That’s right, DISTURB. What? That isn’t clear? Well of course it isn’t, and you can’t really do much with it now can ya. No you can’t. But if you notice the status line it says DO NOT and really, I’m not even kidding.
It isn’t even very clever is it, but that’s how they do. Half a line here, half a line there, and then there’s someone cutting in just to embellish just a little and none of it makes any sense and they can all kiss my ass.
What, you don’t get it? It’s simple really. I’ll give ya an example. Pull into a parking spot, get out, feed the meter, walk a block. Some clown passes going the other way talking on a cell phone. He sayz: “They’re onto you . . .” and so of course if this isn’t exactly your first time around the block but you’re still stuck on the porch then of course you are going “huh?” with an extreme degree of fear even if there really is nothing in your history or background all that momentous and the reason is that hey, the fuckers really are clever and they are killers after all, even if you can’t prove anything and besides, they really do mean you and you know it and they’re onto you and you just know it’s true because hey, they just said so . . .
And your stomach is so tied up in a knot you don’t even take the time to really think about what it means, really, because if you did stop to think about it then there could only be one rational response and that is
WHO GIVES A FUCK.
I mean hey, they’re just trying to undermine your system of belief and sense in self to say nothing of reality or your place in it, aren’t they?
REally. But with your stomach all tied up in knots you never think of all that, and there’s no time anyway because only six paces after the clown on the phone there’s an old guy and he has a green vest on and because of the color and age you think maybe he’s neutral or maybe, just maybe he’s a part of the natural framework but on his vest there’s a logo, it’s a Jaguar and he is walking toward you and there at the curb is a small British sports car and now it won’t even matter what make or model it is, because the license plate sayz something short, affirmative, and completely in context while the old guy in the green vest makes a hand signal and a small sound that sounds like ‘ya.’
And of course none of it makes any sense and there is only one reason why it doesn’t make any sense and that is because it really isn’t supposed to. No it isn’t, is it. And the reason it isn’t supposed to make any sense is because people really weren’t meant to live their lives chasing after nitwits who lack the courage or the sense to talk in whole sentences and MAKE EYE CONTACT WHILE SPEAKING TO THE PERSON WHOM THEY ARE ADDRESSING.
So just envision for a moment, I’ve turned my back. I grab one cheek.
Don’t worry. If you really aren’t sure who I’m talking to then maybe, just maybe, you aren’t a nitwit after all and obviously, I’m not referring to you.
Back to the scenario – you soon, and I mean very soon, step into a coffee shop because it’s a part of habit, of routine, and you drink a lot of coffee, when some girl walks in behind you and she coughs once and by the sound you can easily tell, she’s just getting over a really nasty bout of something that entered her lungs and hung around for days and days – and according to the news the statistical probability is that it was bird flu and they know that because even if they don’t test every single individual it’s the same sampling process that goes into calculating election results and we all remember John McCain conceding the presidential election at 11 pm eastern, which is exactly the time the California polls closed and you know they hadn’t counted the ballots in California when he made that speech. They hadn’t counted even one. And yet, regardless of his concession, the sampling process is itself sufficiently accurate to make such a response by a presidential contender something that appears completely rational.
So, you know. It’s statistically probable, she’s getting over bird flu, you haven’t had your vaccination yet because you can’t get it, and they are onto you.
So do you think that means they are going to kill you with bird flu? Or is it simply that they know that bird flu is currently your big fear?
Just shoot me already and be done with it. I mean really. Can you imagine spending the next two years living in the midst of this kind of guerilla theater? Me either. So shoot me. Or give me the flu. I’m sure it would most likely result in my demise. Who gives a fuck?
I’ve been busy working on my truck lately, there’s been a lot to do. I’ll give you an example. I wanted to change the distributor cap this afternoon. Sounds simple enough doesn’t it? Sure. One of the small hold down screws has corroded enough so that a socket won’t fit it anymore, and the phillips head is so full of crud and so worn that the screw driver won’t grip it either. Imagine that. It’s only been in a year, but it ain’t coming out. The sensible thing to do at this point is pull the distributor but that usually requires locating cylinder number one at top dead center. If you don’t know what that means well don’t worry, it really isn’t important what it means, because the only salient point here is that to find this obscure location in the rotation of cam lobes and main bearings is usually best done with the distributor cap off which in this case is the whole point of removing the distributor in the first place, to facilitate distributor cap removal.
