Good God and a GED

head and sky   What can we say that we know for sure?  We talk out loud, we walk upright, we posture.  Some of us shimmy and shake until it gets out of hand.  Money talks loudest, blah, blah, blah.

The sad fact is that the great, if not grand, divide going down the tubes these days is deep and wide.  And it’s hard to see anyone trying very hard to break on through to the other side.  To do so is not considered smart.  Smart these days is defined as an ability to calculate accurately.  That’s where the real money is.  Forget all the blather.  Words are too hard to spell and often mean more or less than what seems to meet the eye.  Number are more easily digested.  Don’t you just dig to death those sexy algorithms?  They take you higher.  They make it easy.  They do it fast.  They have these machines that do it but good.  They cut through lard like butter.

Words that may or may not fit neatly into the right slots have come to be pretty much irrelevant, and downright wacko to boot.  Not just big words, either.  If you can’t come up with the one right answer, in the correct order, and on time, numerically, you are, deductively, dumb as a post.  Just look at what happened to Jim Morrison.

I know that all of the melodrama on the public stage gives small credence to evolution, gravity, equilibrium, depth, aesthetics.  There are no more slow dances at the top of the Hit Parade designed for swooning.  The desire to finish the test first is too great an urge.  Why wait for the A train when the express is coming?  Even if it does not stop where you’re going and takes you way the hell out of the way.

What I see somewhat clearly is a plethora of pundits with powdery pancake covering blemishes that caused them deep angst in high school.   Now, they have assumed the position.  No more bending over.  Now, they now are commanding:  Forward, March, Stay in Line.

No less than any of my neighbors, or theirs, I can certainly understand their desire to seek revenge.  Although I’m not sure where all the sagging hog jowls come from.   And the growls.  Those are some mean girls, all right.

I don’t know about you, because I can’t, but it seems to me that most of what is, and likely will be, has been around forever.   There is no payoff in conjuring any beginnings or ends to pretend otherwise.  That’s like carving a sharp steely point onto a soft fuzzy edge and playing catch with bare hands.  Then you wonder why you are bleeding?

If you don’t agree, cool.  It’s probably better for everyone that way.  I don’t trust me, either.  I only mean what I say when I’m saying it.  After that, who can say?

My only concern is the man over there with the gun in his hand.  He knows that I don’t have its equal.  You know the man.  He has a lovely wife,  a beautiful bunch of kids, a good job, a good Church, the right God,  a righteous GED.  He is upstanding and proud of it.  He don’t need to put up with no shit from no smart ass punk who thinks he’s funny.  Why should he?  He’s got me outnumbered by a country mile.  He’s the one who does not believe in evolution, as I must, certainly no less devoutly, and with no more or less reason.  And he’s not the only one who is certain that I am going straight to Hell.  That’s one stop the express train does not miss.  Because I deserve it.

But, why is he looking at me like that?  I don’t like the way he is smiling at me with those teeth.   I have seen him around before, plenty of times, and I am pretty sure that I have observed, and accurately so, that he is the kind of man who does not smile.  There’s a rightly good number of that kind of man around.  Although I admit I have seen ample evidence of his teeth.

Doesn’t he get that even if it’s not funny, and I’m not a stand-up comedian, and don’t have much of a leg to stand on,  it’s still all a joke?

About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
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