Well, here I am. Where “here” is is the waiting area at the emissons testing facility. I am writing this in the old way, using my right hand to grasp a pencil and make crude scribbles in longhand on a piece of college ruled notebook paper. The fact that this paper is virgin is merely a testament to my poor note taking habits whilst I am actually warming a chair in the classroom. Zero notes and zero study time have thus far translated into a grade point average of 3.8, so I am rather disinclined at this juncture to put forth any additional effort in my studies. I am sure I will have to buckle down for differential equations.
It is hot in here; a small fan is lamely attempting to distribute the molecules of carbon monoxide, ozone, body odor and ennui throughout the room, but I regret to inform you that it (the fan) is very much outclassed by the miasma that confronts it.
If I were pressed on the matter, I would even be so bold as to suggest that the fan is succeeding chiefly in concentrating the noxious vapours* in my vicinity. My pulmonary and circulatory systems appear to find this regrettable, as my pulse is fluctuating wildly and I am having some difficulty in drawing a breath. It might also be the long string of late nights, high proof alcohol, fatty foods, and zero cardiovascular exertion that is to blame. We shall never know.
In this small room, perhaps more appropriately termed a “cell,” there is an electronic device. The device has been affixed to the wall with industrial strength anchors. The persons who installed the item were thoughtful enough to remove the button that would, under normal circumstances, disconnect the device from its source of power. Thus the device remains in a permanent active state.
This device was also equipped at the place of its manufacture with additional buttons that enable the “user” to selectively set the amplitude of the audio emissions originating from the two pathetic electro acoustical transducers located on the anterior surface of the offending item. Alas, the button that would enable the “user” to lower the acoustical emissions has likewise been removed. It was apparently quite clear to the evil Tommy knockers who performed these aftermarket modifications that the “user” of the item in question would only ever elect to RAISE the volume. THAT button was left in situ.
The device I now ridicule with such obvious distaste is of course a television. I get the feeling that it is an article of faith that any enclosed place wired for 120 which is designed to accommodate more than two persons at a time MUST HAVE A TELEVISON. Otherwise, large numbers of people may begin to THINK whilst they are sequestered in these degrading holding areas like chattel.
I would, without a moment's hesitation, cut the power cord, but the handle of my knife is aluminum and my supply of rubber gloves is in the car, next to the bow saw, spade, and quick lime. Alas, the car is at this moment on the dyno.
I think it is amusing that public “entertainment” is still something that anyone would give a second thought to. If endless repetitions of “Another brick in the wall Pt. II” and “Hotel California” via sophisticated geosynchronous satellites that would have made Aldus Huxley shit his pants are not enough, there are smart phones. There is an older woman sitting to my right with an iPhone, and so engrossed with this phone is she, that she does not seem to notice the TV at all.
If I were smart, I would get a smart phone. I need 24/7 access to the educational and enriching cesspool that is the internet. Really, anyone who is reading this garbage right now should feel exceedingly superior to the bulk of humanity. At any given moment, internet traffic is about 63.8% pornographic in nature. The balance is composed of facebook, Al Qaeda, 30 something dwellers playing World of Warcraft, and the Chinese government.
Adding to my discomfort at present are the inflamed and swollen welts between my thighs. Rest assured, there was not any kinky hanky-panky involved. What do I look like, a politician? No, I get my rocks off in a rather more traditional manner. I have heat rash, the affliction of the chubby, the hairy, the un-washed. I am all of these things. So I sit here, wearing bike shorts under my regular attire to prevent friction in my groin area (I have a lot of friction in that area) from aggravating my condition.
I was out visiting an old flame last night. She does not care about my physique (or lack thereof) nor does she concern herself with my comfort or well being. She is as aloof and un-feeling as a glacier (a “glacier” is a type of solid ice deposit composed of successive layers of annular snow accumulations compacted by their own weight and causing massive alterations to the Earth’s upper crust in past geological epochs. Do not worry about such things) and bends to no man. Her favours are hard won, and she is not moved by the ham-fisted overtures of the incompetent. She is magnificent.
Her name is Ladora.
I have not been with her since 2005. Prior to that I was all up in that shit at every available opportunity. Every available opportunity was basically the weekends, and I had to share her with every Joe Dirt scumbag with even a mild inclination to catch a fish in the greater Denver Metro area. I took small satisfaction from the fact that I knew how to push her buttons better than anyone else.
I got my share.
I got my share.
But after a while, I was tempted away by the sweet siren song of the mountains. The clean air, rushing waters, and idyllic scenery combined with snobbish and selective trout got me all hot and bothered. For me it was a walk on the wild side. Catching trout, on purpose.
It was great for a time. Hell, I admit it was fun. May be fun again one day soon. But for now I need to get back to my roots. And those roots are closer to the bayou than to the top of Mt. Elbert.
*One of my literary affectations is to spell words in the traditional manner. You know, English from England and what? RP 4 eva…