Comes now the hot, hard days of summer. Just around the bend. I have been privileged to witness, if privileged is the proper term, great hatred, and vitriol, and animosity amongst us, even during the dry winter season, when passions generally run to the complacent. People of nominal political persuasion castigating their fellow man. Folk who normally only gin up the requisite civic duty on a four year cycle gnashing teeth at their perceived enemy. It is unbespoke, unholy, and highly unusual.
It is also a good thing.
I personally could never be truly beholden to a position, be it political or personal, that did not infuriate someone, somewhere. Pissing off one's fellow man is the essence of liberty and freedom. And if one is not pissing off someone, then one is without true conviction.
Here's a thought: when I was eighteen years old I found myself standing in a train station in Malaga, Spain, there to take a short trip to the Spanish Riviera resort of Torremolinos. I held thirteen dollars in my pocket, and a bottle of the local skullpop, and felt myself the poorest man in the world. Until I felt a squishy aberration underfoot, and looked down to see I was standing upon the rubber waders of a young Spaniard, about my own age, who possessed no legs. The rubber waders he apparently attached to himself for the sole benefit of dragging himself around train depots so as to entangle himself with potential benefactors.
I gave the poor brute a pull of my skullpop and five of my dollars, and hefted him to a nearby bench. Not because I was a good man. I was not. I still presume I am not. I gave it to him to alleviate my momentary guilt, and because it was something my mother would have expected me to do.
My mother was very big on doing nice things for those unfortunate people she found herself surrounded with at times. She'd grown up poor in south Georgia in the Depression, and she liked to do nice things for people later when she had the money and opportunity.
She still considered them niggers, of course, but she never said that outright (very often), and I think her heart was in the right place.
So: what ties polemical acerbity with noblesse oblige to an unknown, legless Spaniard? Or a poor black lady on the back of the bus? I'm not sure, other than my conviction that the institutionalisation of noblesse oblige has made us a coarser, more angry people. It all boils down to expectations.
Once a hapless citizen is denied the kindness of a stranger because he possesses the expectation that the Government Integral will dispense it in lieu of the stranger, along with a salt tablet and a quarter of cheese, the social compact has been broken. Kindness is no longer required, nor is thanks.
It's all of a thing. Today I would likely direct that Spaniard to a help booth. There's an app for that, you poor legless fuck. Get on board. Just don't look to me for help. I gave at the 15th of April festivities. Nothing here for you now.
It's a sad thing, but it was inevitable. There ain't nothing we can do as individuals that the government can't do more poorly, more insensitively, and more inefficiently.
It's the American Way.
Ever go to one of those state or national parks with a gorge, or canyon? There's always a ledge you can walk out on, and scrunch your tippy toes over the edge, and look down at the vastness, and the depth, and think Fuck. I'm an inch away from Death.
Then the vertigo kicks in, because we don't even have the primordial recklessness of the damn monkey, and you get a bit dizzy, and your eyes roll back in your head for a moment. Only a moment. And you step away. To safety. To the net.
My toes have been hanging over the precipice for a couple of months now. And, yes. My eyes be rolling back in my head like a fucking porn star. But I just can't do the natural thing, and step back from the chasm. That would be pure boredom. An intolerable state of affairs.
Here's the rub: even a psychotic like me could use a little companionship now and then, even if only to berate them for their fore-ordained ignorance. (That would be my one joke I'm offering here).
Fact is, I wouldn't have anyone who would have me. On a Venn Diagram them circles would not touch. Problematic.
I don't have much to offer in the way of empathy, or compassion. That's for the fellows in the insurance commercials who want to leave a Family Well Provided For. I want someone who inherits a bag of shit of bills. Who has to cremate me for price considerations, and then has to field threatening calls from my bookie while her car is being repossessed, even as she's thinking I was just slapping my titties in his face yesterday, the poor guy. And that demographic is pretty fucking skinny.
No, the girl I often think I want would force me to church, and attempt to cure me of sloth. That would be frightful. On the other hand, she would not have tattooes, the millenial indication of a brain damaged by groupthink and poseurism. How do you get a fucking tattoo, anywhats? As soon as one gets the bastard, one thinks of something better. I prefer scribbling with a Sharpie on my nutsack. Things like Tao! And Get Some Bread Today! Because I am invariably somewhere around my nutsack at some point during a typical day. Form and function. See?
At any rate, prospects are bleak, unless I find a slightly addle-pated woman with the breasts of Jayne Mansfield, Tourette Syndrome, a penny lodged in the cognitive portion of her brain, and the vagina of a circus midget.
There has to four or five of them out there.
There are several ways a fellow can change his luck, and I am in need of a change about now. Fortuna has spun her wheel several times, and all against the grain of my good fortune.
The classic way, at least in these parts, would be to finalize a financial transaction with one of the dusky maidens for hire that stroll down my sidewalk on occasion. As the Senator was wont to tell me when I was a mere stripling, "You aren't a southern gentleman until you cut the chocolate cake, boy."
Well, now, the improprieties both social and legal of commercial sex aside, I don't believe I'm quite there yet. I am, however, considering that other great exercise in reversal of fortune: the capture of an albino. As Erskine Caldwell so delicately informed us in God's Little Acre, albinos can find treasure long buried or hidden from we normals. Doubloons, pieces of eight, even pocket change and the occasional penknife. It must be metal, I believe. To my understanding the albino cannot ascertain buried paper tender. But that's just scrip anyway, foisted upon us by a bankrupt government, eh?
They're like fucking leprechauns, these albinos. Plus one does not have to deal with the Irish in the process, the codswaddlers. Albeit, like leprechauns, the albino must be captive. Why, he's not just going to walk up and give you the booty. He acts upon duress, unfortunately, and you must be prepared to use coercion, stringent coercion if necessary, to force him to bely his gifts.
I love it when a plan comes together. Of course, all I have now is duct tape, a Taser, and a divining rod. I'm not sure if them albinos can't dowse for treasure. Better to be prepared. You know, between us girls, I haven't actually seen any albinos in this cracker-assed county, but that's because they hide out. I just haven't gone deep enough into the woods. That's about to change. Wish me luck.
The game? Afoot.