Dear Great Sky God,
It’s me, Feathers-in-his-Head Hardiman again; your brave brave. I’ve been meaning to say a few things to you and what better time than when I’m drunk. I got my Vodka Medical card and I know how to use it. Why go to the doctor when you can self-medicate? Some self-medicate by embracing a higher purpose. I choose alcohol, and this letter is proof. 86 proof. Strong stuff that vodka. 86 proof is like 130% alcohol. My vodka of choice is called Absolut Blotto.
And I’m drot that nunk either cuz I know how to face myself. In fact I’m feeling real uplifted cuz I’ve been reading a bunch of commencement speeches given by highly paid achievers to people of varying Degrees. Turns out you can achieve anything you want to if you’re real lucky, meet the right people and don’t spread any STDs. And unlike Little League Baseball, you don’t get a participation trophy for just showing up. Anyway that’s what Bill O’Reilly said at Liberty College in 2014. Tough love bullshit really. I’m sorry I used profanity Great Sky God. I didn’t mean to say “Bill O’Reilly.”
(I take another shot of Absolut Blotto) In other news, our people have been on a losing streak since 1492. Columbus sneezed once and 86% of us died. There’s proof – 86 proof. I’m one of the lucky ones not only did I survive; I got a job at the Seagram’s Firewater Company. The Teepee of Seagram’s (Now called House of Seagram’s) has been fueling the destruction of our people since 1857. I got the job through nepotism really. My Uncle, Drinks Like Fish, got me in. But you knew all this. It’s like that George Harrison song:
♫ My sweet Lord. Oh My Lord, Harry Potter, My my sweet Lord, Harry Khrushchev. I really want to see you lord, but it takes so long my Lord. Khrushchev Khrushchev ♫
I’ll Try to Make Sense (my aunt) wonders where you’re hanging your headdress these days Kemo Sabe? Don’t tell me you’re in your mother’s basement too. Oops forgot. Teepees don’t have basements. And Another Thing (my nephew) wonders why you allowed John Lennon’s assassination. The Beatles reunion was almost set and they would’ve produced an album that made Sgt. Pepper look like a La Toya Jackson solo effort. Instead we got Loverboy. Bad plan Mr. Intelligent Designer. Mr. Free Willy. Mr. My-Life-is-My-Work? You grandiose concept. Get of your high horse Mr. The-Artist-Formerly-Known-as-Yahweh. Let me put it this way: Sharknado and Ebola we don’t need. Lennon we can use.
(I take another shot from my St. Louis “Gateway to the West” shot glass) Sometimes drinking from my St. Louis Gateway shot glass causes me to become rather arch. But a haughty and kvetching rant is not enough – no matter how accurate or funny it is. Maybe I Could Do More (my brother) is an underachiever. In fact you two have a lot in common. My other brother is such a mama’s boy. His name is Sleeps With Mother. He’s always under her skirt (literally) and is an Absolut Rex. We call him Eddie Puss.
To Be Frank (my college buddy) says you’re an underachiever. And while there’s no denying sex is found treasure, this Free Will thing is keeping me up at night. So is insomnia – Thank you very much Stephen King (which is also the name of my Life Coach – Thank you very much Stephen King). Just a suggestion, now don’t smite my house or stone my cat (she’s already pretty stoned), but howzabout about upping the cost of Free Will so people can pay for their mistakes before they make them? This way if someone wants to kill John Lennon or abuse a step-daughter or mail some anthrax they could see the cost up front and realize they couldn’t possibly afford it. It might prevent a lot of misery. A lot of misery. Hello. Are you even listening? Take out the ear buds bud and stop listening to Limp Bizkit. We’ve all got our iPhone lighters ablaze and are awaiting your encore.
