Ellis and Phyllis Mifflecreet were packing, preparing to conclude their daring vacation at a remote resort in northeastern Argentina in the province of Misiones. They were doing right now what they've been doing most of the journey: rationalizing the trip to one another, mostly with words paraphrased from the Wikipedia, Frommers, and Nat'l Geographic articles which they had independently studied before planning the itinerary. Having absorbed far too much of one another over the years, they resembled two overfilled balloons, too full to be tied so they just keep taking in more of each others hot air, often trembling in anticipation of whatever great pop which will send at least one of them spiraling across the room.
One only acquires a name like "Ellis" through legitimate and organized means. There are now lawmakers in his lineage, but his family always seem to benefit from the world as it is currently set up. He is heir to no permanent income; but rather more of a straight line of effort, as though someone wrote a simple letter on a pile of carbon paper. Each generation is assigned a sheet by which to express themselves. He noticed some of the words were blurry, but he still wanted what he was entitled to, so in order to maintain moral equilibrium he lives his life by a strict code of conduct that allows regimented indulgence paired with states of frantic penance; all of which he imposes upon everyone else as much as upon himself. A blend of Christianity and his own personal philosophies gleaned from old movies and classic American authors.
They were carefully folding their pleated slacks, thinking about which ones they would assign priority to in the instance of a hangar shortage. Then a stowaway crawled out of an open bag. It ran under the bed, then crawled up the lowest point of the bed skirt onto the surface, which it blended with pretty convincingly. The tastefully subdued linens which the Mifflecreets keep in their home would scarcely resemble the markings of a venomous spider from South America with a 5 inch leg span, but they didn't choose their vacation spot by bedroom linens. Nor did they plan an encounter with the Phoneutria nigriventer, commonly known as the Brazilian Wandering Spider or the Banana Spider (as it often stows away in crates of bananas). Their bag did not contain bananas, but gifts for friends and future conversation pieces at dinner parties. Anybody who would be invited to such an event would already know the Mifflecreets went to South America, but the displayed souvenirs would serve well during the panic of quiet moments that occur far too soon to entreat a graceful exit.
Of course any couple about to leave the beautiful, warm, humid seclusion of Argentina who add tedious extra steps to organizing their luggage must have advanced experience with avoiding sex. Despite a healthy, even impressive track record for the first couple decades of the marriage, the combination of a stressful lifestyle and unhealthy eating habits have left Ellis incapable of physical intimacy. He and Phyllis agreed that it would be sinful to include alternative modes of stimulation and pharmaceuticals into the bedroom, so the unpleasant topic was allowed to drop. This made him feel comfortable, as he was then absolved from responsibility with no shortage of valid well-documented excuses. She was distraught at first; she wasn't ready for this chapter of their life together to be over. After years of ignoring temptation, once her children moved out her friends set her up with some pre-screened men, thus tying all loose ends for an airtight rationalization.
The Brazilian Walking Spider was hiding in the crevice made when the blanket is tucked over and partially under the pillows. They made the bed themselves as they always do on vacation when they woke up at 5:35 AM; it kept them busy they were waiting for breakfast to be available. It was now 9:30 and they were done packing, with several hours until they had to leave for the airport. They decided to visit their favorite vantage point, which overlooked a flat path that they were both still physically capable of exploring but at no point took the initiative. Phyllis was sure to make Ellis feel the weight of her curiosity to walk the pathway. Ellis begun his usual protest process with his skeptical groan as he removed his sandals and retrieved from his suitcase the most convenient socks and shoes, which happened to be the more active and durable pair. These shoes gave him the option to actually explore the walkway, thus eliminating one of his excuses. He felt his control over the decision slipping from his grip as he leaned back on the bed to pull on his left sock. He felt a small impact on his hip, immediately followed by a sharp pain that left him breathless for a second, stymieing an otherwise embarrassing screech into a hiccup. They both froze at the glance of the spider as it zipped towards temporary oblivion. They tried to retain dignity as they swatted at it with their shoes the way a reluctant debutante might swing a wine bottle at a reincarnation of Hitler; fighting for their lives but also prepared to rebound into composure if the specter were to vanish. The spider exited through the window, and Phyllis called for help as Ellis scanned online reference material, identifying the species very quickly.
