Dips and Dives

Exaggerating one’s influence should be among those acts reserved for the dolomite entrepreneurs out there with more margarine than non-dairy coffee creamer at their regular disposal.

If we allow these blowhards to navigate the kitchen table’s width and fail to uncover the tangential ne’er-do-wells we’ve been warned about, then what was it all for?

All we can say is that protesting such an alteration of manifest destiny (density?) comes with the price of freedom (and a bag of chips in some circumstances), and nothing short of Ozzy the Philistine could resurrect the embattled intentions of those labor organizers mainly concerned with seizing the means of production.

We must remain ever-vigilant, for you never know when pediatric charlie horse tendencies will rear their ugly heads in the recesses of adolescent America. We (the Americanses) once sat atop the global jungle gym, our ingenuity and general cuteness inspiring power-seekers a world around to blush with envy at the amenities they could only imagine (until that coal train came a rolling down the bend with the promise of sooty modernity), filling their heads with unrequited lust for widgets and modules and bells and whistles that could fill their modest spaces—digital and otherwise.

And, of course, once even a modicum of that prosperity had begun evening the materialistic score, we flat out lost our lease on the planet. As our Gaia gathers the foreclosure paperwork, we scramble like the varmints we really are, pushing and shoving, blaming all but ourselves and projecting our greed onto unrealistic scapegoats for just long enough to lose any chance of saving what had once been humanity’s little slice of paradise that, against all odds, had once been a serviceable milieu.

Ah well, the sloughing-off period is just gonna have to start a little early this time around, with a tad more english on the dips and dives.

Perception

We come upon a young man torn between what he perceives of “the other” and that omniscient narrator of life who’s commonly referred to as Reality, the amalgamation of infinite facets colliding into an image of total clarity, the entire spectrum condensing itself into a single voice and vision suitable to whichever moment or viewpoint happens to summon it for selfish purposes. Our hero simply needs more time before he may contemplate the oneness of totality, the complete integration of energy and matter that, on the surface, fragments into a myriad of complex differences but ultimately bleeds into homogeneity across the board, across the cosmos. Our hero will learn all this in the next unit of his “Philosophy of Everything” course, assuming he does all the readings and attends every lecture (which has a very low chance of actually occurring, rendering his education on the topic woefully incomplete).

This particular person will–in 98.3% of all observable realities–stubbornly quit his pursuit of higher education and become a beekeeper, so he may develop an immunity to their stings.

LXXXVII

You were informed of the risks before getting on Marshal Dillon. He has a track record of bucking cowpokes, farmhands and tourists like you, a rap sheet as long as your arm. Broken arms, legs, necks, an assortment of deaths. On purpose? Nobody’s been able to ascertain this horse’s motivation; it’s as though the beast doesn’t even care about the carnage left in its wake. The big boss here at Gunsmoke Dude Ranch has a soft spot for him and refuses to take him out of the rotation, probably only because of the name. There’s been an undercurrent of corruption around here since the Reagan administration. You’re lucky you only lost your two front teeth, you know.