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.
The more senior members of the corn-fed trophy mounting union (local 1776) always manage to find opportunities to regale their greener counterparts with talk of a simpler time–when common salmonella held a place in all of our hearts and opinion-dominated politics held sway in the public arena.
The information age was still in its infancy and the shady web traffickers used all their powers of persuasion to convince the good ol’ god-fearing people that doom was just around the corner for all non-believers (when a quick search would reveal that the sedentary nature of these chosen-by-default disciples was actually the exact behavior leading us all to armageddon).
The billionaire false prophets for social normativity laughed all the way to the bank, just the way they always had (and always would, assuming the government they’d purchased would continue to carry out their various people-crushing biddings). Nobody with enough influence could get the gears of social justice turning, due to their lack of tenure as stock market manipulators and robber barons; the folks who figured they could inspire a positive change in discourse were all too late to the party.
Or that would be the narrative that Joe and Stu want to perpetuate at social gatherings (sock hops, ball games, charity galas, what have you), usually after a beer or two. I wish they would talk about fun things instead.
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.
Teflon dependency besmirches our cowardly world, in the case of our battered leaders and showmen outside the realm of wall sconce renovation. Only a handful of things can come of it, like improper money management or the raking of savings bonds through to the edge of the atmosphere–or the ambiance, anyway. When will folks learn that cast iron can be just as dependable, if not infinitely more durable (and handier in close combat, where all real battles are won)? We need our politicians to stand up and admit that there can only be a common solution once bacon and eggs are fried together, unified in grease like our brothers from a shared past, not unlike the patronage found within the standard fruit salad–grapes, kiwis, strawberries, pineapples, two to three melons, the works.
You hear that, g-men? All you clowns need to work together under the umbrella of the common interests of your constituents! But I know your hands are tied, since you have an unbreakable pact with the little gray aliens entailing the siphoning of creativity and ingenuity out of our species through radio waves, satellites, broadband, and god knows what other technology. I’m not supposed to know this, but I have an inkling that they’re harvesting our psychic energy for their own selfish reasons. Makes me sick. Oh well, nothing I can do about it. Carry on, gentlemen.
I really wish I could use my arms.
Here’s a thought on thought for you, my beloved captors. Be ye men, aliens, government drones? Ach. In any case, I now share my wealth of conspiratorial knowledge. Turn thine ears upon my candor and weep.
I really wish I could use my arms.
Stilted behavior wreaks havoc on the psyche, putting into play a set of circumstances that simply shouldn’t be, irreparably altering what would have been the natural course of events. Of course, since the timeline has shifted, who’s to say that it wasn’t meant to happen that way in the first place? Perhaps each example of stilted behavior is necessary for the history of this world–or plane of existence. Perhaps all behavior is fated to occur just the way it has, does, and will, and we’re unwitting pawns who only think we’re impacting the outcome of things.
Will someone please dim the lights, even for just a minute?
I have to scratch my ankle.
I’m tethered to this
as though I deserve
this form of punishment.
I didn’t even do anything
other than invent
my own form of potato masher.
What’s wrong with innovating
a new design
for starch delivery?
I think this government
has really got to get a grip
on itself and forget the politics
that brought us
to such a politically correct time.
Next thing you know, someone’s
going to be making cracks
about the Great Potato Famine
and drinking pints of Irish whiskey
as they stammer all over the floor,
filibustering for as long
as they can stand upright.