They sent the only medic available, who asked a few routine questions and assured Ellis that he was going to be fine and if he remained calm he would suffer significantly less. His lack of muscle spasms and erratic breathing rate were good signs... the medic's command of English was far greater than his pronunciation lead one to believe, and when he mentioned "priapism" it slipped right by the both of them. Ellis didn't catch it, even though he had read it in his quick research. After the medic left, Ellis went to the bathroom to relieve himself... and after 25 minutes of "be out it a second", Phyllis demanded to know what was going on in there. When he emerged, he was sporting a rehearsed grimace and a pert erection. She laughed at how undignified he appeared at this moment. He explained that the "situation" was a very uncomfortable effect of the venom called "priapism", it may last several hours and hopefully won't require medical attention. The more he tried to be taken seriously, the less she heard him. All she could think of is that it was even bigger than she remembered. She was absently discussing possible plans of action when she interrupted herself to make a far more practical suggestion. She viewed this as an amazing opportunity for a worthy finale to their sex life. Ellis disagreed, he felt that it was a false representation of him and that even though it was not harnessed from a pill it was still not natural. Phyllis found her self once again absently participating in a useless conversation, as he lectured her about the medical research being done on the spider's toxin that was causing this priapism and how it may be incorporated into Viagra in the future, and how the erection was not because of his feelings for her, that she would be defiling herself by partaking in false pleasure. Then she thought about his weakened state. When he was done talking, she helped him to his feet to get a glass of water. She admitted that he was right and that there was no reason for them to sin. They sat down next to one another on the bed. As he tried to hold her hand, she proceeded to push him onto his back and sit on his chest in order to remove his pants. As she tried to flop onto his now exposed involuntary erection, he rolled over off the bed and stood up. He begged on behalf of their virtue, with his back to the corner near the window he pleaded that this isn't God's plan. When that didn't work, he tried to guilt her about the spider bite and how sick he felt. He saw the familiar expression she gave when she decided what restaurant they would go to or which house they would move into, so he threw in his whammy card and pretended to faint. Without hesitation she pounced on and started grinding. All he could do then was swing his arms side to side and call out towards the open window. She stuffed both of his socks into his mouth, and amidst fits of passion she proudly proclaimed her intentions to ride him until they had to leave for the airport as she tied his wrists together with an ugly paisley necktie*. It was at this point, when he had no course of action aside from passive acceptance, that he ceased his struggling. After a couple hours of inert staring, he clenched his jaw and trembled in such a way that spider venom doesn't cause. After a silent trip to the airport, the incident was not discussed.
They still made people endure a stodgy dinner party. Their friends and family close their eyes for a roll as they are directed to pass the veggies clockwise and the meats and starches counter-clockwise. Everything they discuss from their trip could be found in various reference material without visiting Argentina, which makes some people wonder why they go on these trips at all. Phyllis and Ellis' drinks still never get around to melting any ice as they ramble about each item from the latest trip as well as certain "classic" items, as though their dinner parties have a "Greatest Hits" compilation in the making. This year, however, everyone is dismissed earlier than usual. Somewhere in a hollowed trinket from their South America trip is a small vial of mysterious substance. Tonight it will be accessed in secret, the way it always is whenever Ellis wears his ugly paisley necktie.
*every year one of their kids gets him another hideous paisley necktie that they know he hasn't the sense of style to realize is completely at odds with the rest of his wardrobe. Phyllis can't stand them, but Ellis thinks they are funny and wears them whenever he wants people to think he has a sense of humor.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Tales of a Narrow Cheese Rind
Foreword by the author: This is stupid.
I didn't used to look like this. Sure, like everybody else I had my humble beginnings in several misguided 4-cheese pizzas, and some poorly executed forays in the entertainment bizz. They couldn't give me away for free... People would look at me and say, "What the hell is that?" Under their breath they would talk about how I don't work well with Merlot. They don't know shit about Merlot, nobody worth a damn will work with fucking merlot. I'd rather come in individually wrapped slices than be able to work with fucking merlot. People couldn't even pronounce my name, so I was told to change it to "Sharp Cheddar". I took their suggestion for a while, those were some rough times. When an agent discovered me, I had a toothpick sticking out of my back outside a supermarket in Hell's Kitchen. After that I knew everything would be fine. I was the feature cheese in 11 pizzas, three without the accompaniment of other toppings, once without sauce. One time I did an avante-garde pizza without crust. I was a fixture at all the right parties; I had my space right between Boule De Lille and Tilsit. I was briefly in an international touring quartet with Brie, Beemster, and Campo De Montalban. Critics raved, "An intense, fiery start gives way to pleasant nuttiness, with a rich dry finish that makes us all feel a little more... human". Then someone suggested I do a project with "Spaghetti & Meatballs". At first I refused, saying I don't do that hokey wop bullshit. They wined and dined me and flattered me, saying I was perfect for the part, so aged and so hardened. Signing that contract was the biggest mistake of the latter portion of my career. I had to go through their middle man: a cheese grater. After my share of these grueling productions, this is what's left of me. No more taking center stage at parties, no more shackin' up with naive young Ritz crackers fresh from the package, and even Tilsit won't return my calls. They keep me around for my popular role in "Spaghetti and Meatballs", but every time they look at me I can see guilt in their eyes because I know they're thinking about getting rid of me... but hey, I know I'm good for at least one more show.
I didn't used to look like this. Sure, like everybody else I had my humble beginnings in several misguided 4-cheese pizzas, and some poorly executed forays in the entertainment bizz. They couldn't give me away for free... People would look at me and say, "What the hell is that?" Under their breath they would talk about how I don't work well with Merlot. They don't know shit about Merlot, nobody worth a damn will work with fucking merlot. I'd rather come in individually wrapped slices than be able to work with fucking merlot. People couldn't even pronounce my name, so I was told to change it to "Sharp Cheddar". I took their suggestion for a while, those were some rough times. When an agent discovered me, I had a toothpick sticking out of my back outside a supermarket in Hell's Kitchen. After that I knew everything would be fine. I was the feature cheese in 11 pizzas, three without the accompaniment of other toppings, once without sauce. One time I did an avante-garde pizza without crust. I was a fixture at all the right parties; I had my space right between Boule De Lille and Tilsit. I was briefly in an international touring quartet with Brie, Beemster, and Campo De Montalban. Critics raved, "An intense, fiery start gives way to pleasant nuttiness, with a rich dry finish that makes us all feel a little more... human". Then someone suggested I do a project with "Spaghetti & Meatballs". At first I refused, saying I don't do that hokey wop bullshit. They wined and dined me and flattered me, saying I was perfect for the part, so aged and so hardened. Signing that contract was the biggest mistake of the latter portion of my career. I had to go through their middle man: a cheese grater. After my share of these grueling productions, this is what's left of me. No more taking center stage at parties, no more shackin' up with naive young Ritz crackers fresh from the package, and even Tilsit won't return my calls. They keep me around for my popular role in "Spaghetti and Meatballs", but every time they look at me I can see guilt in their eyes because I know they're thinking about getting rid of me... but hey, I know I'm good for at least one more show.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
CRUSH!
