Monday, February 21, 2005

The original plan, if I may reminisce for an evening, was to turn our enterprise into a family-friendly destination, a brand that would leap instantly to mind between episodes of Sesame Street and rounds of Dogopoly. Secondhand Rants? Gee wilikers, momma, I would prefer it over tapioca pudding and my weekly allowance.

And then, for reasons I will never unearth, we took a seriously wrong turn somewhere and drove straight into a ditch. Readers smart and eclectic, gentle readers such as yourself, aided in perverting our unflappable moral compass. I believe you actually ripped the glass face clean off the device and started playing with the needle, twisting it and bending it in unseemly directions. Yes, it’s entirely your fault.

Our title is also at fault. A rant, by its very nature, lives extremely far away from love letters, poems, cups of giggles, that sort of business. It’s an angry form of speech. That’s why things work differently around these parts. Since Sesame Street should still be fresh in our minds, let’s use the beloved series to illustrate this point. Observe.

[Warm, Fuzzy, Ooshy-Gooshy Land of Make-believe]
“Good day, Oscar! What a wonderful morning! Notice my lustrous yellow plumes, you grumpy green creature, and marvel at how I manage to keep clean without showering,” says Big Bird on a sunny morning.

“Indeed it is a miracle, my happy yellow friend, but alas I’m damned to a life of depression. Oh, and I’m fused to a trash can,” replies our favorite misanthrope.

“Oscar! I’m having trouble speaking without exclamation marks! For starters, we never, ever use the ‘D’ word,” admonishes the Bird.

“You mean da–” but Oscar is cut short.

“Yes, that word, we never use it. We farm out the work of explaining vulgarities to Bert, Ernie, and Count Chocula, or whatever he’s called,” he chirps.

“You mean the funny-looking purple guy?” Oscar asks. “Don’t trust him. He isn’t from the States. Here, have some rotten eggs.”

“Thank you, Oscar! I love how you SHARE. Sharing, kids, got that? Also xenophobia,” explains Big Bird to the viewers. “Another concept we’ll learn today is BEING THANKFUL FOR WHAT YOU HAVE.”

“But I don’t have anything!” wails Oscar.

“There, there, my putrid companion. You have your garbage can, don’t you?” says Big Bird patiently, condescendingly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do,” admits Oscar after a pause. “You know, you’re right! Omigosh, I found my exclamation mark! Happy days are here again!”

[Our Town]
“Good day, Oscar! What a wonderful morning! Notice my lustrous yellow plumes, you grumpy green creature, and marvel at how I manage to keep clean without showering,” says Big Bird on a sunny morning.

“Shut up, you gangly moron! Shut up! Shut the hell up, you damn fool clown! How’s that for exclamation points, eh? Only reason you’re here is because some subsistence farmer dropped you off near Chernobyl because you were too freakish to eat!” screams Oscar.

“Oscar? You need a hug. Let me give you a hug,” says Big Bird quickly and patronizingly. “Come here, you fuzzy wuzzy.”

“Don’t touch me, I’m warning you! I don’t have too many months to live, plus you might infect me with your AVIAN FLU. Hear that, kids? It’s right up there with frickin’ SARS. DAMN SARS. DAMN AVIAN FLU. DAMN, DAMN, DAMN,” Oscar continues to fly off the handle.

“The kids, Oscar, think of the kids!” cries Big Bird as he backs toward the adjoining street, Opium Boulevard.

“No, I’m done thinking about the kids. Finito. I hate them! Here, why don’t you take this used condom I found in my ‘living room’ and stuff it in your artificially orange beak? That should fill my sharing quota for the day,” yells Oscar with a slam of his fist.

“But Oscar, aren’t you thankful for a home? I know a lot of people who would give so much to be in your place!” reminds Big Bird cheerily.

“Like who?” shoots back Oscar.

“Um–”

“Exactly what I thought. I hate this no-frills metal can. It’s an unmitigated piece of shit. Hear that, kids? We learned another word today! UNMITIGATED. And SHIT!” he growls.

“Oscar!”

