Friday, March 25, 2005

The Triumph of the Mortal!

(or in football speak)

Miraculously, the Street Fighter machine was repaired, and now is marginally playable. Balance returns to my existence. My wallowing in nostalgia of a decade past will continue with little interruption. It's odd to share a public space with such people at the laundromat. As I was finishing up the aforementioned game, there was a guy who walked in, perhaps 6 foot 2, wearing neon green swimming trunks, who cracks open a tall can of Budweiser right there. Since I'd been in there for 15 minutes or so, I was fairly certain that he wasn't just trying to kill time while his laundry was done. He was just chillin'. Now I don't know about you, but if I'm going to start drinking alone at noon on Good Friday, I would sure as hell be doing it at home, and not down at the corner laundromat. Ahhhhhh, alcoholism: it's truly the tie that binds.

Less than a week stands betwixt me and existential freedom. My self-imposed bondage will be cast off by the Emancipatory Proclaimation of April's arrival (I had a dog named April once, but that's... alas... another story). As our Fearless Cowboy President says: Freedom is on the march. Perhaps, after the March.

Earlier this week, the inclimate weather and accompanying earthquake began to convince me of the coming of the end times. However, now that the sun returned, I will go back to skeptical optimism. The thunderclaps that rang out sounded like God's testicles slapping together: a stupefying noise indeed. Us rational-minded persons shouldn't view this as an astonishing antecedent of the end times, but instead the inevitable consequence of human arrogance. Our seasons are all fucked because we refuse to do something salient about the terrific amounts of hydrocarbons our automobiles produce. Perhaps if 100,000 people in California were to be washed away by an enormous Tsunami, then doltishly ignorant Americans would start believing what Environmental Scientists have been saying for decades. But, this, just like all other strife in the world, falls on deaf American ears as we are divinely protected from the consequences of our actions.

The solution: poking-out-of-eyes! Take THAT fly-over states! [PLOINK!]


At 3:22 PM, Anonymous Sir Richard Cranium said...

funny, i think every laundrymat has one of those lone drinkers. in fact, in my old laundrymat there was a really fucking tall guy who walk over and try and bum smokes from me. He always reaked of beer and had a tower of power in his hand. He was ok at first but then he start yelling at the nice little korean lady who worked at Vans. That anger would transfer over into the laundrymat. His hate for everyone would be evident, but of course, he'd remember me and hang out near my machine. I was very afraid both to be there and to leave my shit in his presence. I eventually became so disgusted with him that i pondered dragging his drunk body into the alley and teaching his ass about okinawa sais.


Post a Comment

<< Home