Over
the years it has been brought to my attention that the
average college student is not angry enough to care enough to pick up a
gun and shoot somebody! That being said,
please don’t pick up a gun and shoot somebody. I say that merely as a reference statement
for the state of apathy we realize, but doesn’t allow us
to conceptualize what would drive a man to extremes not induced by a
sports beverage. I’m talking about the
Fire of God (or the crispy noodles of Flying Spaghetti)! The Name called upon that inspires us to do
things we normally wouldn’t (as we confide in comfort), and that we
idealize only alone at night and only as a last resort, assuming things
don’t go as planned.
The exit
strategy is something that’s been drummed into our political heads. Mode of thinking, this: that it is
desirable to take an undesirable situation to its fulfillment in the
hopes that it will turn around on its own, neglecting any sound math, science,
or literature to the contrary, favoring instead the Bull Minimum (big
shot) with a plush couch and a semi-conductor for half-hard jollies.
What
I’m trying to say, what I’m getting at is this, there is a social ideal
to accrue collectibles, yet never make them your own. Fuck ‘em. I watched this George Carlin routine
once where he discussed the semantics of fucking vs. killing. Fucking (used in its verb tense) does not
just refer to copulation, but also, as an extension, procreating, and
ultimately multiplying. Killing,
(on the other hand) is not just an effort to stop a sentient body
in motion, but also to take away the spirit (or the Flying
Spaghetti Sauce) of the ego. What
I’m proposing is that we remove more superfluous egoes (while attempting to preserve
the body) while being smarter about what we fuck or attempt to call our
own. Moderation. I think that society is taking the golden
ratio (φ=1+√5/2)
out of modern living, and I don’t think that it’s just the rich that are taking
more, it could also be that the poor are less deserving. Where is virtue? I would rather see the PRODIGAL SON (or the
Flying Spaghetti Meatwad) out drinking than drugged on plasma.
Speaking
of plasma (TV) suckers, I think you get the best picture when you’re not only
wrapped up in the warm glow, but also when you’re fully warped by it. When you go to the next store
and the next because you’re inalterably changed by what
you see when you dedicate all the free time of your precious life to somebody
else’s programming (who you’ve never even met but you feel like you know)
extrapolating statistics (lies, damn lies, and statistics) twaining, coupling,
or pairing two or more points together via broadcast towers in tight-knit
gerrymandered demographic subset communities with progressively individualized
business models intended to divide and conquer you.
You haven’t
seen it all until you’ve lived on the street, until you are
street-smart you’re lacking in education, and until you are educated you
can’t really know. Knowing poverty
exists without experiencing it is like knowing calculus exists without solving
a problem, and it’s hard to know unless you’ve been thrown into a class, class
system, or ranking mutually exclusive (statistically) of capability. Then again, for the first few months I really
sucked at being a waiter, probably because I underestimated how
(cushy it wasn’t) much physical strength, balance, and endurance can be
involved all while thinking on your feet while remaining affable. And that was before alcohol, energy drinks,
and live music were added to the mix of confusion after midnight! That was the year I read Moby Dick.
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