A Chapter From My New Book, Entitled, "Sliced Bread and Menopausal Chickens: What Every Parent Needs to Know"

Chapter 99

I thought 2:00 pm would be a good time to visit the local Mammoth superstore, but apparently, mostly old fucks come out here at this time of day.  They're everywhere.  It must be free napkin and jelly packet day.  Three and four wide up ahead and I'm headed against the tide.  Wait, one just came around aisle three.  Now it's five people.  I'm about to get run over.   Can't you people stay to the right?  It's a social contract that only I obey.  As per usual, I have to adjust my behavior to others.  So, I slide even farther to the right.  

There's what I presume to be a fossilized American tailing me.  I slow down.  He slows down.  I stumble to the right.  He follows.  He's much too close.  Why is he following me?  Asshole.  If I walked faster I bet I could lose him.  I'd like to give him a push and take off running down aisle four.  Then a quick right at the frozen pizzas.  He'll never catch up.

Instead I decide to make a crashing halt at the eggs.  I fold my arms, then I put my hand up to my chin and stroke it, as though I have a goatee and the eggs are a big fucking decision.  Should I get the grade A large eggs?  Should I save a few cents and get some grade C eggs?

All the eggs are grade A so it's not even a choice.  Nothing but exemplary test results from these chickens.  They must have been raised on a free-range farm.  A free-range farm means the chickens can walk all day and contemplate life, the universe, and everything.  Sort of like my day except that I don't have an egg quota.  I imagine it goes something like this:

Classical music is played for the chickens as they dine on chicken feed with white wine.  Later they are each offered a delicious desert.  Then, many of them retire to the smoking room whereupon they regale one another with stories of the day's conquests.  Challenges met, competitors bested.  A smaller number have reached menopause and they no longer produce eggs.  These chickens are sent to the slaughterhouse, where their heads are chopped off and they are sold for meat.

The fossilized American stopped at the eggs too.  What the hell?  I guess that plan didn't work.  I dart to the left and lose him.

Led Zeppelin is Stupid and Sucky

I've decided that they aren't that good and don't deserve this multi-decade long orgasmic hype-a-thon.  Sure, they seemed new at the time, I suppose, and that was good enough, since the world was fresh off Elvis and Robert Plant simply did the next logical thing, which was to not wear pants.  Big deal.

Stairway to Heaven is a shitty song filled with dumb platitudes and metaphors that would embarrass even the most pedestrian stoner, is repetitively annoying with all of the 'wondering,' and clocks in at 20 minutes.  'Free Bird' seems too short by comparison.

"When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed.  With a word she can get what she came for."

"Come back later when we're open, bitch."
"Uhh."
"Oh, sorry, you're the lady that buys stairways to heaven.  Why didn't you say so?"

I just hope they dug down at least six feet and poured a proper footing to get below the frost line so the large staircase doesn't heave in the springtime.  I know, I know.  I'm being too literal.  This bitch is actually paying off the local religious authorities in return for a guaranteed front-row blanket at Jesus' annual picnic.  I get it.

"There's a feeling I get when I look to the west."

I get all emotional when looking to the south south west.  I know how you feel.

"Ooh, it makes me wonder, Ooh, it really makes me wonder."

I wonder why I spent $9.99 on iTunes for this album.  It was this, Meat Loaf, or the Never Ending Story.  Then I learned that the Never Ending Story does, in fact, have an ending and Meat Loaf doesn't collapse at the end of the his album in a sweaty, cardiac episode.  So I got Led Zeppelin.

"Then the piper will lead us to reason. And a new day will dawn for those who stand long ."

A guy in green yoga pants will enlighten us?  Has anyone seen a piper lately?  Is that the same thing as Peter Pan?  'Dawn' rhymes with 'long.'  The sentence is clever because they are standing.  I get that too.  It's not a 'new day' I long for but a fucking chair.  This job has no benefits, shit pay, and I have to stand all fucking day long.  Go to Hell.

"If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now, It's just a spring clean for the May queen. Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run there's still time to change the road you're on. And it makes me wonder."

Ten minutes in so far.  Total gibberish.  Still wondering about Meat Loaf.  'May Queen' must be a mistake.  They were talking about cleaning, so it must be 'Speed Queen,' a washing machine.  Fucking hippies don't do laundry regularly so that must be it.  Dirty, fucking hippies.  Another ten minutes to go.

"The piper's calling you to join him .."

More shit from the mythological piper.  Fuck off already.

"Our shadows taller than our soul."

He's obviously quite high at this point.  A soul has no dimensions.

"The tune will come to you at last. When all are one and one is all. To be a rock and not to roll."

The song doesn't end when it ends?  Great.  I wish this song was a food so I could make myself gag and throw it up.  I wish I had a Rolling Stones truck thing to haul it away to the dump, because it's so long it won't fit in my Malibu.  I wish I was wrapped up like a douche so I couldn't hear it.

By the way, most rocks don't roll very well unless they have substantial momentum, asshole.

A Day

From the Abigail DuPont historical archives.  I asked her the simple question, "What's your story?"  This is the reply I received.  This was a long time ago.  Just short of forever.  Substantially more than a while ago.  Do you remember those days?