I just wanted to do you a big favor. I know you think what you wrote was insightful and witty and biting, as well as whimsical and unexpected but not as though to try to be unexpected but that natural way of being unexpected that is so hard to accomplish... but it was really just weak. I mean if someone else ran with the idea you started it could have been great, but it looks like all you do is come up with unlikely situations and describe them in ways that are more "specific" than they are insightful or thought provoking... there is nothing special or especially appropriate about them. It's basically like the Family Guy, except at least Family Guy manages to be mainstream and absurd at the same time. You manage to be neither.
"Well thank you, I think you have a point, I could use some more experience and fine tuning. Thank you for being honest, it is-"
Ok, stop right there. First of all, don't tell me that my honesty is refreshing, which I know you were about to do. Yes you were, where else was that sentence going? Also stop trying to be all magnanimous, accepting my criticism gracefully as though we are journeyman experiencing some rough camaraderie in the rigorous process of "sharpening your craft" and that you can impress me by how courageously objective you are in response to my harsh words, as though in a few weeks we'll be drinking cider up the road talking about fucking Bulgakov or some shit. It is patronizing and inaccurate and it is rude to impose your ego and your comfortable fantasies onto someone who obviously sees through you. This distance you keep between yourself and the truth is just as apparent in your writing as it is in person. You've been lulled to sleep in the esurient arms of your delusions of grandeur. It is utterly painful to listen to you speak, and even more so that you genuinely don't know how hopeless each sentence you construct is, nor do you know how woeful the notion of any future efforts you may expend on what you call writing.
"Honestly I just do this for therapeutic reasons and because I enjoy it, I'm not trying to make a career out of it."
AHHHH! Stop acting like you aren't distraught right now, it is a conceited and vain pretense that you are trying to maintain an even tone while clenching your jaw like that and keeping a death grip on the strap of your laptop case. And no this isn't me masquerading as an observant bystander giving my opinion and projecting my insecurities on you, anybody in this room has noticed at least all of these egregious faults and probably more. Do you see yet how dire this situation is? Also, no way do you find it therapeutic to write about the strange thoughts you force yourself to indulge into essays and stories and poems. Each work is like a hose with your thumb over the outlet, spraying vanity all over the crowd. You're not blowing our minds, man! You know what will be therapeutic for you, as well as the rest of us? Stop writing. Stop trying to use your strange observations to assert superiority in the irrelevant domain of your imagination. Just enjoy your silly thoughts and let them pass the way the rest of us do. You're not listening, I can tell that you are trying to think of something to say.
"Don't flatter yourself, I don't care about what you are saying, I've stopped paying attention."
Alright. Feel free to act like you don't care, but in reality, I am now your largest influence, and I will follow you around for the rest of your life. Every time you are disillusioned and you're trying to decide whether to ever write another sentence, I'll be in your thoughts. Then you will continue to write just to spite me, then once you realize that you will try to repress all thoughts about me, building more mental scar tissue upon other mental scar tissue all from this confrontation.
"Well thank you, I think you have a point, I could use some more experience and fine tuning. Thank you for being honest, it is-"
Ok, stop right there. First of all, don't tell me that my honesty is refreshing, which I know you were about to do. Yes you were, where else was that sentence going? Also stop trying to be all magnanimous, accepting my criticism gracefully as though we are journeyman experiencing some rough camaraderie in the rigorous process of "sharpening your craft" and that you can impress me by how courageously objective you are in response to my harsh words, as though in a few weeks we'll be drinking cider up the road talking about fucking Bulgakov or some shit. It is patronizing and inaccurate and it is rude to impose your ego and your comfortable fantasies onto someone who obviously sees through you. This distance you keep between yourself and the truth is just as apparent in your writing as it is in person. You've been lulled to sleep in the esurient arms of your delusions of grandeur. It is utterly painful to listen to you speak, and even more so that you genuinely don't know how hopeless each sentence you construct is, nor do you know how woeful the notion of any future efforts you may expend on what you call writing.
"Honestly I just do this for therapeutic reasons and because I enjoy it, I'm not trying to make a career out of it."
AHHHH! Stop acting like you aren't distraught right now, it is a conceited and vain pretense that you are trying to maintain an even tone while clenching your jaw like that and keeping a death grip on the strap of your laptop case. And no this isn't me masquerading as an observant bystander giving my opinion and projecting my insecurities on you, anybody in this room has noticed at least all of these egregious faults and probably more. Do you see yet how dire this situation is? Also, no way do you find it therapeutic to write about the strange thoughts you force yourself to indulge into essays and stories and poems. Each work is like a hose with your thumb over the outlet, spraying vanity all over the crowd. You're not blowing our minds, man! You know what will be therapeutic for you, as well as the rest of us? Stop writing. Stop trying to use your strange observations to assert superiority in the irrelevant domain of your imagination. Just enjoy your silly thoughts and let them pass the way the rest of us do. You're not listening, I can tell that you are trying to think of something to say.
"Don't flatter yourself, I don't care about what you are saying, I've stopped paying attention."
