I live in a beautiful city between the mountains and the sea, yet a most obnoxious noise is rising from outside my apartment on Garden Street in an effort designed, I’m sure, to drive me mad or prevent me from completing the task at hand – namely, this blog. It’s a first installment, so I wanted it to be, uh, special.
But then reality settled in and I realized I was going to rant, not rave. Sure, it isn’t Shakespeare, but no one needs an incessant bombardment of the aural senses to the tune of “I’m a Leafblower and I’m Okay” at 150 decibels of gasoline-powered, steroid-induced twaddle, unless you’re an Abu Graib detainee and merely seek any form of human contact, to include torture. Although, I doubt that CIA prison tenants have internet access, so my empathy is probably lost upon them and their secretly-interned brothers and sisters around the globe.
Naturally, there is some die-hard spook at NSA headquarters, now, who’s reading my blog and making a note in my personal file. You know, the one that tells the President if I’m a true patriot or a threat to my country, or merely a whiny little peasant disgruntled with the current establishment. Hey, at least I don’t run a damn oil-sucking machine at high volume where it might annoy my neighbor.
“Not I,” said the Kat, so the little red hen can return her lawn and garden equipment to Big Noisy Things-R-Us and get her friggin‘ money back. Perhaps we could implement that foreign policy, if only GM and Big Oil would comply. No, that policy is too foreign to their stockholders’ bottom line, which is getting fatter and fatter.
Who’s the moron that invented the leafblower, anyway? I want him in my office, immediately. Okay, so I don’t have an office, but if I did, I’d want to speak with him, assuming he’s capable of dialog at an eighth-grade level. He that hath an ear, let him hear.
Do you clean your apartment with a blowdryer? No. You use a vacuum; similar in name only to the space between the ears of the genius who invented the leafblower and any companion pieces of mechanized technological tomfoolery. Progress, baby! Now, we can pretend to be working faster, louder and with less physical movement than ever before in the course of human evolution.
“Just make some noise, stir up some dust and blow that shit over into the neighbor’s yard, Hector, then meet me by the truck. I’ve got to go sit down and catch my breath . . . and have a cigarette.”
Hmm, America. Big, fat and horribly loathe to sweat, anymore, especially when you can always pay someone South of the border to do it for you. Busy, busy, busy America. We’re too busy thrusting democracy upon the world at the end of a gun to actually clean up our own back yards.
I say drop the damn Ding Dongs, Not-So-Li’l Debbie, and pick up a broom or a rake. Stop burning oil and start burning fat. Get out of your Hummer and hum something more pleasant than “My Stock Options in Haliburton Give Me a Hard-On, Though the Kevlar Still Sucks,” to the tune of “Hey, Diddle Diddle.”
Sadly, GM and Big Oil are merely giving the American consumer what they want. The same can be said for the cigarette companies, weapons manufacturers and chemical plants. Their noxious spewing of crap that kills exists simply to fulfill the human cancer’s need to destroy itself.
Humans are a virus that Mother Nature will, eventually, allow to succeed in its seemingly devolutionary design of self-genocide. Humans don’t know how to clean up their own messes, their own house or their own back yards. Has no one ever told you not to “shit where you eat”?
Instead, humans are always searching for the magic pill that instantly eradicates the things they dislike, while affording them the luxuries of all they desire. There is no magic pill and there is no such thing as delayed gratification, anymore.
Drive-thrus lead to drive-bys. Get out of your cars, America, and learn how to walk, again, ’cause you’ve been running this country into the ground – mainly to find more oil. True, your vote may not count at election time, but try voting with your wallet, instead, and see how long Wal-Mart imports cheap crap from China.
Face it. You’re an addict and you need a 12-Step Program to get off oil. Take twelve steps, then twelve steps more and before you know it, you’ve actually walked to the corner drug store.
Sure, I use electricity, too. And, though I don’t currently have one, sometimes I still ride in vehicles. I’ve owned them, driven them and had tons o’ fun in them – moving or not. But mass transit would help curb pollution and the population explosion, at the same time.
“Umm, Dad, can I borrow the car, tonight?”
“No, take the bus.”
Li’l Johnny won’t be able to seduce Sally at Make Out Knob in the back of the Blue Line Express.
Ding . . . ding. Ding ding ding ding!
“Hey, mister!”
“Sorry, junior, but this bus doesn’t stop there, so no one’s getting off. Sit down, shut up and keep that thing in your pants.”
Remember, copulation leads to population. Besides, there comes a time when the writing on the wall is more than merely graffiti and we need to put away some of our toys before we destroy the sandbox.
Mother is calling from the kitchen that your waffles are getting cold and you’ll be late for school. You’ve got to wake up, now – please – for the American Dream is killing more than just Americans.
Yet, as the Dumb & Dumber Twins, Bush & Cheney, keep hitting the snooze bar for just ten more minutes, I wonder when time is truly going to run out – and whether I can reprogram my TV remote to access Dick’s pacemaker.
If I could, I’d change the channel.
The Kat
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