There are other ways of locating what is commonly known as TDC, but hey. Since the truck bed serves as my work bench and I don’t have a vise attached to the bed I say fuck it. I’ll drill the head of that screw with the whole thing in place. I’ll stuff a bunch of metal filings from the drill down through the throttle body and once I have a new cap on I’ll run the piss out of it. Drill shavings will either flow with the vast quantities of air I’ll shove through the valves as I pour gasoline by the gallon through the intake using my foot wedged against the firewall with the accelerator pedal sandwiched between just to see if I can make it thinner. Those filings will either flow out the tail pipe and away, or they’ll fuse to the valve seat . . .
and then I’ll get a hammer . . .
Either way, it sounds to me like that would be exactly the day for someone else to go jogging . . .
And as for the distributor cap? Drill baby Drill I say. What do I care? Snow’s coming and I have to get this done. So like I said at the beginning:
DO NOT DISTURB.
Someone called the house today while I was out chasing parts. Never mind about the parts I was chasing, it’s yet another long story and I don’t want to get into it - and I don’t even care whether you really wanna hear it or not.
Someone called the house. Said they were from some outfit called RESORTCENTRAL.COM. They want to give me two lottery tickets, and a shopping spree, an eight day vacation anywhere in the U.S., Canada or Mexico, four hundred in cash to spend while on vacation, and one or two other things. The message said to call 1.800.303.5530 and that I should speak to someone named Liz. So I called, just to be a prick. The automated system insisted I press zero. Twice.
That’s double zero, in case you missed it. Double 0. “Leave a message.” No thanks I said. It doesn’t work that way. I want a contract, and it’ll include cash, not lottery tickets, fuckers. That’s what I said. I said “I want a contract, fuckers” and I left that on their machine. I mean really. If I’m going to go on vacation I plan to go somewhere where I know guerrilla theater isn’t. At this point that would be deep in the woods with no one around, thanks.
Besides, snow is coming. I have to get that truck done.
So you know I did just burn someone’s cover, you do know that, don’t cha? That’s right I did. And if I had to guess I’d say it was someone who did their home work and timed that little practical joke to coincide with one of the television script scenarios . . . it was on last night, the NSA using a segment of the entertainment industry as a cover as they engage in international conspiracy and the subversion of security. Nice timing. Like I said, they did their homework. And it is a practical joke I’m sure. No doubt designed to leave me senseless and raving in some strange city or something, penniless and pouting. PISS OFF.
Ya know I spent the rest of the afternoon with all of that nonsense hovering in the back of my mind as I try to get this truck ready for snow. I’ve got things to do. I don’t have time for these nitwits. I dicked around all summer watching little local networks, and networks of networks, light up and close down only to get reinvented and I’m sick of it. The fuckers engineer dead cops in motor cycle accidents, cancer researchers disappear into the basement of their research facilities only to turn up a week later dead, knife fights at school dances where UCONN HUSKY logos parade and I am sick of it. Did I pop online screaming the day we had two mass shootings take place ON THE SAME GODDAMNED DAY?
No I did not. DO NOT DISTURB I said. I know the fuckers heard me the first time.
Shoot me, or piss off.
That’s right, a behaviorist and an engineer, both off on shooting sprees on the same day. You don’t really believe THAT is some strange coincidence, do ya? And the President seems to think the men and women slain died serving the country. I do hate to disagree with the President, but that obviously isn’t the case, unless you happen to believe that stopping the bullets of madmen with your body and so your life is somehow in the national interest. And there are those who believe so, I’m sure, the sick bastards. I’m also sure that isn’t what the President meant, he just hadn’t thought it all through. They are murder victims, like any of the others, and we have lots of them.
The schrink spent some of his early educational days at VIRGINIA TECH. You remember that place, right? They had a shooting of their own. If it were up to me I would begin a very close scrutiny of the grants received by a few select disciplines at that facility, but that’s me. And I wouldn’t confine myself to Virginia Tech either. I’d expand from there to include the university in California in the community where the high school kids are committing suicide on the railroad tracks because I mean hey, if they are in Virginia Tech creating mass killers then why not in California engineering high school suicides? And after that, I’d just keep going.
Just don’t expect any of the grant apps to be written in plain English. It’s all done by allegory, and while some of it may be fairly blatant it’s only because they think they are untouchable.
And maybe they are. If they are using a lot of the same terms as others in related fields, it can be a bit challenging to isolate the real scumbags from among the various players. Just don’t be fooled into thinking it’s isolated, because it isn’t. It’s fairly extensive, and a lot of those using like terms are just trying to keep their heads down and get by. It’s crazy. It IS crazy. It needs to stop. But nobody is listening to me, so . . .
DO NOT DISTURB I said. I’m quite serious and don’t even think I’m half way rational. I’m not. Not when they leave little Laura Winterbottoms’ raped and murdered across the street from my old apartment or well liked educators dead on the stage of the soon to open play titled The Wizard of Oz because I really wasn’t over the first and that was really quite some time ago.