Alright. Feel free to act like you don't care, but in reality, I am now your largest influence, and I will follow you around for the rest of your life. Every time you are disillusioned and you're trying to decide whether to ever write another sentence, I'll be in your thoughts. Then you will continue to write just to spite me, then once you realize that you will try to repress all thoughts about me, building more mental scar tissue upon other mental scar tissue all from this confrontation.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Sustainability
On a Thursday morning in the future, the world is devastated by the discovery that anybody who had eaten widely distributed meat products, foods with GMO, or large amounts high-fructose corn syrup was going to die a drawn-out torturous death, the onset of which happens when certain chemicals and additives present in these foods accumulate and age together within our tissues. There is no cure and no ambiguity in the "phases" of the illness, which begin suddenly as flipping a switch. There is only one symptom: all your major organs become become voluntary and require constant conscious operation. You will have to make your heart beat as though flexing your biceps, and you will have to push blood through the liver as though blowing dust off an old book.
After the announcement on the morning news, most of the civilized world made the decision to never leave the house again and surrender to fate. They discretely stocked up on bomb-shelter cuisine and minimized communication with the outside world. Nobody wanted to face the shitstorm of smugness and gloating that would be emanating from all the vegans who were already self-righteous even before their lifestyle saved them from a plague. Little did everyone know that the vegans were to do something far more insulting on the height of their great edification: Rather than simply shower the world with "told ya so"'s(2), they were humble and empathetic and did all they possibly could to help those who were willing to accept it.
Many non-vegans were bitterly offended by this. They rationalized that it is easy to be magnanimous when you know you are soon going to inherit control of the world. Vegans were accused of being the benefactor of a lucky choice they arbitrarily made. They were dubbed the trust fund babies of fate, heirs to a fortune they didn't earn.
People started becoming symptomatic in large groups. The first great wave of people were understandably the slowest to adapt, but the ones who survived documented their experiences for the benefit of their successors. Unfortunately they soon discovered their ability to orgasm at will, which distracted and killed everybody except for Donny Mazerbek, who found a unique use for this level of control. Donny maintained an erection for the entire 3-month duration of his career as a porn star.(1)
The subsequent waves of infectees had a higher ratio of survivors. Unfortunately, the only way they could survive was to sit in a trance-like dormant state, consuming the minimum required to stay alive, allocating their calories and nutrients with near-perfect efficiency. They never interacted with anybody unless forced to, and nobody went out of their way to communicate with them and thus risk causing a loved one to lose focus and die. In the later waves, even some vegans and vegetarians because symptomatic, as they had consumed enough GMO or meat with questionable FDA-approved additives or high fructose corn syrup at some point in their lives to have it eventually accumulate. In 3 years time, everybody who was going to succumb to the disease had isolated themselves in an almost comatose state, hidden from everything except some canned goods and a water source. Only the most extreme vegans who rigorously practiced their beliefs were left with free will.
Marissa recognized someone, "Merry Christmas, Brent." This was the most assertive thing Marissa had said in 8 months. "Oh thank you but I don't celebrate Christmas. I only celebrate holidays relating to the sun and the Earth and the cosmos; nothing that was made by religions that harbor genocide. Oh I'm sorry, not that I mind you celebrating Christmas, you are perfectly free to do that as well." "You're right Brent. Besides, now that the practice of speciesism is over, everyday is a celebration. Do you know what I mean? And it will be a celebration like this every day for the rest of our lives. How lucky we are." Brent flashed his version of a smile and expressed his form of friendly agreement, "Marissa, you always use the same words to describe the way you feel, but that is ok because it is still just as wonderful and joyous, and the words you use don't even matter." Then they both say at the exact same time, "I hope there will come a day when all the world can escape the confines of language altogether." Then they took a moment to smell one another, locked eyes, disrobed, and started having sex. They thought about how special that moment was. They thought about how renewed the world was. They thought about how great it was to be a part of it. Without words they knew procreation was the goal of this act. There were no condoms left anyway. It was a natural and beautiful act. She had coarse hair all over her legs the way some women are supposed to, with a mound of pubic hair obscuring the current of rapturous juices being churned. The flow ran down his scrotum, which from lack of undergarment support had stretched to a more natural level next to his kneecap. With majestically outstretched arms they held hands, and the interlocking hairs of their armpits diffuse the scent of stale fast-food taco meat around the perimeter. Razor blades and deodorant are still widely available, but a new standard of beauty has become universally accepted. People wanted to be as close to a "natural human state" as possible. Minimal clothing was worn, all hygiene products became unscented, with many people trying to hone in on the body's natural self-cleaning capabilities and doing away with bathing altogether. Pheromones were all the rage. The pursuit of this "natural human state" became the philosophy of everyone who was free to have philosophies.
During the waves of people dropping out of functional society, the population pretty much froze as nobody wanted to bring new life into such a depressing world. Brent and Marissa were not alone in their desire to rebuild a civilization that was more to their liking. Millions of emaciated hairy vegans started having pungent and itchy sex in the name of the "natural human state". Every disturbing publication about natural human sexuality that contradicted mainstream civilized courtship you may have read in stuffy liberal blogs and obscure sociology journals soon came true. Orgies were what a crowded cafe or night club once was. Since pleasure was no longer the goal, women took on multiple male partners in rapid succession to maximize chance of fertilization. The more squeamish among them would find each other independently and either procreate among themselves or gradually encourage one another into the orgies.
