We get a lot of emails here at world headquarters – angry rants, marriage proposals, declarations of undying fealty, etc. Generally, I just forward those along to my personal assistant, who dutifully categorizes them by subject, prints them out on paper pilfered from the local grammar school, binds them in harp seal skin, and stacks them in the storage closet. Then, we use them to soak up bong water spills, or as emergency bum wipe for visiting celebrities.
However, a consistent theme in these missives has come to my attention of late which I feel I must address. Put simply, my illustrious, single-digit fan base of those with, shall we say, less than stellar social lives demands to know the reason for my long absence. Where, they ask, is the self-indulgent prattle, the long-winded ranting about President Monkey Boy and the declining state of everything, and the impotent shaking of the pudgy fist at the world’s injustices and their perpetrators?
That’s a question I’ve been asking my own self. I mean, I pay the hosting for this silly blog, so why not use it. I do have a lot to say, and I write at least as well as the average hack stringer for Newsweek. Well, more entertainingly at least. Syntax isn’t everything. I should get points for bong water references, if nothing else.
But seriously folks, lemme break it down for you. It goes something like this, in no particular order; apathy, confusion, conflict, misguided attempts at reconciliation, heart break, avarice, boat varnishing, bong hits, self-indulgence, laziness, rage, self-consciousness, laziness again, masturbation and ignorance. That’s the short list.
And then, in a blinding fit of unbridled epiphany, it came to me. This goofy shit isn’t about you, or bettering the world, or, god forbid, trying to educate people. It’s all about me. Praise Jebus! What a load off. Nobody reads this crap anyway, so why not spew my thoughts down here after a half-dozen PBR’s. It’s not like anybody’s paying attention. I can’t tell you what a relief that’s been, because come to realize, I actually enjoy spewing. So, from now on, I shall endeavor to share my thoughts on a semi-regular basis, and the world shall be absolutely no better for it. You’re welcome.
Maybe it has more to do with my inner sense of the absurd. Take aforementioned President Monkey Boy, for instance. Used to be, just the sound of his voice, the squint of his eyes, his stuttering, retard drawl was enough to send me into a fit of rage. No longer. For one thing, I studiously avoid having to see, hear or think about him. No, I haven’t become one of those too-school-for-school, above it all, cynical, hipster douche bags. I’d rather castrate myself with a rusty tuna can lid than indulge in that level or pretension.
I still give a shit, fear not. I think I give even more of shit than before, because now my “consciousness”, such as it is, has at least moved beyond blind rage for the half-witted, Mayberry jackals currently running the world. And now I feel, oddly enough, some sense of peace. It’s also a sort of breathy weightlessness, like the heady feeling you get right after the roller coaster crests that first big hill, and right before it starts plummeting into the abyss.
Because, let’s face it, the abyss is what we’re all staring into. I guess I just stopped trying to deny that that’s where we’re heading, and now I’m going to try to enjoy the ride. I’m also going to work at it, build my websites to educate people on how to fuck up the world a little bit less, and try to live in loving kindness, or, failing that, self-righteous indignation and rage.
I’m going to try to shorten the length of time I spend in self-indulgent despair, and appreciate all those little beauties; the sunlight on the water, the cry of a raven, the sound of crashing surf, a good bourbon and ginger ale, a smile from a cute girl, love of family and friends, and a good chat with a like-minded stranger.
Cuz, this crazy experiment is all we got, and it’s ugly and brutish and mean, and also so damn precious and beautiful. And who says we can’t give a shit and still have a good time, or live in loving kindness and also seriously break some shit? As we witness the spastic death rattle of modern civilization in the coming few decades, something tells me we’re all going to find out.