I mean I could show you how it’s done and it isn’t that hard to do. A hundred volunteers, a pile of sexual predator’s profiles, and in six months I’ll have a few of them going off on cue all on the basis of their own behavior supplemented with a bit of suggestion. That’s easy. Getting two mass shootings to come off on the same day, now that takes skillz. Never mind that a new Secretary of the Army was seated the following day, that’s just how they do and nobody even gets it so don’t even try.
I tried starting a fight at the parts store ten days ago. I did. I don’t know why really since the two of them together didn’t amount to more than ten pounds of shit in a fifty pound bag but I did, I tried to start a fight. One of them walked into the store and from the look on his face I could tell he hasn’t drawn a sober breath in over a year and probably closer to ten. And yet he drove himself to the store.
He did. I asked.
And grinned like I would think it was funny.
It was a bit interesting to watch how some in the store responded to the tirade that followed. Some cringed like they wanted to be anywhere else in the world. Others kept silent, and interestedly watchful. I learned from a few of the later group that the two went into an aisle down back and the keys got passed. That was good news, but I followed them out of the store anywayz. The kid who took the keys had been drinking too. While he was obviously a lot closer to the legal limit than his pal, I had no way to verify, so I pushed, and I kept pushing. The little punk wanted me to mind my own business so I stuck my nose in his face and inhaled.
That was around ten days ago like I said, so I guess he didn’t have bird flu.
But he had had at least one drink and his buddy, well. I offered them a choice. A cab, or a cop. Take your pick. Interestingly enough, someone not far away said “That’s what he does.” Really. That’s what happened.
What they failed to mention was that I have, over time, begun to escalate just a bit. I do try to mind my manners and be polite, but when I find myself surrounded by nitwits I get agitated. It’s gotten worse over time. I think it must be too many dead people.
Of course I drove home after calling in the plate number to the local cop shop and while some of the boyz in the parts store cheered it didn’t make me feel any better. No it didn’t. In fact I soon found myself wiping my eyes and sniveling like a little baby and attempting to hide this humiliating little display from the other passing drivers - that’s when I started to snarl like some feral animal - and the reason why is because that’s how Jack died. First he got clipped by an oil truck in the fender and while the southern hick rednecks got out their notebooks to synchronize their response a drunk plowed through the scene of the accident and sent Jack flying. I understand the drunk got away with it too, even though he had no license and was actually born in another country. It seems he was a resident of the state where the accident occurred, and Jack was not, and so the fact he had left the scene, had no license, and was intoxicated all counted for very little. Hard to believe, but that’s what Jack’s family said, and they indicated they had retained an attorney down there to help facilitate the case, to no avail. So much for justice in the land of Dixey.
That’s just how they do. I would plot a road trip, but hey. Who knows. The engineer might actually be right here.
Make no mistake. That all came out fairly reasonable and down to earth, but the facts are the facts, and they are unmistakable. I was, sniveling, like a little baby.
You should have seen that hunted snarl.
And Jack? He’s been gone for several years now.
And the new guy seems to think he wants two years of my life. It’s all ambiguous of course, and likely won’t serve any purpose other than to increase both my hatred and my disdain . . .
Of course there isn’t much I can do really. I don’t have any control over the networks of nitwits – no more than I do over the tv - and it seemed to take forever to get the FCC to pull the McDonalds - Coke ad featuring “fistbump fireworks” that first aired on Sunday, May 31, 2009, the day Dr. George Tiller was slain.
Speaking of Coke, did you hear they have teamed up with some group of medical professionals? It seems they want to assist in providing the public with dietary advice. Sounds to me like science bending to the needs of public relations. I guess neither McDonalds nor Coke has much interest in the national movement to reduce obesity and improve quality of life for Americans because hey, we’re all much more profitable the more we consume. The bastards.
As for the new guy, there is a thing he should consider, very, very carefully. A pair of them really. The first is he should ask himself if I actually know his face or not. He would know. Either that was him in TradeWinds the first time we met, or not. I think it was.
The second is I’m already fucked up. And over time I have been escalating. I’ve even taken up brake dancing in major intersections on occasion. And the little suggestions I’ve seen indicating that just maybe that’s really bad behavior? They seem to only have a limited effect, and the whole reason why is obvious. I just don’t give a fuck. And he thinks he wants Two years? TWO MORE YEARS? Really.
That leaves me with a pair of questions - or rather, one. Either or . . . maybe . . . anywayz, I just wonder, can he live with the consequences? Or will he have to?
As for me, I already know this isn’t going to turn out well, and it isn’t is it. Of course not. How can it? It never ends.
© D. Winter
November 18, 2009