Sometimes a person must accept that a life worth living does not primarily consist of flinging feces across the room at an undeserving third party (counting said person, feces, and recipient of said feces). Sometimes compromises must be made! Sometimes a person must abstain from flinging feces, regardless of whether or not it’s their feces to fling. Understanding this simple fact can save a lot of embarrassment and undesired odors over the course of a lifetime (in captivity). I’m not saying that a little feces flying through the air here and there will kill anybody, and, let’s face it, people will succumb to their weaknesses from time to time.
I’ve got six or seven reasons not to pursue legal action, but there’s really nothing stopping me anyway. It’s not that I want to exact revenge upon an unworthy opponent, even though that’s exactly my intent. It’s just that I’ve grown so tired of these people in this world pretending to be the boss when they can’t even figure out how to properly floss their teeth. If I need to select an unlucky recipient of my random righteous fit, then so be it. I’ll go ahead and flip through the phone book. John Mendoza. Did his name really have to be John? I mean, of all people, why would I pick someone with such a typical first name? If I’m going to make somebody regret that they even met me, I want to at least make sure that the history books show a Ralph or a Denis or even a Lucian for Christ’s sake. I don’t really care if it’s a family name, or even if it’s something his parents saw on a billboard on the way to the hospital. I just want it to be classy. I mean, it’s my arbitrary lawsuit, so I can conduct this business any way I want. And I know what you’re thinking: why not sue a woman? I did briefly entertain the notion of suing a woman named Sue, but I’d have no way to know for sure that she doesn’t actually prefer being called Susan or Susy or even Sue Ellen. Once I took all that new information into account, I’d already begun to flip through the white pages for a name at random.
As I (as we all) pretend to do backflips
on the cold summer tarmac, I
(mustn’t the rest of us?) never confront my fears
until presented with Yogi Bear vitamin gummies
shaped like Boo-Boo and picnic baskets
in four assorted colors (though they all taste the same).
I had a friend one time who insisted that each color
had a unique flavor profile just based upon
the way light reflected off its surface–
I no longer consider that person to be my friend.
Well, as long as I say I’m in the running, nobody has to know that I haven’t even picked up my legs since the fourth grade. If I’m truly in. The Running. I won’t have to justify myself to these silly peoples for any longer than I have to, now will I? No, not at all. I’ll be in that running while they’re all just running scared (though they don’t necessarily have to be running either). You know, I’d like to think that this whole time in the running has been an educational one, but I’d just be fooling myself. I’ve become too wrapped up in all those surface matters that certainly don’t matter much to anyone aside from those Nielsen executives who could use better ratings for their 7:30-8PM EST slot on Wednesday nights. It seems as though the nasal-voiced smarmy millennial girls just don’t have the same impact they did a few seasons ago, so we have to come up with an alternative (yet equally vapid) stereotype to exploit for the entertainment of millions of Americans who tune in just because it’s something to do at night. Heaven forbid they expand their horizons at all (what horizons?) before they crap out and dream about having their throw pillows stolen by Barack (Hussein) Obama.