The children who were born of these activities and raised with this philosophy were taught to speak very little, but to instead use actions to show their feelings and desires. The children knew only who their mothers were, and they were never taught to crave structure, or even what the word meant. The adults would forgo speaking for months at a time. They lived in small dwellings and farmed what they needed to survive, leaving as little impact on the world as possible. Then something strange started to happen. Children would find that their guardians had disappeared, leaving them to fend for themselves or find another home-base. Finding another farm was never difficult, but as the trend continued, soon the children far outnumbered the adults. With more and more children being around and watching over the adults at all times, it was inevitable that some of them would see what was happening. In the middle of a long bout of silence and deep thought, the adult would spontaneously become part of nature. That is, they would dissolve into air and shrubbery, or vanish and a pond would appear where they were standing. Most commonly, however, they would turn into cows and other livestock. Eventually, there was nobody left to take care of these confused children. Until they started wandering and found large symmetrical buildings. These buildings were dilapidated and solemn, with no sound except the wind and their own footsteps. They entered the buildings through curious means and startled the equally confused inhabitants. In the words that their guardians taught them use with great thrift, the children spouted a deluge of stories and fears and questions. Some people died trying to pay attention to the stories. Some simply ignored the children and chose to remain dormant. Most of the world, however, took on the responsibility of properly raising these children and rebuilding civilization. Once their strength was recovered, everyone noticed that they hadn't aged much at all. They learned to divide their focus between their internal functions and contributing to society, and what was once seen as a debilitating handicap proved to be an inexhaustible asset. They taught the youth the lessons that their mistakes had taught them. With the fruits of knowledge came a craving for meat. After some time being weened onto a diet that could include meat, they needed to find a fresh new source. The children were happy to suggest a good place to find livestock. Each one knew the twisted path that delivered them to their new guardians, and they back tracked to a land with many ponds, shrubs, and cows. And the cow did not resist the axe, because it is a dumb tasty animal that humbly lives up to its natural and significant role in the world.
(1) Donny was a 398 lb pile of ingrown hairs and infected bed sores which were acquired from excessive online gaming. He maintained an erection for the 3 month duration of his career as he was ridden by 849 of the most horrified starlets, who were each required to act excited for a consecutive hour of bouncing on his erection, which was the only thing not obscured by flab. The fluid motion of his lopsided and indistinguishable torso region provided a revealing contrast to the gallery of fake titties. There was a busy vomit bucket at the foot of the bed. They were running low on women who needed the $400 when he finally met his end. Kerella Patches had recently become symptomatic; information she thought it prudent not to disclose to the director. She figured that a cluster of the most intense orgasms ever caught on film would boost her career. About ten minutes into her set, she unleashed an onslaught of euphoric expression, a battery of contortions and spasms and moans. Nobody noticed, but Donny died less than a minute after her first climactic twitch. She slid off the bed and noticed that he was still erect. He must have died just from watching her performance without actually getting off.
(2)Think just for a moment about how the world would react in the opposite situation: it is scientifically proven that all vegans are going to die of (blah) deficiency. As a vegan, you would be unable to escape the sneers and mockery of non-vegans. It wouldn't just be mockery from the uneducated and/or conservative pricks that can be easily ignored. It would be from everybody who has endured dating or being friends with someone who went through a "phase" in college, or anyone who has been confronted by a vegan zealot in front of a supermarket.
After the announcement on the morning news, most of the civilized world made the decision to never leave the house again and surrender to fate. They discretely stocked up on bomb-shelter cuisine and minimized communication with the outside world. Nobody wanted to face the shitstorm of smugness and gloating that would be emanating from all the vegans who were already self-righteous even before their lifestyle saved them from a plague. Little did everyone know that the vegans were to do something far more insulting on the height of their great edification: Rather than simply shower the world with "told ya so"'s(2), they were humble and empathetic and did all they possibly could to help those who were willing to accept it.
Many non-vegans were bitterly offended by this. They rationalized that it is easy to be magnanimous when you know you are soon going to inherit control of the world. Vegans were accused of being the benefactor of a lucky choice they arbitrarily made. They were dubbed the trust fund babies of fate, heirs to a fortune they didn't earn.
People started becoming symptomatic in large groups. The first great wave of people were understandably the slowest to adapt, but the ones who survived documented their experiences for the benefit of their successors. Unfortunately they soon discovered their ability to orgasm at will, which distracted and killed everybody except for Donny Mazerbek, who found a unique use for this level of control. Donny maintained an erection for the entire 3-month duration of his career as a porn star.(1)
The subsequent waves of infectees had a higher ratio of survivors. Unfortunately, the only way they could survive was to sit in a trance-like dormant state, consuming the minimum required to stay alive, allocating their calories and nutrients with near-perfect efficiency. They never interacted with anybody unless forced to, and nobody went out of their way to communicate with them and thus risk causing a loved one to lose focus and die. In the later waves, even some vegans and vegetarians because symptomatic, as they had consumed enough GMO or meat with questionable FDA-approved additives or high fructose corn syrup at some point in their lives to have it eventually accumulate. In 3 years time, everybody who was going to succumb to the disease had isolated themselves in an almost comatose state, hidden from everything except some canned goods and a water source. Only the most extreme vegans who rigorously practiced their beliefs were left with free will.
