Sunday, July 10, 2011

Out of Context Ramble #3: The Little Drug-Riddled Narcissist


This, my dear Reader, is the unconstructed dream space. This, unfortunately, is something that cannot be controlled, bought, persuaded, or bargained for. This is what happens when you’re sitting down blissfully and totally unaware of your surroundings. Whether it is on the bus, in your classroom, church, whatever, the location isn’t the important part. We’ve all done it, haven’t we? We’ve been stuck somewhere astronomically boring, listening to Professor Caterpillars-For-Eyebrows give his biannual lecture on the chemical composition of dirt and then, it happens. There’s that little moment. That click. That fizz. That pop. When all of a sudden we’re not really there any more. We’re somewhere else entirely. Why listen to a lecture on dirt when you can be a flying penguin with laser turrets for arms or wonder what would happen if you ate an entire loaf of bread in one go.

Just on a little side note, Microsoft Word did this to my article:



Now why is it that the two outlying sentence fragments have copped it but “That fizz” has gone completely without punishment? Like one sentence fragment would have been totally fine but three? “Oh, Tom, you must be completely mad to DARE to try and use three sentence fragments.”

I don’t understand you sometimes, Microsoft Word…

As you can probably already tell, keeping the mind on the same track is something that is exceedingly difficult for someone like myself. For me, the mind is like The Little Engine That Could, except that the Little Engine is more like The Little Engine Piloted by The Little Drug-Riddled Narcissist. There’s no hope for the Engine, really. It’s going to accelerate, de-rail, and crash into a Little Gorge where hundreds of Little Passengers won’t be going home to their Little Husbands/Wives/Littlest Children. There’ll be a trial held within the hallowed halls of the Little Courtroom and The Little Drug-Riddled Train Conductor will be posthumously sentenced to hang. They’ll send their best group of Little Mountaineers down into the gorge to collect his body parts where an expert team of Little Surgeons will piece him back together. Then they’ll hang him. All at great expense to the Little Taxpayers, of course.

Now, if you’re still reading, congratulations. You survived whatever the Hell you could possibly call that jumble, up there. Those previous Ramblings were dangerously close to become too Ramblesome. (Yes, Language Police, you’ve caught me; “ramblesome” is not actually a real word. I’m sorry, ok?) It’s a fine line, believe it or not. Treading the delicate waters between Too Sensible and Mind-Numbingly Confusing. Right now I fear that I’m leaning slightly towards the Confusing side of the river (that’s right, now there’s a metaphorical river involved. Try to keep up, will you?)

Also, the other night as I was leaving work I was in a bit of a hurry so I wrote my shifts for next week on my wrist, like so:

The Prophet Sayeth
 
Then on my way home I stopped into a fast food place to get something to eat. All fairly legitimate so far, right? When I ordered my food the girl behind the counter obviously saw my pen written shifts on my wrist and then said at a rate of about 13 words a second: “Wow-I-really-like-your-tattoo-I-hate-it-when-people-get-the-same-crappy-tattoos-that-everyone-else-has-I’d-really-like-to-get-a-tattoo-but-I-don’t-know-what-I’d-like-to-get-because-I’d-like-it-to-be-meaningful-you-know-I-don’t-want-it-to-be-something-boring-like-what-everyone-else-has-yours-is-cool-what-does-it-mean?” Now, I don’t consider myself to be an unkind person, usually I tend to have a very long fuse, but I was tired and feeling a bit off-centre, so instead of saying something polite and gentle to correct her, the little devil on my shoulder won out and then this happened:

Me: “Oh, it’s like an ancient Aztec ritual thing. You know, like the whole 2012 calendar thing, but with Aztecs not Mayans.”

Dumbzilla: “Wow! I’ve never heard of that one. So what does it mean?”

Me: “Basically the same as the Mayan one, except that the Aztecs believed that it was the date that aliens will finally come to Earth, instead of the apocalypse.”

Dumbzilla: “Oh, really? That’s pretty scary. Are they meant to be friendly aliens?”

Me: “Oh yeah, totally. They’ll be cool. Sort of like snakes, you know, the whole more scared of us than we are of them thing…”


In hindsight I feel like I may have been too imaginative with what I told the girl, surely she wouldn’t actually believe that for a second. But then on the other hand maybe I just made her life genuinely interesting for the first time ever. Maybe she went home that night and told her friends and family about the Man with the Prophetic Tattoo on his Wrist, like I was the patron saint of that particular fast food chain or something. Maybe in a thousand years there will be statues in city squares of a giant disembodied wrist with half a dozen letters and numbers printed on it.

Maybe I could get some kind of t-shirt sponsorship deal, who knows?

The moral of the story is:

The world is full of possibilities. And don’t work at fast food chains, because the customers won't respect you and will definitely mind-fuck you for shits and giggles.


- Tom

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