| Secondhand Rants | Rock on, Sisyphus |
To the cockmonkey who stole my bike seat: I’ve got your easy installation instructions right here, so read carefully.
1. Bend over
2. Pretend you’re the bike
3. Take seat and shove it
Troubleshooting Section
Q: I installed your bike seat, but all I got was a mouthful of metal. What should I do?
A: Wrong hole, asswipe. Try again.
Do you ever wonder, dear reader, whether you’re in the wrong time, the wrong place, maybe even in the wrong body? In a laundromat in another time rests a self that fits you better, and passersby gather around it and wonder along with you. But you’re stuck in the too-long moment, asking what could’ve been and what shouldn’t have been and who ate all those breadcrumbs you dropped when the road diverged.
Then you muse, “I could reinvent myself,” but reinvention died a disco death and it won’t come back, ever. You look outside as the balcony windows flash by and guess how many stops are left: 319, not that anyone’s counting. Sometimes your voice, your pen, sometimes they protest like a twice-revved engine, and the whole room fills with the chorus of why why why. And so you hum as the blurry trees and plane-free sky play audience to your autumn nocturne.
People trickle in, first one, now two, three. When occasion strikes and often when demand is sharpest, you catch a glance welcome and terrifying, accurate and labyrinthine, and it pierces you and shakes you to your toes. Yet when you exhale and when you are still, you find your pen uncapped and your voice no longer silenced.
With the weekend fast approaching, your path may very well lead to a shopping mall of some sort. Do you ever feel tired with the rigors of rampant spending and heady materialism? No? Then get the flippin’ fark off my front porch, gentle reader.
For those who desire the consummate shopping experience, listen up. I’ve always wanted to do this, but weekend business trips to Syberia–that’s the secret to obtaining fantastic wholesale snow, by the way–have repeatedly barred me from doing so. All you need are a) your wits and b) a meat mallet. Here’s what to do, so pay close attention.
Make your way to a shopping mall with this store. Check to see if you brought a friend along; you wouldn’t want your efforts to go unnoticed, would you? Place your hands on the doors, one hand on each door, and barge in like you own the place.
Immediately consult the nearest employee about getting a job as (this is the critical part, dear reader) a law clerk for the establishment. The crafty employee will probably play dumb, but you must be resolute. Nothing screams resolution more, incidentally, than pounding on the counter with your fist. Even if you insist you know Mr. Biddle himself and how you’ll eclipse him as a future partner, the worker will probably dismiss you or even scoff at you.
This should be your signal to pretend to fish for your resume. I didn’t tell you to bring it and for good reason. Recall that you brought a meat mallet, which should be whipped out instead and banged repeatedly on the counter. You should ask for order, by all means, but don’t be surprised if people dressed like the police enter the store.
These are actually your bailiffs, so don’t be fooled! Demand that they arrest all the lying employees along with Bailey, Banks, and that f*cker Biddle.
Well, I’ve left enough room for improvisation, so good luck! Let me know how things go.