You were still fucking that one chick.  That first chick in the series of unsuitable companions you sought out.  Or, to be gender neutral - that one guy.  That first guy in the series of losers who took advantage of you and used you as a sex object.

The second person form of writing is under-rated.  It's the only way I know of to heap abuse and scorn on my readers.

From: Abigail DuPont
To: Stephen Thornhill
Subject: What's my story 

The waning of moods is a strange thing. To start a day in serenity, quickly diminishing to a livid disposition of utter abhorrence for my own species, to then dive into an abyss of melancholy for the continuing daylight hours, only to find myself lying on the lawn beneath the stars, laughing as cars passes by. 

A day. 

I wake into a blissful half sleep, my attentions yet unwavering from the soft images persisting from my dreams - and for a short point in the day, I exist in ideal serenity. Beside me my allegiant companion, a cat. He is still sleeping, where he remains until I begin the ritual of leaving - where upon he sits on the sink and watches me brush me teeth. 

I look over the rooftops from the bath window, observe squirrels balancing along the power-lines and bantam clouds resting on the skyline. 

A day, comprised of invasive interactions and compulsory admonitions of human invalidity. Closing the window, I position my intangible bequest of splendor within a quieter part of my mind, descend the stairs, and make for the door. 

An articulation of a day, the waning of moods - more plentiful in the dead of winter, as the cold alone exposes any misconstrued ideologies associated with its striking and exquisite landscape, upon stepping out the door. And retrospect sets in. 

Fall exposes the individual as well, but in a rather ruthless manner. The fall assaults the senses with an isolating cold akin to winter, then pulls you out to be revealed beneath her lavish colors, for the sake of seizing a transitory warm day. We are forced to see the peak of fruition before death, and to appreciate an intensity that exists on the brink of a gray and lifeless obscurity. 

The conscious or unconscious understanding of this apogee drives me out of doors, if for nothing more than to stare at a damn tree, to watch a handful of leaves fall. I know the leaves will continue to fall in my sleep, and when I wake, my handful of leaves is buried beneath the multitude lane to rest by a brisk gloaming breeze. No sooner will I step outside to see the naked limbs, stark against gray for what seems an unbounded and sleepy winter. 

-a

Never Forget

As this weekend grinds to a close, your national media has already told me a thousand times that we must “never forget.” As if. Can't you do better America? Your marketing skills are world class and “never forget” is the best you can do?

“Dude, do you remember what happened on September 11th?”
“Wasn't it something about some planes? I was high all summer.”
“Wikipedia, man.”

In all the “never forgetting” that we're supposed to be doing there's one thing we aren't supposed to be remembering so well. We're supposed to remember it in an abstract sort of way. I'm talking about the group of 200 or so that leapt out of the WTC and landed on the plaza a thousand feet below, or in a pile on the roof of the Marriott, or wherever gravity sought to deposit them.

They've been written out of the screenplay. They've been left out of the final-cut due to America's avoidance of reality, and an already too-long running-time due to the epic nature of the story. Besides, we don't want to remember them too well. Suicides aren't talked about in polite company or the next thing you know, everybody will start doing it – like smoking – and we've made such progress over last couple decades. Incidentally, it's not very well known that the Marlboro man died from gun-in-mouth disease after learning from his doctor that he had terminal lung cancer. Anyway, it's best that we leave the suicide topic to the dark corners of the web, or the peep shows on Youtube.

These people didn't kill themselves, after all, the terrorists murdered them. It's not like they planned to kill themselves that day, we presume. Why such semantics? Is it because suicide is considered an offense to God? A loving God would give them a pass, right? Given all that had transpired that day, he surely wouldn't send them to Hell on a technicality?

What if they pushed each other out of the building? Then, only the last one would have the suicide stain on their resume. Whoops, then each one but the first in line could be classified as a murderer. But that can be forgiven too since they immediately paid for the crime with their lives. As Jesus mumbled to his biographer, while waving one hand dismissively and tossing grapes into his mouth with the other, “An eye for an eye and shit like that.” I can go on heretical, morbid flights of fancy until your vertical scrollbar is a tiny sliver of pixels, but it serves no purpose.

So, I suppose then, that they should have waited for fate to kill them? That's silly too. Given the exigent circumstances of that day, we've collectively decided to give them the benefit of the doubt, at least on paper, that they really had no other choice but to jump, and we've blessed their decision. In this rare example of understanding, we've decided to use ridiculous theological word-play, in the hopes that in an equally ridiculous court date with God, they'll be found not guilty.

What we can be certain of is that we'll never know what horrors they faced and what it was like to walk in their shoes. As suicides go then, that part is fairly standard. But outside of this rare example, we refer to suicides as cowards, or say, “they took the easy way out.” I have an challenge for you:

Let's get ourselves a gun, maybe a Glock or a Ruger, we'll chamber a round, do whatever cocking may be necessary, and flick the safety off. You have to Linda Lovelace the barrel, and hold your finger, or both your thumbs, on the hair trigger for thirty seconds while you evaluate your viewpoint. If you can keep the gun in your pie hole for the entire half minute then I'll write you a check for $500. Or, if you don't like guns, stand on a ledge fifty stories up, look down for that same thirty seconds, and evaluate your viewpoint that way instead. Admittedly, I don't know you very well, but I don't think you'd make it to thirty seconds.

