be located by these reporters and answer this question…

Reporter: “Sir, sir, excuse me!  Can I ask you a question about today’s election?”

Random Yee-hoo: “Uh, election?  Yeah, sure, but I have only 15 minutes left in happy hour…”

Reporter:  “Sir, would you say that the so-called ‘Bush factor’ played a large role in your voting decisions today?”

Tipsy McStagger: “Ah…the ‘Bush’ factor you say?  Hmmm…yeah, that’s a good question, well, come to think of it, there really isn’t anything I decide on that doesn’t take into consideration the effect of bush of me, or of me on bush.”

Reporter: “Would you say that is something new to this election cycle, or did you have similar considerations in 2004 and before?”

Vomitus Expelliamus: “Hmmm, probably all of the time back to around 1989 when I turned 14 years old, from then on I would say my decisions in life have taken the bush factor into high consideration, it become a priority in fact, in most areas of my existence.”

Reporter: “Hmmm, yes, well, so you are saying that you even consider the first Bush in your considerations?  Wow, even at fourteen you were that interested in politics, prior to voting I mean, very inspirational.”

Hugh Janis: “Well, I suppose I do consider the first bush, in the sense that it became a motivational factor in pursuing all the bushes since, though truly that wasn’t until I was closer to eighteen…eh, such is the way of things.”

Reporter: “So, as you say, you ‘pursued’ the Bushes?  Were you a supporter of the current President even before he was governor?  And would you support future Bushes in their pursuit of political offices?”

Jimmy ‘Strap on that Jammy’ Pac: “President?  Governor?  I don’t know about all that, but I certainly consider bush when I choose where to drink, to travel, to breath, really…I hope that answers your question.  Now I’ve got to go!  Pabst are only 50 cents a mug for another ten minutes!”

Reporter: “So there you have it, a truly devoted politically-minded member of the populace.  I think we can all take a lesson from such an upstanding citizen and…and…{head explodes} 

And so concludes this idea, flawed as it may be.

In the end, one can only conclude that election night has never been so much fun since one could ask another in all seriousness, “would you Dukakis?” 

Oh yes, presidential sexual humor…truly what sets us apart.

Wait… President Twat?  Anaximander Ulysses Twat?  He’s got my vote.

Professor Shortpants

Gamblor the Almighty

Didi the Frazzled Misogynist

Tybalt the Not Stolen from a More Famous Play

Umbro the Nonexistent

Deus Ex Machina the Conveniently Convenient

Stan

Act I: Scene I

Frozen food section of the local Wal-Mart

(In this scene Professor Shortpants and Didi the Frazzled Misogynist, recently married, are shopping for chocolate and diapers, not necessarily to be used together)

Professor Shortpants: “I say we simply get one of each product and combine them in the blender to find which will produce desirable taste-combinations.”

Didi the Frazzled Misogynist: “I don’t see why we would want to do that, besides, don’t you realize that I can hardly look at diapers while the seething hatred of women I carry could boil over my carefully controlled exterior at any moment, without warning?!”

Prof. SP: “Yes, but…you are a woman Didi…”

Didi the FM: “True, but the playwright wrote me in to be a misogynist without really thinking about how that would affect our consequent relationship.  Not my fault really, as I also happen to be Frazzled with a capital F.”

Prof. SP: “Well, I received no such moniker, so count yourself lucky, but I suppose the title of Professor will have to suffice.”

Stan: “How the hell do you think I feel?”

(Gamblor the Almighty intervenes into the scene through means unknown and introduces Tybalt to the scene)

Tybalt (wielding sword): “What troubles hath thou causeth me now, Oh Almighty Gamblor?  Hath I not served thee well with my constant lamentations…and such? (spys the others ogling the diaper section and points his sword in their direction) What enemies hath thou placed in my path to challenge me?  Do not make me speaketh in this dialect longer or poketh you with my sword and such related antics!”

(A conflict threatens to break out, but at the last moment Deus Ex Machina the Conveniently Convenient appears brandishing booze and marijuana)

Prof. SP: “Ah!  Deus Ex Machina!  How convenient of you to appear at this crucial moment!

