It would appear as though I’m getting somewhat flummoxed at the disregarding chagrin our elders heap upon us one at a time by the out-turned burlap sackful as we billowing travelers have nothing better to do than adjust our expectations and run with the idiocy. Lack of a better option? More likely a surplus of crippling anxiety and sneaking suspicion that this generation is going to die out soon enough anyway, so why engage with them at all when we could be pursuing our own noble causes and callings?
so you’re saying that they’ve been indoctrinating their families and offspring into the cult of reaction, that distinct line of cash grabs formed out of boredom and greed by the people just smart enough to get how the whole system works but also evil enough to profit unscrupulously from it?
So I can’t just sit back and tend my garden of unconcern? Friggin’ bummer, man.
Incentivized Dingle-Doos have long awaited their time in the sun, enduring hardships inconceivable to the average consumer product. The first problem presented itself when the naming committee notoriously skipped their meeting and all mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again. It’s odd when seven people all simultaneously vanish off the face of the planet–their only earthly connection a superficial marketing gig–as though they’d all played hooky to go out on a spontaneous committee-planned ice fishing trip, subsequently sinking beneath the ice due to the sheer quantity of seething boredom localized within a single shanty. But nah, they all individually had bizarre tragedies befall them just in time to miss the fateful meeting that would undoubtedly lead a promising product prospect down the road to obscurity. The money people, being the beancounters that they are, decided it would be best to stick the interns with the project while they frantically worked up ways to acquire new creatives as cheaply as possible. And thus they landed at Incentivized Dingle-Doos, apparently satisfied with the subpar effort. What did this poor amenity of modern life ever do to these people–these SCABS?! Nothing! That’s at least what the shareholders thought when their stock prices plummeted over the successive fiscal quarter.
Denominative integers willingly defy the overall forcefulness by which we enter life, that succulent foe of knowing all things on a benevolent basis–at least from our pseudointellectual standpoint here on earth. We monkeys, swept from trees to town squares in a seemingly-overnight fashion, gave nobody any time to appropriately enter our problematic pituitary case into the annals of the intergalactic community. Our brash attempt to circumvent the necessary bureaucratic process–filling out the appropriate paperwork, having it notarized, sending it to local legislators and mailing one of 13 official public access stations for broadcast–demonstrates the jury-rigging, bootstrapping mentality that may have endeared us to our own species, yet alienates everybody else. When you apply simple rules to us, we seem to be inclined toward throwing tantrums. You know as well as I that our current behavior won’t fly with the more-evolved entities out there. If conducted efficiently, the contact broadcast process would be complete within a business week. So now, the more time we waste without adhering to measured standards, the more likely we are to fall altogether as a global community. Our “home” planet will slough us off before too long, tired of the countless indignities suffered at the hands of fools.
Sneaky Patrickia–that madder-hatted individual with the gallstones to match their acerbic wit–had no idea what kind of hoop-jumping routine would be required of them for this year’s science fair project. The looming deadline seemed to sneak right up–same as always–in the shower, that pang of guilt just a blink before rinsing the caustic excuse for a shampoo out of their hair. Only around science fair time does Sneaky Patrickia feel they’re getting the uniquely invigorating scalp treatment extolled by the well-crafted copy on the back of their trusty shampoo brand. No other prickly nervous sensation has consistently proven to facilitate scalp exfoliation in quite the same way.
Maybe this year old Sneaky P. would finally put in the time necessary to derive the evidence that could back up their hypothesis of shower-based cold sweats exponentially increasing the accuracy of the semi-outrageous claims found on the backs of popular scalp-purifying shampoo bottles.
Maybe. But more than likely, as borne out by the results of P’s 142 previous science fairs, it would end up being some diorama about a vertebral circulatory system (bovine, ovine, simian, you name it). Our ageless friend very much enjoys detailing mammalian blood flow concerns, at the expense of variety.
She came on through, a skirted blanket with banquet stains galore and more than her fair share of Ogden memorabilia to her name.
It would pain her to see the overworld mantra being abused so unabashedly, “be your own friend” repeated ad infinitum by a guy who really doesn’t understand “that whole mantra thing,” (his words), aside from what he deems most obvious: short phrases that are fun to mutter over and over again. He’ll be the first to tell you that he’s more a fan of the exercise’s soothing qualities than anything else; doesn’t see how he could possibly transcend the mortal coil and commune with the force that led him to occupy that particular sentient meat vessel in the first place.
Oh well, his loss.
Less-than-adventurous timebending intricacies (transcending our 3D simian roots) twiddle thumbs like the activity could possibly go out of style, were it not for these beings’ innate knowledge that thumb twiddling is the #1 commonality between all of the highest orders of primates (at least throughout all natural phases of thumb functionality as they occur along their respective evolutionary arcs).
All of this just goes to show that you shouldn’t leave an enthusiastic philosopher with nothing but the clothes on their back and a few days to kill. Without the assistance of distracting stimuli, they will inevitably be enveloped in an endless cycle of boredom and batty hypotheses, recklessly abandoning the true reason why they’ve been put here: figuring out how to better configure a universal remote for Todd’s new hi-fi setup. It’s been a real bitch and a half.
Charming, as they would usually say. No, not “they” as in those gum-toed nutjobs who always go around making their piddly business the front page news for the neighborhood. I’m referring to the more discerning whackadoodles. You know the ones, the jobbers who really grind your corkscrews. They just get your goat so profoundly that it becomes insanely difficult to express your displeasure with standard colloquialisms.
Stormy in-beveraged descrutinizers wallow merrily, filthier than the average pear, sleazier than a locomotive (though we never quite figured out just how sleazy a locomotive could be until we took a cross-country trip by rail–what a lovely jaunt that was, a trek for the ages; we ate cheese and discussed crouton dissection techniques).
Blorn out and hungstraddled, a ginger poof of plume-riveted magic lit its last-ever candle with no background fanfare whatsoever. Nobody gave it a second thought, save the ghost of the mouse that got crushed in the grate while it was only trying to scurry on along, minding its own business. But the rodent business ain’t as lucrative as it used to be, friend. I should know, I read it in a book at some point. I’m a regular Reading Rainbow enthusiast. Ain’t you heard? Damn.