A helicopter was flying low over the Santa Cruz Mountains, searching for plots of illicit weed sown by a Mexican cartel. A husky deputy sheriff was at the controls if husky is acceptable to you as a euphemism for fat. What do you think, seriously? Have we sunk so low, comically, that bloated bellies no longer need apply? What happened to all the respect for the classics?
The deputy sheriff was flying solo due to contentious issues of personal hygiene vis a vis a former co-pilot. He knew the routine well enough without help. After the nominal search came the nominal seizure. The blades of that helicopter whirred with real and imagined menace. But then the deputy sheriff had to set it down for a quasi-emergency landing so he could take a stinky dump in the woods. That included a large re-distribution of lard derived from undigestable bacon. In his haste, he overlooked a serious patch of poison oak underneath his ass. An itchy ass is only funny when it’s not your ass. As the whir continued, unabated.
I stood on my deck and screamed, “You’re making too much noise. All I am saying is give peace a chance.”
After that, my throat became sore and I had to gargle with an aqua blue astringent. That unbalanced the taste of the brown beer I was drinking so I had to have another. I know it is an acceptable axiom in both arithmetic and higher mathematics to assume that one leads to another. It just makes good common sense. There does not have to be a single reason why. That is true even if the aqua was in fact more cerulean. It’s settled law. I don’t have to ask for clarity at every opportunity and neither do you.
According to the tawny owl, though, it is not possible to know where your laws are coming from without a careful consideration of the gases that ruled the big bang and then stuck around to reap and sow seeds. That’s how far back the craving for connection to the elements goes. Owls feel it, wolves feel it, oxides feel it, spores feel it. The big bang neither started anything, or stopped anything, but continued everything. Where do you think amphibians come from, arachnids come from, geodes come from, mathematics comes from, psychology comes from? You don’t need a messenger with bare feet, a bearded messiah, or a civil engineer to figure the angles. Like, duh. Highly gaseous weed was one of the original plants sown all over. Plant eating dinosaurs dug it the most. They were the proof it is best to dig it while it’s happening, which is where belly laughs started out, before becoming popular in such depth. It was the way that the tawny owl said it as much as what he said that was so convincing. What do you say after hearing that for the first time? My ass felt as if it could be torn strongly asunder. I felt strongly as if the time was right to say, “Whoa, fucking, whoa.”
My friend the unpaid Internet content provider, who lives in a startling, cavalier fashion with his mother, is not nearly fat, but he is able to laugh with all of his full belly despite his dire circumstances. Often, he asks the very forthright question, “How funny can it be if you have to stop, think, record, pause, edit?”
I said, “The famous off-white culture of bipedal clones invented a 2.0 version of reality that relies on head, shoulders, knees, and toes, but left out ass, and hips, and groin at the center, where the fulcrum is allowed to swing.”
He said, “Loops have to fit into some holes somewhere far out there.”
I said, “Like, duh.”
He said, “Why sweat too many details?”
I said, “That’s as clear as night gets while turning into day.”
The next day that turned out to be anywhere near that clear found the deputy sheriff down on his hands and knees, praying for deliverance from his itchy ass. No flying by the seat of his pants that day. His God only worked randomly and was loath to deliver very many goods very often. It could be argued that the puffed-up deity was spoiled by his vast sense of entitlement. Guaranteed short hours, freedom to slack off at will, no overtime. That’s a toll that adulation takes every time. All the deputy sheriff had to fall back upon was so-so medical coverage with an affordable co-pay. The day after the next day was no better. It might have been worse. The fat man called repeatedly for ethereal assistance but there was no answer.
Finally, he went to the doctor who looked at his ass briefly before he had seen enough.
“Let me see you touch your toes.”
“This is the best I can do.”
“That fat can be sucked out, you know. Just a thought worth thinking about.”
The doctor asked a nurse to give the deputy sheriff a booster shot of cortisone in his ass to control the swelling. Then he washed his hands to confirm that enough was enough.
The nurse said, “Bend over.”
The deputy sheriff said, “But…”
Later, I was complaining in my own sweet way to the unpaid Internet content provider, “Ever since the aftermath of the anniversary of the Catastrophe of 1949, the deputy sheriffs have been on my case. Just the other day I was casually doing nothing. All of the commotion was all next door. Then there they are, right here.”
“They track your location through holes in your defenses. Out in the open, you’re a piece of prime meat. On the Internet, but not just on the Internet. So, you get to become it for no more reason than there you are. Right where you’re expected to be. How fitting. Like, duh. Then you get told where to go next to fulfill their own best interest. They’ll tell you it’s your free will at work to keep you satisfied. You won’t even be the first to know. And if you don’t play along, you look like you’re trying to hide or escape.”
“There you go.”
I said, “What if I have an actual real need that needs meeting?”
“It was all over once they perfected how to market alienation and rebellion.”
“Does that mean I’m damned to be fucked and that’s all there is to it?
He said, “Not me. Try a new update that can’t be tracked yet. I never use any of my real selves out in the open. If you’re stuck with one identity, you’re prey. This way it’s harder to find me.”
“But, you’re on the Internet all night.”
“There’s minimal proof.”
I began to follow his advice in the area of personal security the very next day by remaining superficially anonymous. I traveled to an inconvenient strip mall that compensated with plenty of diagonal parking in search of a speedy remedy to neutralize spatial tics in my peripheral nervous system. There were boxes, bottles, crates, jars, vessels. There were coats of many colors. Wisely, I opted with caution. I laid my money down and waited for change.
The clerk said, “I need to see your accredited bank card.”
His name tag was missing. I was suspicious. Who knew what was likely to be what? Like, duh.
I said, “Why do you ask?”
He said, “It’s not a question.”
I said, “It is to me.”
He said, “Debit or credit.”
I said, “I’m right here, no need to go there.”
He said, “There are issues with making change.”
I said, “You mean like dirty nickels and dimes? Or more like sacrificing pawns in a zero-sum game? ”
“Are you demonstrating an unwillingness to cooperate?”
I said, “Don’t tell me that’s not a question.”
So, I gave according to my ability and I took according to my need. I read all about it in some manifesto somewhere. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
I said, “You can keep your stinking pennies.”
He said, “Security.”
After the alarm bells sounded, and the rent-a-cop threatened me with a stubby taser that I assumed was fake until I was lying on the ground, I was forced to explain myself. You think that’s easy when you’re so far down?
I said, “What the fuck.” Once again, it was not a question.
The suffering deputy sheriff sent by a dispatcher happy to have his disgusting ass out of her sight was still itchy. After flying solo, such a rinky dink duty was beneath him. What did that make me?
I said, “The cuffs are too tight.”
He said, “Watch your head.”
I hit my head before I tumbled into the back seat. It smelled no better than I remembered. I won’t say that I was dazed, which was palpable enough, but my head was throbbing.
From the back seat, I drew upon my considerable experience in matters of laws pertaining to my detention, and mentioned, “I need my prescription filled before I’m processed. You can’t deny me my lawful medicine. It’s your law, not mine.”
“We just came out of a Rite-Aid.”
My weekly prescription of purple kush was waiting for me at The People’s Best Cannabis Collective and Weed Warehouse in a complementary tote bag emblazoned with the feel-good marketing slogan: Good for vision, breathing, flexibility, digestion, dyspepsia, aphasia, palpitations, suppositions, recriminations.
I said, “It’s also known to alleviate many serious side-effects of a deep-seated itch.”