Deus Ex Machina: “Let’s Party Down!!!” (‘Rock me Amadeus’ then cranks up and the characters all consume substances and engage in frivolous conversation until the curtain falls)

Act I: Scene II

Somewhere in the panhandle of Oklahoma

(The characters have found themselves transported through space as they pass out from the previous night’s intoxications, and now find themselves in a random field in OK.  It has yet to be determined whether movement in time has also occurred, or whether these two movements are in fact different.  They continue to consume the supplies left from the previous evening while reading definitions from a dictionary.  Stan walks around in search of an Arby’s, or at least a gas station currently offering sales of hot dogs for 49 cents, or, even better, two for a dollar)

Professor Shortpants: “Ok, ok, do ‘time’ now.”

Gamblor: “ahem…ok, ‘duration regarded as an aspect of the present life as distinct from the life to come or from eternity; finite duration.’”

Tybalt: “Huh?  What the hell does that mean?”

Prof. SP: “Dude, where’d your accent go?”

Tybalt: “Uh…well…eth…”

Deus Ex Machina: “Uh, it must have been the bending of the space fabric…it uh, changed his…accent…?”

Prof. SP: “That’s good enough for me.”

Gamblor: “This one’s good: ‘One of the three dramatic unities.’”

Prof. SP: “Serious?  Ok, do ‘space.’”

Gamblor: “Right…yeah, ‘the unlimited three-dimensional realm or expanse in which all material objects are located and all events occur.’”

Prof. SP: “Good one.”

Tybalt: “This sucks, look up ‘blowjob’.”

Prof SP: “You need a definition for that?”

Tybalt: “C’mon, I’m from the 17^th century, give me a break.”

Stan (enters holding two hotdogs): “I can’t help but notice this scene is really going nowhere.”

Prof. SP: “Yeah, you’re right, let’s go work for a playwright with a clue.”

Tybalt: “I’m gonna get a role with full-frontal nudity!”

Stan: “Good for you!  You shoot for the ceiling, you hit the…uh, well…”

Deus Ex Machina (interrupting quickly): “Gentlemen, gentlemen, isn’t there something I could do to aid the progression of this play?”

Prof. SP: “Nah, really it’s been done already, here (tosses dictionary to Deus EM), look yourself up!”

Act I: Scene III

(A mysterious individual floats in a limited super-dimensional realm where some material objects are located and very few events occur)

Umbro the Nonexistent: “Man, that dictionary was full of shit.”

            It all started a couple of years ago.  Maybe I noticed the first one, or maybe it wasn’t until the group had grown that the oddity became perceptible.  One day, with no explanation at all, and on no particular date that anyone can now possibly recall, one young man, an early twenty-something local, picked up a broom and starting walking randomly about the town.  In the beginning, I imagine he was only spotted sporadically, leading those that observed him to simply assume that some guy was innocently, and purposefully, carrying his broom from one location to another.  Perhaps some spring cleaning, perhaps loaning it to a friend, hell, a good son sweeping up his mama’s place.  “Nothing to see here,” Jimmy ‘Less Than Three Standard Deviations From The Mean’ would say, “let’s pull over and grab some high-octane fuel and some food in equally high-octane packaging at a store with a name consisting of two verbs spelled phonetically in an annoying and creative manner, which are broken up by an “and” altered in the only manner known to humankind, i.e., the now infamous ‘n’.”

            It continued perpetually, days became weeks, weeks became months, and, more importantly, one became two became three.  Three young men, with no apparent source of social cohesion, walking about the town, each carrying their own personal sweeping device.  Sometime around the third month an article appeared in the local Manfringinsonton City Bugle:  An interview with the Crypt-Sweepers, with the ringleader, Bryant Spleen, offering his take.

            “Well, we’d heard many local authorities, both in this town and elsewhere, communities both small and large, comment that we ‘need to clean up the streets’.  So, we decided to take it as our own personal responsibility.”

            A bland and safe answer, a politician in the making, perhaps?  Or was there something more sinister at work here?  We would never know, as the article continued on that way without significantly deviating from the initial facade.  Journalists once again asking the hard-hitting questions from which society craves answers.