Marissa recognized someone, "Merry Christmas, Brent." This was the most assertive thing Marissa had said in 8 months. "Oh thank you but I don't celebrate Christmas. I only celebrate holidays relating to the sun and the Earth and the cosmos; nothing that was made by religions that harbor genocide. Oh I'm sorry, not that I mind you celebrating Christmas, you are perfectly free to do that as well." "You're right Brent. Besides, now that the practice of speciesism is over, everyday is a celebration. Do you know what I mean? And it will be a celebration like this every day for the rest of our lives. How lucky we are." Brent flashed his version of a smile and expressed his form of friendly agreement, "Marissa, you always use the same words to describe the way you feel, but that is ok because it is still just as wonderful and joyous, and the words you use don't even matter." Then they both say at the exact same time, "I hope there will come a day when all the world can escape the confines of language altogether." Then they took a moment to smell one another, locked eyes, disrobed, and started having sex. They thought about how special that moment was. They thought about how renewed the world was. They thought about how great it was to be a part of it. Without words they knew procreation was the goal of this act. There were no condoms left anyway. It was a natural and beautiful act. She had coarse hair all over her legs the way some women are supposed to, with a mound of pubic hair obscuring the current of rapturous juices being churned. The flow ran down his scrotum, which from lack of undergarment support had stretched to a more natural level next to his kneecap. With majestically outstretched arms they held hands, and the interlocking hairs of their armpits diffuse the scent of stale fast-food taco meat around the perimeter. Razor blades and deodorant are still widely available, but a new standard of beauty has become universally accepted. People wanted to be as close to a "natural human state" as possible. Minimal clothing was worn, all hygiene products became unscented, with many people trying to hone in on the body's natural self-cleaning capabilities and doing away with bathing altogether. Pheromones were all the rage. The pursuit of this "natural human state" became the philosophy of everyone who was free to have philosophies.
During the waves of people dropping out of functional society, the population pretty much froze as nobody wanted to bring new life into such a depressing world. Brent and Marissa were not alone in their desire to rebuild a civilization that was more to their liking. Millions of emaciated hairy vegans started having pungent and itchy sex in the name of the "natural human state". Every disturbing publication about natural human sexuality that contradicted mainstream civilized courtship you may have read in stuffy liberal blogs and obscure sociology journals soon came true. Orgies were what a crowded cafe or night club once was. Since pleasure was no longer the goal, women took on multiple male partners in rapid succession to maximize chance of fertilization. The more squeamish among them would find each other independently and either procreate among themselves or gradually encourage one another into the orgies.
The children who were born of these activities and raised with this philosophy were taught to speak very little, but to instead use actions to show their feelings and desires. The children knew only who their mothers were, and they were never taught to crave structure, or even what the word meant. The adults would forgo speaking for months at a time. They lived in small dwellings and farmed what they needed to survive, leaving as little impact on the world as possible. Then something strange started to happen. Children would find that their guardians had disappeared, leaving them to fend for themselves or find another home-base. Finding another farm was never difficult, but as the trend continued, soon the children far outnumbered the adults. With more and more children being around and watching over the adults at all times, it was inevitable that some of them would see what was happening. In the middle of a long bout of silence and deep thought, the adult would spontaneously become part of nature. That is, they would dissolve into air and shrubbery, or vanish and a pond would appear where they were standing. Most commonly, however, they would turn into cows and other livestock. Eventually, there was nobody left to take care of these confused children. Until they started wandering and found large symmetrical buildings. These buildings were dilapidated and solemn, with no sound except the wind and their own footsteps. They entered the buildings through curious means and startled the equally confused inhabitants. In the words that their guardians taught them use with great thrift, the children spouted a deluge of stories and fears and questions. Some people died trying to pay attention to the stories. Some simply ignored the children and chose to remain dormant. Most of the world, however, took on the responsibility of properly raising these children and rebuilding civilization. Once their strength was recovered, everyone noticed that they hadn't aged much at all. They learned to divide their focus between their internal functions and contributing to society, and what was once seen as a debilitating handicap proved to be an inexhaustible asset. They taught the youth the lessons that their mistakes had taught them. With the fruits of knowledge came a craving for meat. After some time being weened onto a diet that could include meat, they needed to find a fresh new source. The children were happy to suggest a good place to find livestock. Each one knew the twisted path that delivered them to their new guardians, and they back tracked to a land with many ponds, shrubs, and cows. And the cow did not resist the axe, because it is a dumb tasty animal that humbly lives up to its natural and significant role in the world.
(1) Donny was a 398 lb pile of ingrown hairs and infected bed sores which were acquired from excessive online gaming. He maintained an erection for the 3 month duration of his career as he was ridden by 849 of the most horrified starlets, who were each required to act excited for a consecutive hour of bouncing on his erection, which was the only thing not obscured by flab. The fluid motion of his lopsided and indistinguishable torso region provided a revealing contrast to the gallery of fake titties. There was a busy vomit bucket at the foot of the bed. They were running low on women who needed the $400 when he finally met his end. Kerella Patches had recently become symptomatic; information she thought it prudent not to disclose to the director. She figured that a cluster of the most intense orgasms ever caught on film would boost her career. About ten minutes into her set, she unleashed an onslaught of euphoric expression, a battery of contortions and spasms and moans. Nobody noticed, but Donny died less than a minute after her first climactic twitch. She slid off the bed and noticed that he was still erect. He must have died just from watching her performance without actually getting off.
