(Allegedly) Happy

Rocking around the clock is my commercial mantra (for lack of a better one). It’s got that smarmy hint of entendre without actually going smutty on the reader/recipient of jargon/vernacular–just snarky enough catch on with the younger faux-hipster set, while simultaneously being too naïve for the true hipster set. The thing about hipsters: they are a necessary force for good in this universe, though somewhat impossible to deal with on a regular basis. Even your typical fair-weather hipster will acknowledge this paradox of existence, as they’re (allegedly) happy just to be included in the conversation at all.

Stimplet (Heathen’s Cross)

There's something concerning a something or other (or maybe some nothing) that's legible enough to the incorrigible spunk-o-trons--something of a conundrum waged against the unwashed masses (though how many masses were ever truly washed in the first place?).

Within the marketplace usually resides a stimplet or a heathen's cross, neither typically reserved by your dollar store general, though the most unorthodox practitioners beg to differ with one another at the water coolers (especially when they're not as fond of Jeopardy as they once were (post-Trebek and all)). 

Taking out one's emotional and intellectual aggression may be the only recourse that these folks have at a time like this.
The ritual that "normal" adults traditionally take for granted (the grunting and bellowing and raving to get their animal stirrings out of their systems for the sake of the ol' poke-n-sleep maneuver) is losing its luster. 

Jeopardy-inclined individuals with less of a proclivity for such things must feel the constant torment of boundaries established almost solely due to prior intellect, though the subsequent lack of sexually-transmitted maladies is quite desirable (as the quarterly "gal-up" polls would indicate).

Lightening

The exquisite misfortune of running into such a plucky, unlucky band of stooges (we can get into their whole deal at a later date) seems to have gotten my blood boiling just enough to reach the base camp upon which many valiant knights have trodden, though few have ever reached that precipice and thought “maybe I should turn around while the going is good, no sense in letting my head get too big.” You know, someone whose head inflates to the size of a respectable novelty beach ball isn’t the sort of person who also would have considered bringing a helium tank along for the lightening of average air density within said cranial cavity, rendering him utterly unfeasible for casual rock concert use.

MonkeyMoney®

Who told you the Kerplunketts had more to say about a particular sauce pan or arbitrary bagel strategy than I do? They don’t know a damn thing about honorary ombudsmen or the never-ending sequence one would normally associate with a guerrilla Cruella Deville kinda thing.

But one must not distract from the fact that innumerable steel MonkeyMoney® generators–installed gradually over the course of the past several generations–have only now begun to bear fruit in the way their creators had intended from the start.

It would appear as though our sanctimonious steelsmiths have contrived their “fix” to the public discourse just enough to lull the unthinking masses into a period of deceptive comfort that swiftly comes to a close as the recipients of the easy life (white people) are rudely awoken (but rarely awakened).

Just Gregs

All the glorious Steinham impressions done over the years by various people named Greg (not Gregory, just Greg) have accomplished nothing more than stoking the flames of prejudice.

I’m unsure why it’s just Gregs, to be honest. Craigs have names eerily similar to Gregs, yet they’re never culpable for any of the insane crap that Gregs seemingly can’t stop themselves from doing. Wait a minute, could that mean that Craigs have been longtime instigators of Gregs? Do they commit casual inconsistencies and blame them on the Gregs by default?

What could possibly be the reason here? To find out, I’m interviewing a lifetime Craig who specifically told me one time (over macchiatos) that he hates Gregs’ guts.

Me: Okay, but which Greg do you specifically hate the most?

Craig: Oh no, it’s all of them. I guess I didn’t make myself clear the first time

Me: Ah, that explains the vagueness of your threats.

Craig: Yeah, those “Greg” dudes don’t understand how to handle a true monosyllabic name. They were given a trisyllabic name at birth, and one way or another they managed to bastardize it to the point where you’re left with a foreshortened nub of a name that has no real meaning or context. It’s what you would name your dog, dude.

Me: Damn Craig, you really have some strong feelings about this. Is there anything else you might want to get off your chest at the moment?

Craig: No, that was really just about it. Although I do have somewhat of a bone to pick with balsamic vinegar. Are you sweet? Are you savory? What the hell are you, man?!

Me: Wow, you have some interesting priorities.

Typecast

A palletful of organized criminals has just suffered the worst possible fate imaginable–at least from the vantage point of an ordinary human with access to some kind of means (or even just innate privilege). The fate? To be typecast as tycoons when they’d really prefer to just joust about with their bodacious buddies at their weekly jousting outing. Is that too much to ask? The sunflowers sure don’t think so, no sir. No sir, indeed. Just catch up to that vacant laundry (propelled by propane gas) and hand me that cheddar–while we’re young. The cheddar, however, must be somewhat aged (24 months, or best offer). It will complement the sunflower seeds we’ve sown over the past couple months. That, and the red-berry jelly.

Big Whoop

A man named Garvey sedated me once, though the whole outcome could have been avoided. We’d begun feuding the week prior, a trivial dispute over the price of corn muffin mix. Stupid, right? Well, this Garvey feller sure didn’t think so. And it just so happened that his friendly neighborhood drug dealer unloaded a ton of vicodin on him that week, so he was bound to sedate me whether or not we disagreed on anything. I may live to regret having anything to do with that man, but life is a rich tapestry that deserves its fair share of intrigue.

His sister, Nancy, had her own agenda when it came to handling the G-Man. Having lived with him a majority of her life, she’d developed an ingenious coping mechanism for dealing with his ridiculous foibles. Any time he began ranting about the military industrial complex, the go-to strategy would be to bring up the time he’d run into Steve Harvey while jogging on the riverfront–near the Wrigley Building. That would immediately stop his conspiratorial theorizing and send him spiraling through all five stages of the celebrity run-in phenomenon. Turns out Garvey is this joker’s last name. First name: Steve.

Originally, Nancy had only been prepared to shift her brother’s mania away from excessive government spending, but she eventually developed a secondary strategy out of necessity. After letting Steve go on about the Garvey/Harvey thing for a couple minutes, she’s gotten quite skilled at channeling his enthusiasm into a creative jag. Now–since Garvey prefers to make ink drawings, Nancy has set up a corner in her apartment designed solely for her brother to zen out after he gets a little too worked up about the 10-second exchange that he and Steve Harvey’d had. The passion lends itself to the page as he jots up a storm. He doesn’t want to burden himself with any extra material possessions, so he leaves all his creations at Nancy’s place. Nancy has turned a tidy profit from his efforts, since Steve-o gets worked up quite often. It’s reached the point where Nancy could take a year-long hiatus from waitressing and not feel pinched for a minute of it.

So yeah, I let Garvey sedate me. Big whoop. I was hoping he’d feel bad about it and draw me a nice picture that could finance a backpacking trip through the Black Forest.