A Passion for Apathy

The Garden of Earthly Delights in liquid form. The Garden of Earthly Delights in liquid form.

The title begs the question; why would anyone even care about a story like this? A story that leads us not into temptation, but delivers us from Applebee’s.  A story that promises to illuminate the ancient chords of connectivity that beautifully bind us into a network of happy users with unlimited carryover minutes. Don’t you see? It’s always been about the size of your bandwidth. And he who encompasses the greatest spectrum is able to realize the most elevated experiences – many of which are now available in HD.  

These deeper experiences can all be yours if your passion for apathy inspires you to such inactivity. It’s true and this has been proven by numerous people who’ve never had near-death experiences. In fact, most of them aren’t even having near-life experiences right now. And it is their lethargy that has made all the indifference in the world.  I’m referring to the kind of folks who just post other people’s quips on Facebook. The kind of people who blithely agree with convention because…well just because it’s a known quantity. Oh sure they say they do their laundry down by the river with rocks and lye, but secretly they just throw their clothes in the dishwasher like everybody else. It’s like my genetically modified mother used to say, “This Herbal Essence Shampoo smells so good and will go great with the lamb chops I threw in the dishwasher.”

 

 

 

Chu lookin' at honky! Chu lookin’ at honky!

OK. I’ll Stop

Alright. I know. Too many ideas haphazardly expressed. Even I have my limits with this stuff. I can only imagine what you’re feeling. I need to adrenalize this drivel while you’re still reading it. And I’ll do that by introducing a new character to our story. A character that tested well at the petting zoo (actually it was more of a “heavy petting” zoo, but that’s really a matter for the courts to decide now). Anyway, Vanity Fair has called this character “Beowulf on Ice.” While The New Yorker says the character is more like an African Cher.  In developing this character I… 

I’m sorry I’m doing it again. I want this story to be heartfelt and startling like when you start your car at 7 in the morning forgetting your CD player is on and poised magically in between songs, so when you start the car there’s a quiet pause and then a terrifying burst of stereophonic mayhem as the opening thunderclap of the Beatles’ Revolution begins playing. Yikes! OK I’m awake now. Thank you John.

 

Going My Way?

Me:      Maybe you’re on a road to nowhere, but I’m heading somewhere.

Janet: Really? Somewhere where?

Me:      Well Janet (and I don’t know who this Janet character is although she looks a lot like an African Cher) I’m going somewhere over the rainbow.

Janet: Oh, you’re well past the rainbow son. You’re over the top.

 

Alright. I know. Again. Too many ideas haphazardly expressed. This piece is similar to the Bible that way, but with some much needed comic relief. Clearly this writing effort needs remediation so its plangent voice can be heard by Mr. & Mrs. Joe Dishwasher. Therefore I propose 3 storylines from which I’ll choose one to develop.

1.    A story about my mother’s mother’s mother of pearl string. Also known as grandma’s necklace.

2.    A funeral where the dearly departed is propped up in a folding chair and everybody else is in caskets. At the service we see mourners sticking their heads out of their caskets and saying, “Y’know the thing is…he looks great.” Then maybe I’ll mention how if this same story was about cannibals they’d all stick their heads out of their caskets and say, “Y’know the thing is…he tasted kinda like chicken.”

3.    A story about the life of Whistler’s mother’s mother who was more commonly known as Grammy Whistler. I’m told she also tasted kinda like chicken.

Alright. I know. Too many ideas haphazardly expressed. It’s like 9-grain bread. Once you get past 1 or 2 grains the others quickly become superfluous.  By examining the cookies on my computer, I’ve discovered the FBI is concerned about the subversive nature of this story and is investigating it as a Weapon of Mass Disinterest. Also the Mensa Society is suing the author in the 9th Circuit Court for Suspicion of pretension with intent to bewilder. And finally (yes finally; as these comments usually travel in threes) the average reader is abandoning the essay due to lack of interest. That’s fine with me. I don’t want average readers. I want you. My response to all these outrageous accusations that my story is haphazardly expressed is plain and simple – “I know you are, but what am I?”

 

I Guess What I’m Trying to Say…

No literally. I guess what I’m trying to say. I don’t actually know what I’m saying. I just guess at it. And while that may be dissatisfying to some, it’s honest and all anyone really does when they write, speak or act. It’s all an educated guess based on a collective hunch. Hopefully a guess that takes into account the laws of God and the laws governing the size of marital aids. And I can’t be any clearer than this because my passion for apathy simply won’t allow it.

Actually that’s not true. I had a passion for apathy but it changed and now I have a disregard for zealotry. Each part has, with equal coefficients of change, morphed into an equal and opposite position. That is, each component (passion to disregard and apathy to zealotry) has changed 180 degrees in such equal proportion that I can’t tell the difference between the two. It’s amazing. And if your name was Grace I’d say, “It’s amazing Grace.”

 

Russian Labradors Stole my Pets Identity

I thought my Beagle Grover was acting differently. Then I discovered that a roving pack of Russian Labradors had somehow hacked into his inner registry and stole his identity. Some say a ham bone was involved. I don’t know. I should’ve seen the signs earlier though. He stopped licking his junk and when I came home, the Home Shopping Network was always on TV. Anyway I had a streetwise Lhasa Apso I know fix things with the Russian Mob and Grover is now restored and “cleaning” all the places he used to. And if that’s not bad enough, a “Nigerian prince” has convinced my Retarded Terrier to give him $1500 so he can withdraw $4 million from a locked account in Switzerland. How does he fall for that? It’s the oldest internet scam out there. More to the point, what’s he doing on the internet. He’s a dog for Christ’s sake. I really hope the Lhasa Apso can unwind this one or at least rearrange the letters of his breed into something more coherent.   

 

The Big Secret: We’ve all had our identities Stolen

I’ve had my identity stolen too. It’s causing me to confuse my, oh, let’s call it “soul,” with this wiry guy called David Hardiman who likes to write, sleep and generally act like high functioning livestock.  My true soulful self however, is covered up by this human catalogue of inbred desires. It’s not me, but I contend with it and like Dr. Livingstone and the Nile River, I vow to find my source. My true identity. All this will be done despite my lack of a road map (If Google really wants to map something useful, try mapping that). There’s enough distracting stimuli to make me confuse this earthly body with the unspeakable sublimity of God’s heavenly Kingdom. I mean from what I’ve heard people say about the unspeakable sublimity of God’s kingdom.

Meanwhile if someone would like to steal my outward identity, have at it. My Social Security number is H2SO4 and my mother’s maiden name is Tiramisu. I’d planned on saying more but I’ll leave that to the sages and seers who throughout the ages have pointed to the One with passion and accuracy. So here I sit, ready to give it all up, because if I don’t, it will simply be taken from me later. And by giving it up now I gain everything.

Janet:  Really? You gain everything?

Me:      Yes Really!

Janet:  So you’re done?

Me:      Well…yeah. That is if you’re done reading.

Janet:  You’re doing that haphazard thing again.

Me:      I know you are, but what am I?

Janet:  OK. I guess the question becomes then who will have the last word?

Me:      No it won’t. I don’t need to have the last word.

Janet:  Neither do I.

Me:      Good. Then we’re agreed.

Janet:  Yes. And please, in the future, call me Grace.

Me:      OK.

Long pause. We look at each other and simultaneously exclaim: “Amazing Grace. Just amazing.”

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