(2)Think just for a moment about how the world would react in the opposite situation: it is scientifically proven that all vegans are going to die of (blah) deficiency. As a vegan, you would be unable to escape the sneers and mockery of non-vegans. It wouldn't just be mockery from the uneducated and/or conservative pricks that can be easily ignored. It would be from everybody who has endured dating or being friends with someone who went through a "phase" in college, or anyone who has been confronted by a vegan zealot in front of a supermarket.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Common Ground
So The Ruler of the Universe wants every planet to elect a genre of music that most embodies its cultural and historical identity. This music will be broadcast to all space craft within 5 days travel distance in all directions from the planet, thus serving to welcome weary travelers and tourists. On the second Weekend of November, everybody will play their favorite music, and The Ruler of the Universe will tour the world and select the type of music heard most consistently.
Citizens of Earth were very excited about the chance to show off their good taste and witness the collective good taste of their civilization. There were even some reality shows where a couple dozen people lived in a big house and had to vote one another out based on their taste in music. Every show would erupt into bickering about vague generalizations about culture and human behavior, and every single debate would end with nothing settled and nothing learned, with people agreeing that everybody has a right to express their opinion.
With news of the musical election, the Subterranean Storage Dwellers recently started integrating themselves into society; or at least the parts that didn't bother them. The Subterranean Storage Dwellers are a society of mostly white men who decided that they aren't very fond of social interaction... or people. Since they couldn't crawl back into their mothers' wombs with all the the ammunition they were carrying, they decided to live in the closest thing they could devise: an underground 7' x 7' concrete enclosure with pink walls. "Somebody" (and nobody knows who) feeds them buckets of leftovers from the nearest Ponderosa Steakhouse buffet three times per day. It absolutely has to be Ponderosa. Jim Baker of Sheridan, WY was once caught accepting leftovers from the Golden Corral Buffet. The overlords of the society of Subterranean Storage Dwellers held a press conference announcing to the world that Jim Sheridan was not a true Subterranean Lard Creature but a pale obese misanthrope in a pink concrete box. The rest of the world couldn't tell the difference so they ignored it entirely as they have always done. The Subterranean Storage Dwellers held chapter meetings across the land to decide what music they will select. It was a short meeting because they have all done the exact same things at the exact same time as one another and have had the exact same experiences, so there was only one song even suggested.
So the big day came and the world was was full of rhythm and melody. The Ruler of the of the Universe was scanning the world with all the state-of-the-art sound data collection devices and hearing all completely different types of music:
Jazz. Country. Baroque. Rockabilly. Ska. First Generation Ska Revival. Second Gen. Ska Revival. Third Gen Ska Revival. Fourth Gen Ska Revival. Dubstep. New Wave. Hardcore. Grindcore. Metalcore. Nerdcore. Spazcore. Zydeco. Zouk. Rap. Romanian Techno. Romanian Trance. Transylvanian Romantic Techno. Edgar Winter Group. Pat Metheny Group. Blue Man Group. 9 Nordic Men Pouring a Bag of Wrenches Upon an Upturned Drum Kit Group. Spanish Gypsy Music. R & B. Tenacious D. Prog Rock. Kraut Rock. Pirate Rock. Crocodile Rock. Jam. Jock Jams. Mamie Jams. Indie. Folk. Tecnho. Indie folk with a little techno thrown in for good measure. World. Goth Industrial. Spanish Art Song. French Art Song. Old Fart Song. Pan flute.
-70% of Earth's population played no music, ostensibly because they didn't know how to operate a stereo or are indifferent to music altogether.
-28 million people said "Aaawwww shiiiit, that's my jam, yo!" 27.99 million were trying to be ironic.
-7 million relationships ended over song choices.
-11 Million people thought to themselves that they would have chosen a more obscure Radiohead song.
The Ruler of the Universe couldn't make any sense of it all except that he heard one song most often: "Margaritaville". It was initially announced that Classic Rock was the official genre of Earth, but the Subterranean Storage Dwellers protested that they only voted for "Margaritaville", nothing else. The rest of the world vehemently protested in one big garbled mess of colliding voices that the Ruler of the Universe couldn't understand and, given that the rest of the universe was still to be visited, didn't have time to figure out. So throughout the universe, Earth is represented specifically by the song "Margaritaville", while other planets treat listeners to an entire genre of music with immense variety and enchanting nuance. Whenever other beings headed towards Earth carrying new technology, culture, and cures to the latest diseases, they had to endure 5 days of nonstop "Margaritaville". In the first 3 months, 307 spacecraft intended to visit Earth, every single one turned around in less than 10 hours.
Slorb Sarzlebarts has it tough. He works two jobs and commutes across the galaxy once a month. He uses a shortcut that takes him right past Earth, which meant that he now had to listed to "Margaritaville" for 5 days going towards Earth, and another 5 days once he passes it... so 10 days straight during his monthly commute, "Margaritaville". He spent a while trying to decide if he would rather avoid the shortcut and add a week to his commute or just endure the torture. Then he remembered his planet-vaporizing proton laser. He scolded himself for considering that an option. "These poor fuckers must really have it rough," he thought. "It's probably all one huge misunderstanding that they selected "Margaritaville" as their best representation. They are probably trying to contact the Ruler of the Universe right now to correct the situation." Slorb decided to approach Earth's atmosphere and listen to our non-"Margaritaville" transmissions. The first thing he picked up was an FM radio talk show where some maniac was yelling at someone who called in to their talk show, "Do you not like hearing "Margaritaville"? If not, then you must hate Earth, and I don't think you should be entitled to the same freedoms we all enjoy. If you don't like "Margaritaville", then you should just move to another planet because you are a real threat to our culture and our happiness. Everybody loves Margaritaville. Our troops fought and died for Margaritaville!" Slorb navigated to a safe distance and mercifully destroyed Earth, and the rest of the universe pretended not to notice, but they marveled as a mysterious remote cloud of debris spiraled brilliantly into the sun like salt spilled from a shaker.