            Case in point: for all this time I’ve never once seen any of the “Crypt-Sweepers” actually use their brooms.  Excepting, of course, their occasional Jedi light saber fight pantomimes, and frequently they are seen shaking them over their heads to scare local children and elderly.  Furthermore, the only time they have ever set foot near crypts is when they trade in their brooms for tumblers of Jack Daniels.

            After the article, there was little said for some time, but the group continued to grow.  One day they began to wear the same attire as well.  Specifically, they created matching blue leather jackets with the “Crypt-Sweepers^tm” official emblem on the back: a poorly designed effigy of a half-rotten lich or skeleton (quite possibly based in a very plagiaristic manner on the old Bozo the Clown face), also wearing said jacket, in tatters of course (as rotting would surely affect the quality blue leather), and diligently sweeping up the dust and spiders and whatnot around the crypt, as any good undead janitor should.

            So, by this time, rain or shine, throughout the daylight hours and often well into the night, these apparently unemployed shiftless young men traipsed about the town wielding brooms and leather jackets that frightened the elderly and easily excitable yuppies with their semblance to some local Hell’s Angels facsimile.  How did they do it?  Who supported them?  Did they have far more members who alternated between their regular jobs and their shifts ‘keeping the streets clean’?

            However, long before such questions could reach conclusive answers, our simple town conjured up yet another peculiarity.  Not as unique as the original strangeness, but somehow all the more bizarre because of its perceptibly repetitive nature, and the evident lack of foresight, at least on the part of the individual who christened their name: The Sucking Decedent.  Oh yeah, a whole lot of vocabulary amongst these gents, walking thesauruses, really…and yet, they somehow missed the double meaning of the word ‘sucking’ in today’s parlance.  Yes, that’s ‘double meaning’, as the whole gang, equal in size and demeanor to their predecessors, walked around town carrying VACUUMS.  Indeed, from dust-busters on up to the large industrial wet-dry vacs.

            Perhaps this was not an oversight, perhaps it was a play on themselves or, certainly, on the other gang.  This assertion was further strengthened by their growing rivalry with the Crypt-Sweepers.  And, though second in chronology, they grappled for power on an equal footing given their ability to instill fear in the populace by revving up the vacuum motors.  This clearly had its own downside, taking into account that the conveyors of larger appliances had to stop and find a plug end before the terrorizing could begin.  Meanwhile, the holders of dust busters had to buy them time and disregard their own feelings of inadequacy at wielding such a weapon, on par with men of medieval times incapable of handling the cumbersome two-handed broadswords, parrying with invaders using a wooden pole or some such feeble instrument, until the knights could lumber up with their excessive armor intact and repel the assailants.

            But then, that was long ago, nowadays only the legends remain.  It is written that in the ides of march, on a crisp spring evening, with the moon in the phase of waxing gibbous, the two squads met, armed to the teeth with sanitary tools.  The screams were heard three towns over, and many of the old folk still swear that “the will-o-wisps lured them to the swamps and carried off their foul souls”.  The truth, of course, is indisputably more complicated than that.  Asked for comment, the local will-o-wisps claimed, flashing their lights in morse code, that they had nothing to do with the incident, and were, in fact, doing their laundry and watching reruns of ‘COPS’ at the time of the alleged wrongdoing.

The real cause of their disappearance may never be known, but in due respect, the townspeople have designated March 15^th the official spring cleaning day, and all the locals get together their brooms, vacuums, dustpans, and the occasional Roomba^tm, and drink themselves stupid, in preparation for St. Patrick’s Day as much as in reverence for the departed gangs.  It’s during these celebrations, in particular after several bottles of Canadian Hunter whiskey, that my mop appears to me like an apparition of ancestral tidings.  I consider donning the jacket long since hidden away in my utility closet, and carrying on the lost arts of the Janitore people of ancient Mongolia, the bloodline of myself and much of the genetic pool of our beloved town.  Then, as it does every year, my atavistic senses fade away, I lock the utility closet for another year, and I pass out watching midget porn.