Coward.

I remember September 11th not because I've been told to do so, but because it was the backdrop to an otherwise ordinary night of getting wasted. My girlfriend, Abigail, was at the end of the process of becoming my ex-girlfriend, and most of her stuff was packed away in boxes, ready to be moved out of my house. I ventured out and discovered that all the gas stations were plugged up with fearful idiots, apparently hoping to save ten cents a gallon before the next day's inevitable price hike. I was discouraged to see this, as my tank was all but empty, so I bought a liter of quality vodka and some orange juice. There was no run on liquor stores. Once again, America had it's priorities all fucked up.

We got very drunk that night. I threw up some of my screwdrivers at the foot of an Oak tree in the backyard. Abigail was laying on a hammock on the back porch a few feet away, laughing hysterically as I puked my guts out under that tree. I felt better after puking, went inside, and mixed myself another screwdriver. We talked about the jumpers. We both agreed that there was something beautiful and romantic about the couples that held hands and jumped into the void together.

Abigail died of a self-inflicted gunshot a few years later.

Hire me!

I answered an ad for a job.  They're looking for a 'Rockstar Web Developer.'  So, I replied as such.

I'm not really a rockstar.  Are you really looking for the qualities of arrogance, histrionics, and drug abuse in an employee?  I'm willing to learn.  I believe I could perform those duties as well as programming, but I'll need a fat expense account for the drugs - the cost of those can really add up, especially in the late stages of addiction.  And I'll need to come in late (my clocks are set to PST) on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday mornings.  I won't be in at all on Mondays.  I live less than two miles away.  Therefore, I won't need a car and can take a short bus ride to the office.  This will help me stay loaded all day.  One more requirement (I'm sure you've planned for this) is that I'll need your company to pay for my rehab at a prominent facility in a warm climate on or near the beach. This is negotiable, of course.  I don't care exactly which Pacific coast beach the rehab center is located - that's for Blue Cross to figure out.  Admittedly, after I'm released from rehab the quality of my art will suffer as I desperately try to reclaim my former popularity.  By then my work will be just beneath okay but still solidly mediocre.  That won't happen for a couple years, though.

Justice for Slytherin

It's finally over.  I'm not a Harry Potter hater, because I only saw the first movie, and while I won't go so far to say that it sucked, it was pretty stupid.  The film contained at least two elements that almost ruined it and one which actually did ruin it at the end.

1)  Magic wands.  They are essentially small sticks or twigs - hardly something to be feared.  I've seen cigars that were bigger.  Why not a baseball bat?   I'd run like hell if somebody pointed a baseball bat (especially aluminum) at me.  A chick must have written this book. 

2)  That stupid game.  The game towards the beginning of the flick.  It was basically airborne polo with brooms instead of horses.  Okay, it was stupid enough but it didn't leave me in a rage until they introduced the dumb fucking ball.  Catch the DFB and your team wins no matter what.  The rest of the game is henceforth pointless.  Why not send the entire team out for the DFB?  A chick must have written this book.

3)  Politics.  Slytherin clearly was best-in-breed (in addition to having the best characters) and racked up an impressive points lead by the end of the film.  Then, in a blatant display of cronyism, Dumblecock, Dumbledouche, Dickensdorf, or whatever the fuck his name was, starts handing out points willy-nilly, in flagrant disregard of the rules and the points system.  The reason everybody was gathered in the big hall in the first place was a ceremonial presentation of the trophy.  All of us knew who won.

It's as though the Yankees outscored the Cubs 5-2 in the final game of the World Series, and major league commissioner Jeff Gordon, unilaterally decides that it's "about time" Chicago won one and gives them a free grand slam for, "courage and perseverance," or some abstract thing.

Why there weren't riots in movie theaters across the globe is beyond my ability to understand.

Bieber-Palin Super Collider

I have a new science project idea.  As a country we've decided that it's perfectly okay to spend billions on things like particle accelerators, which are really nothing more than circular tunnels.  But they provide jobs to people who are good at digging circular tunnels, so I guess it benefits the overall economy.  I need to learn how to dig circular tunnels.  People have always said to me, "Everybody is good at something."  Maybe digging circular tunnels is my one shot to fully realize my potential?  I thought it was drinking.  I quit drinking so now I'm left with digging circular tunnels.  I'll keep you informed on the progress of my new career path.

Anyway, I think America would be just as curious to know what happens when Justin Bieber is accelerated near the speed of light and collides with Sarah Palin.  I'm sure scientists can sort through the blood and gut pile and figure out what happened to all the protons, electrons, and quarks.  How hard can it be?

Now that the space shuttle is over and done with, we need a new, national science project to excite little school children's imaginations.  Sarah Palin is a name school children may be unfamiliar with, so we can substitute the Jonas brothers.