(I eat a heel of Italian bread. Man doth not live by vodka alone.) We’re all about accountability here on Earth, but you get to skate. And to think we’re still praying to you. Bill and Melinda Gates have been trying to clean up your mess since he monopolized software. Smallpox and cholera are on the run now no thanks to you. You’re like our abusive Father. We love you because that’s all we know. It’s the Stockholm Syndrome writ large. People are turning away from religion and turning to Solitaire. Dependable, faithful Solitaire. Life brings scary 4-syllable words like anxiety and metastasize while Solitaire brings tranquility with ideas of peace and order. With real life you get that unknowable Forrest Gump box of chocolates thing. With solitaire you always know what you’re gonna get. Solitaire is the ideal solo act, existing perfectly within an understandable system. It’s masturbation without the clean-up. With life I’m always cleaning up your messes. It’s like triage, but with hope. That’s why I’m always a Hopi Indian.
(Pizza just arrived. Cut it into a million little pieces [thank you Jonathan Franzen] and served it on that tiny support table they put in the middle to prevent the box from collapsing.) You, my friend, could use a publicist. These churches, temples and mosques ain’t getting’ it done. And even though the new Pope is kinda cool, he fronts an organization that is decidedly uncool (its employees can’t even have sex WT?). Disorganized religion seems to work best (Buddhism, NASCAR and the Food Network). Organized religion is like the spiritual refuge of last resort. It’s the public trough of wisdom. It ain’t all bad Great Sky God, but those loyal members who do attend services do so with their noses pinched. Some treat it like a giant stained-glass cafeteria where they spoon meager portions of flavorless truth onto their plates from ever-diminishing choices in the Dogma Cafeteria. And even though Earth can occasionally be a feel-good venue; real truth lies inside. It’s all internal. Teach us that, You Damnit! And to think that for posting this loyal screed I got my teepee TP’d.
(I spew an ungodly amount of cinnamon out of my nose after taking the Swallow-a-Teaspoon-of-Cinnamon Challenge. There must be an easier way of raising money for breast cancer. Well it sure beats the Catheterize for Cataracts Challenge.) Just once I’d like to donate something useful other than junk to charity. Who besides the English needs a toaster that only toasts on one side? I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Between the Pizza, the Cinnamon and the Angst (also the name of the Chief on our Reservation) I’ll Try to Make Sense (my aforementioned aunt). I’m Adaptable (my psychiatrist) thinks Maybe I Could do More (also my brother). I think it would be helpful to point out at this juncture that “Who” is the guy playing 1st base.
Anyway you get the point. First person essays by overly self-aware and besotted observers will only get you so far and slouching back into a fog of mindless games (Solitaire or Minesweeper) will only bring temporary relief of minor anxiety. Drinking is also just a diversion. Everything seems to be a diversion – from what I’d like to know. And that’s what prompts this drunken plea Great Sky God. I need to know. What’s behind it all or where does it all come from. At least I think I do. What do I know I’m drunk (I might as well say “What do I know, I’m human.). Either way I’m limited. In fact it seems like the only way to know anything is to shut up, not judge and deal with what’s presented to you – but not like you own it. Physical exercise has its place as a means to a healthy mind and body. Especially when watching others engage in it. Overall there’s only so much we can do from this vantage point (floating on a watery rock 93 million miles from the great Fusion Reactor). We’re helpless and yet powerful as we blah, blah, blah. Is it me or does everything smell like cinnamon?
(Eggo Waffles down in the toaster. I’m determined now to snap out of this Divine Whine and what better way than with a Kellogg’s product – Kellogg’s, best to you each morning.) Well I must be going, I’m out of misplaced invective. Besides, my phone sex shift starts in about 10 minutes and my first call is from a regular little old lady who likes to talk about her cat (if ya know what I mean). To tell ya the truth, I am Absolut Blotto. So long for now Great Sky God. As they say in fox holes all over this mofo, “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammo.” And if you’ve ever passed ammo I think you know how painful it can be.
Drinking and driving bad. Drinking and writing good. Yours Truly,
Feathers in His Head Hardiman