Citizens of Earth were very excited about the chance to show off their good taste and witness the collective good taste of their civilization. There were even some reality shows where a couple dozen people lived in a big house and had to vote one another out based on their taste in music. Every show would erupt into bickering about vague generalizations about culture and human behavior, and every single debate would end with nothing settled and nothing learned, with people agreeing that everybody has a right to express their opinion.
With news of the musical election, the Subterranean Storage Dwellers recently started integrating themselves into society; or at least the parts that didn't bother them. The Subterranean Storage Dwellers are a society of mostly white men who decided that they aren't very fond of social interaction... or people. Since they couldn't crawl back into their mothers' wombs with all the the ammunition they were carrying, they decided to live in the closest thing they could devise: an underground 7' x 7' concrete enclosure with pink walls. "Somebody" (and nobody knows who) feeds them buckets of leftovers from the nearest Ponderosa Steakhouse buffet three times per day. It absolutely has to be Ponderosa. Jim Baker of Sheridan, WY was once caught accepting leftovers from the Golden Corral Buffet. The overlords of the society of Subterranean Storage Dwellers held a press conference announcing to the world that Jim Sheridan was not a true Subterranean Lard Creature but a pale obese misanthrope in a pink concrete box. The rest of the world couldn't tell the difference so they ignored it entirely as they have always done. The Subterranean Storage Dwellers held chapter meetings across the land to decide what music they will select. It was a short meeting because they have all done the exact same things at the exact same time as one another and have had the exact same experiences, so there was only one song even suggested.
So the big day came and the world was was full of rhythm and melody. The Ruler of the of the Universe was scanning the world with all the state-of-the-art sound data collection devices and hearing all completely different types of music:
Jazz. Country. Baroque. Rockabilly. Ska. First Generation Ska Revival. Second Gen. Ska Revival. Third Gen Ska Revival. Fourth Gen Ska Revival. Dubstep. New Wave. Hardcore. Grindcore. Metalcore. Nerdcore. Spazcore. Zydeco. Zouk. Rap. Romanian Techno. Romanian Trance. Transylvanian Romantic Techno. Edgar Winter Group. Pat Metheny Group. Blue Man Group. 9 Nordic Men Pouring a Bag of Wrenches Upon an Upturned Drum Kit Group. Spanish Gypsy Music. R & B. Tenacious D. Prog Rock. Kraut Rock. Pirate Rock. Crocodile Rock. Jam. Jock Jams. Mamie Jams. Indie. Folk. Tecnho. Indie folk with a little techno thrown in for good measure. World. Goth Industrial. Spanish Art Song. French Art Song. Old Fart Song. Pan flute.
-70% of Earth's population played no music, ostensibly because they didn't know how to operate a stereo or are indifferent to music altogether.
-28 million people said "Aaawwww shiiiit, that's my jam, yo!" 27.99 million were trying to be ironic.
-7 million relationships ended over song choices.
-11 Million people thought to themselves that they would have chosen a more obscure Radiohead song.
The Ruler of the Universe couldn't make any sense of it all except that he heard one song most often: "Margaritaville". It was initially announced that Classic Rock was the official genre of Earth, but the Subterranean Storage Dwellers protested that they only voted for "Margaritaville", nothing else. The rest of the world vehemently protested in one big garbled mess of colliding voices that the Ruler of the Universe couldn't understand and, given that the rest of the universe was still to be visited, didn't have time to figure out. So throughout the universe, Earth is represented specifically by the song "Margaritaville", while other planets treat listeners to an entire genre of music with immense variety and enchanting nuance. Whenever other beings headed towards Earth carrying new technology, culture, and cures to the latest diseases, they had to endure 5 days of nonstop "Margaritaville". In the first 3 months, 307 spacecraft intended to visit Earth, every single one turned around in less than 10 hours.
Slorb Sarzlebarts has it tough. He works two jobs and commutes across the galaxy once a month. He uses a shortcut that takes him right past Earth, which meant that he now had to listed to "Margaritaville" for 5 days going towards Earth, and another 5 days once he passes it... so 10 days straight during his monthly commute, "Margaritaville". He spent a while trying to decide if he would rather avoid the shortcut and add a week to his commute or just endure the torture. Then he remembered his planet-vaporizing proton laser. He scolded himself for considering that an option. "These poor fuckers must really have it rough," he thought. "It's probably all one huge misunderstanding that they selected "Margaritaville" as their best representation. They are probably trying to contact the Ruler of the Universe right now to correct the situation." Slorb decided to approach Earth's atmosphere and listen to our non-"Margaritaville" transmissions. The first thing he picked up was an FM radio talk show where some maniac was yelling at someone who called in to their talk show, "Do you not like hearing "Margaritaville"? If not, then you must hate Earth, and I don't think you should be entitled to the same freedoms we all enjoy. If you don't like "Margaritaville", then you should just move to another planet because you are a real threat to our culture and our happiness. Everybody loves Margaritaville. Our troops fought and died for Margaritaville!" Slorb navigated to a safe distance and mercifully destroyed Earth, and the rest of the universe pretended not to notice, but they marveled as a mysterious remote cloud of debris spiraled brilliantly into the sun like salt spilled from a shaker.
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