Friday, July 28, 2006

Can I Be a Dick?

Seriously, can I? I want to be a dick. I don't feel like I should have to be dead-serious all the time. I don't think I should have to be the self-appointed Guardian of 9/11 Honor. I mean, come on, it's just Politics. Which, in turn, is just the lipstick on a pig called War Rhetoric. I want to be a dick. I am a dick.

I think people are funny. I could talk with for hours and hours and hours, just blowing minds, over and over again, but what the hell is the point when the minds are in such short supply? I'd rather have my own mind blown. So blow me.

I'm just not very impressed anymore. Not impressed with "arguments", not impressed with "debate", not impressed with "evidence" and "logic" and "thought". Things like that don't get me anymore. All this talk of Israel bombing the soul out of Lebanon, and Condoleeza Rice traipsing around Italy with her face in her wearied hands, and Richard Perle explaining to Bush how the Mistress of Death Herself is just not cockadoodledooed in the head enough to run the State Department anymore. All these musings over just how dead we are all going to be as a result of Bush's Happy Fun Time Armageddon Playset (New from Lockheed Martin! 2 to 4 Players. Ages 8 to Adult.) Not impressed. You know? What's the point? I'd rather be a dick.

Sage Francis said: Makeshift Patriot, the flag shop is out of stock; I hang myself at half mast... No, I'm not at that point. Never will be. But hang it all anyway, yes-no? Yes yes, don't get me wrong, I like reading the news and analysis from all my blogger buddies. I find what they do to be enthralling, I really do. I read about the forms death takes as often as I can. If I can be serious for just a millisecond, I honestly value being informed. But it's kind of all one thing, you know? It all kind of swirls together, like so much lavatory flotsam and jetsam towards the Great Below.

I'm really digging myself a hole here. Let me be absolutely clear: I love what my buddies are doing. I love the blogging thing, and learning, and getting the facts, and also scoping out the so-called "opposition". But there are some folks out there - nay, most folks out there - who really just don't think at all.

I know you don't believe me when I say some folks really don't think at all. You think I mean it in an exasperated way, a way that says, "Well of course they think, but they just don't seem to be able to see a few things my way." No. I mean literally. They don't think. Here, let me break it down for you.

When these non-thinking people go to "think", what they do is place their heads in the general area of a certain massive fart cloud which I will here dub the "dumbfuckanimbus cloud". Gingerly, these non-thinkers sort of push their heads through the misting sulfur essence of the dumbfuckanimbus cloud. A little of the gas enters the ear - the right ear or the left ear, doesn't matter which, because I'm not talking about liberals vs. conservatives. When enough airborne putrescence has entered their ears and lightly pressurized the inside of their skull, they quick pull an airtight hood over their heads, so that the deathalicious odor will be contained. They have to tie the hood off at the neck, which cuts off circulation, but this poses no medical threat, since their craniums are actually just primitive wooden carvings splattered with some somewhat life-like house paint and crowned with a fist full of cornsilk. What I am saying is that there are no nerve endings in or on their "heads".

Okay, I suppose I've lost you here again. You still don't believe me. Just try to keep up, okay? Because what I am telling you is absolutely true in a very literal way. I know because I've met hundreds of these "people". They exist, and they're everywhere! Moving on now: the hood, now securely smothering their "head", also obscures their vision (their eyes are those trick eyeballs you can buy at Spencer's Gifts), and so they are even more blind than before. I know that sounds silly, to say that someone can be even more blind than blind, but some things are harder to explain than others. Forgive me.

So. You've got these feverish herds of non-thinkers wandering around, waiting for a good time to take the bag off, and when they do find an excuse, the stench just wafts gently right back out, the same way it came in: through the ear. This explains why they don't know how to listen. They actually use their ears to "talk". Very strange. (What do their mouths look like? A film canister with a chunk of raw hamburger meat at the bottom, approximating a tongue. Hey, that's what it looks like. Don't kill the messenger.) Then when they're done wafting, they clear their throats (garden hose?) and claim to be thinking.

Anyway, it's that stench, and that freakish anatomy of theirs, and their crazy-making professions of individual thought, that have made me realize that you just can't convince a non-thinker of anything. You'll go crazy trying. So I have decided to become a dick. If you want to debate, argue, talk, converse - you know, normal-person activities - you have to sort of waft your point.

And I don't have that kind of patience. Maybe I'll be normal one day, again, for the first time. Until then: I'm a dick.