“I’m not thankful for this, you big yellow turd!” concludes Oscar. “I only fly Rubbermaid. Don’t you forget that.”

[Unrepentant]
This is how it goes. Let’s talk about bumper stickers tomorrow.

Friday, February 18, 2005

I went to a fortuneteller during lunch today, gentle reader, and after I paid her five clams she settled into ethereal silence.

“By the spirit of my dead terrier, I know what you must do!” she abruptly shouted out of her reverie.

“What?” I asked, my eyes darting to the exit.

“You must talk about Lent, because your readers haven’t heard enough about it this week,” and that was the sound of my five dollars disappearing.

Minutes later, the men-in-white broke down the door, wrapped her in a straitjacket, and brought her home.

This is the last time I talk about Lent until March 26. I started my sugar embargo thinking it’d be easy, an amusement I’d bat around and later call a fad. Yesterday I went to the supermarket believing it was, by all accounts, a place for buying stuff to eat, when in fact it turned out to be a library. Every label met careful scrutiny. Sugar. Corn syrup. Fructose. Even dextrose. All of these I’m avoiding, with the sole exception of the fruit the good Lord stuck into the soil.

You know what I realized over my morning bowl of grits? What they say about Lent might actually be true. You think about things, things other than what you relinquished, simply because of what’s not there. Did that make sense? In the absence, in the differential, is a chance to focus on other affairs. You also feel healthier. Sharper. But you’ve got to give up something you really enjoy.

Also, if an ingredient listing is more than three lines long, your bloodstream probably isn’t begging for the particular foodstuff. What was the author thinking? “You know, I’m seized by a burning need to insert War and Peace between sodium nitrate and red #40”?

I’ve got to leave now. Grits for breakfast aren’t doing it for me, especially since I was enjoying Timon and Pumbaa’s “Mud & Bugs” not more than a week ago. My work buddy suggested visiting the organic foods section, which I didn’t even see, so we’re going food shopping.

It’s on, baby, and only willful sloth or paralysis shall stop me. This is for real. Wish me luck. See you on Monday.

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Surely things have changed by now, gentle reader, and the unholy sway of our alarm clocks has abated to the softest of beeps. Oh, if only that were the case.

Six months ago, we discussed a particular type of sickness, wherein the afflicted woke 15 minutes, maybe even a full hour before his alarm clock rang just so he could turn off the stupid thing. In another time, in a perfect world, we–a motley collection of bloodshot eyes–would have found peace after so many weeks. Our morning rituals would resemble, truly, Broadway shows, complete with swelling orchestral accompaniment as we made our trips to the dumpster.

Why is it, then, I woke exactly one minute before my alarm activated on Monday? It’s getting worse. Imagine Pavlov going about his famous experiment, except instead of using a piece of steak he grabs a cricket bat. This is why I’m here. Am I alone?

Clock: So I sez to my barber, “Charlie, my good man! I bet I could shave a few seconds off that guy’s haircut.” And then he chuckles and shoots right back at me, “Clock! You’re such a cut-up. How you been?” And then I start ringing. And Charlie starts crying.

You: Wha– I thought– No, it can’t possibly be.

You don’t call, you don’t write. What happened?

M-my therapist said– She said all I had to do was think about unicorns and gumdrops.

I’m your new therapist, sweetcakes, and I’m also breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Open wide!

Unicorns and gumdrops. Unicorns and gumdrops. Gumdrops and unicorns. Children laughing. Children crying. Alarm clock. Clock. Clock. Clock. Oh. No.

Your therapist? The boys down in local 17252 are going on strike. She tossed Barney out the window, poor bastard. Can you say “hazard pay”?

This isn’t happening. I am not talking to my alarm clock.

I’m sorry, did you just ask me to ring, ring, ring?

My eyes! My ears! Stop it, I’ll do whatever you ask.

Say it.

U-unicorns and gum–

SAY IT.

Hazard pay! Hazard pay! I’ll make you breakfast now.

There you go. RING! RING! RING!

Gum. Gum. Gumclock. Clock. Clock?

I’m your new Folger’s, bitch! Now take me to work.