Tag: Contract

Far-Fetched

Stern army fandanglers initiate the bizarrest of letterbox rituals as a way to compensate for their minimal internal squawking about where in the hell to buy a caramel macchiato during a Thursday afternoon rush hour—it’s definitely the most congested freeway seen around these parts in quite some time, the rubbernecks all out in force and jamming up the left lane to catch glimpses of a minor fender bender where the only detail of note would be the involvement of a clown car. Fortunately, no actual clowns happened to be in or, indeed, even around said automobile, or traffic would surely would be at a complete standstill.

The question remains: why is there a clownless clown car on the road? A rational observer would surmise that it’s headed to the shop, getting an oil change or tire rotation, or perhaps being treated to the periodic hand car wash and wax (one of Flopsy® the Clown’s numerous contract stipulations). Suffice it to say that none of these scenarios would benefit from the presence of a real live clown, unless some sort of clowning industry discount were to apply to these local auto-maintenance establishments, which seems utterly far-fetched (yet plausible if our society only knew who pulled the strings).

Never gonna get that got damn macchiato…

Amish – 07:07GMT

Leave it to the Amish to make daily life more of a chore than ever before. I don’t know why I had such an itch to live the way my ancestors used to, but I know for certain that they would have picked an easier way to light the house and prepare food–if presented with a choice. I was so spoiled by the modern conveniences afforded to me by science and a free market economy that I failed to see the value of an Amish-esque leap of faith. I’d taken those marvelous comforts for granted as I skittered along my daily schedule, not a minute wasted, making all I could out of a dubious practice.

Eh. I genuinely am relieved that I don’t have to be a part of that ridiculous rat race these days. It was even more of a chore than the labor-intensive Amish regimen. But if I could just make use of my arms, that would make this feel more like vacation than prison. I’m just saying… And could you please dim the lights if that’s at all possible? I don’t ask for much.

Anyway, to simply engage in that dubious practice of selling time for the shackles of currency is one thing, but to embrace such a hectic outlook is a disgrace all of its own.

And that’s exactly where I found myself on the morning where my car broke down on my way to ten soul-crushing hours in the tiny cubicle I call my second home. Calling the tow truck, a horse and buggy rattled past me and I thought, “now here’s the kind of living I can get behind!” So I flagged them down and hopped right in without asking permission. They didn’t even flinch.

I was quickly initiated into their rustic ways, and the first couple weeks were life-altering. After a couple more weeks, I began to grow tired of such a humdrum and back-breaking existence, but was then informed that the contract I signed–which I thought was fishy, but I signed it in good faith–bound me to the Amish lifestyle for the rest of my life.

But now I’m here in this rubber room talking to myself all day long for lack of anything else to do, likely being studied by a combination of the US government and power-hungry extraterrestrials blackmailing Washington into doing their bidding. Which reality is worse? I’ll have to think about it.

God, I really wish I could use my arms.