Care Bear Stare
Walking down Main Street, new books in hand, a chalk-board positioned awkwardly on the sidewalk accosts me. Normally a happenstance that would make me curse the distributor of said signage for their ergonomic-disregard which forces me to veer off in order to avoid a collision. People built like the Nimitz can’t just, on a whim, change direction… we have too much inertia, too much mass, effort and the expenditure of calories is required. (imagine a frantic hamster screaming down the airtube to the engine room, for more power) ‘TURN YOU SON-A-BITCH… TURN!!!’ (and then sucking air through clenched teeth as we graunch the paint)
This made me smile though. Because if I was a Care-bear, this might be the thing that was embroidered on my burgeoning midsection. Although this would likely mystify anyone who wasn’t born in a specific era. (the era of awesomeness… and also VHS). What the hell is a Care-bear they might mull? I think about this for a while as I cross the street (to the coffee shop more-or-less diagonally across from this one, whose barrister has gigantic boobs, has excellent chocolate croissants and who serves her coffee in ceramics that I’m particularly partial to).
Although if I were to modify it, I muse, I would add Bacon cross-bones to my coffee cup sigil. I chortle out loud to myself. The kind of sound a mentally unhinged person might make… while wall painting with their feces. I am so hilarious, no wonder I’m married I think, congratulating myself.
Although my wife never laughs at my jokes.
So its entirely possible that I am less humerus than I actually am. And also humorous.
Google seem to think the bones, in the classic skull and crossbones, are actually femurs. Google is usually right about these sorts of things. I wonder if I can make it work, but it Tibias not.
I’ve been thinking about Poke Bowls a lot lately. Which is a weird segue, but scrolling through my phone to find my coffee-board picture it suddenly dawns on me that I’ve become one of those people that photographs their food. And then… I dunno… presumably look it while they’re sitting on the toilet? In a full disclosure kinda way I usually read comics while I’m on the toilet. The Marathon earlier was accompanied by Mike Mignolas Plague of Frogs. Volume… 3 (I think). Just know if you ever borrow my iPad… its accompanied me to some pretty dark places.
In any event, Poke Bowls… which I’m still not entirely sure how to pronounce properly (I’ve chosen to go with POKE, as in I will POKE you in the eye, which makes me feel like when I’m mispronouncing Moët everytime I was wax lyrically on about poke ambrosia to anyone who will listen. I’m a Poke Bowl evangelist/crossfitter)
… definitely on the list of things I might consider before getting fried in the electric chair. Not that I live in a country that counters barbarism with… eh… more barbarism. But if I did… and I was about to get zapped, this is definitely a contender for my last meal… where-after I will use my chopsticks as twin shivs in the Musashi Miyamoto style to expedite my escape.
Although I don’t think they still use the electric chair… do they? Oh they do. Color me surprised Tennessee. Regressive state I eventually had to right click on to correct my umpteenth butchered spelling.
I mean you probably deserve to be misspelled.
In all honesty its quite easy to sway me from being anti-capital punishment to pro-death penalty. Just remind me that I have to pay taxes in order to keep people incarcerated for the rest of their lives. Which might lead you to believe that my righteous morality and general preachiness is directly proportional to how much something costs me (and also the opportunity cost of that something), and you’d be right.
I’d rather my taxes bought library books as opposed to guards, concrete and vitamin D deficiency. I mean ideally I’d prefer to pay no taxes and just donate to causes I believed in.
Which reminds of a thought experiment where prisons were totally dependent on donations for survival. Wouldn’t that be a fantastic measure by which to judge our society? Out of sight and out of mind… but if you don’t go and bring food and water to the prisoners… they will die. How quickly would we discover the darkness within ourselves? Or maybe we won’t and it would all work out great. We’d probably be less inclined to incarcerate people for victimless crimes though. So that might be a good thing? If you keep prisoners alive in a terrarium… you might be able to move onto a more libertarian/anarchistic political system. If you can’t, well… clearly you are not responsible enough for grown up ideologies. (ha, ha, grown up)
… as we meander into prison-reform, from… eh… the care bear stare. Well we went Poke Bowls in the middle there.
I’m planning on posting more regularly again. I’ve been remiss. Although I have no idea what I’ve been doing with my time. Instead of vomiting up my unfiltered and addled thoughts and then converting them to text I mean.
I slurp the foam off my latte.
I briefly think that I’ve made a friend. But really it just wants to lick my plate. I feel a little betrayed, I won’t lie. (As I anthropomorphize the resident feline). I thought I was special.
‘Special needs’ someone in the peanut gallery offers up helpfully. I don’t really have a good come back for this, because its probably true. So I give them a two finger salute to cover up my insecurity.
In any event expect more volume. And less substance. The Joey staples of yore. I’m quite excited.
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