The Unpaid Internet Content Provider was in the market to buy some stuff, not just any old stuff, but the best of stuff available from the planetary pipeline of products that are nearly necessary though not sufficient for life and life only as we know it sanctimoniously to be, stuff like magnifying glasses for reading, lubricated felt tip pens for writing, sharp pencils with erasers for figuring, sturdy toilet paper for writing while reading, prior to erasing, before wiping.
Because buying simple stuff is no longer a solitary act compelled by heedless personal desire for undeserved validation and status, but comes with the potential for vicious social opprobrium if performed inexactly, I was dragged flailing into the fray. When I was asked for my unabridged first impression of one highly rated facsimile of a product displayed in simulated juxtaposition up eerily close to a cutting edge competitor on his wide screen that was wired invisibly into his smaller screen, so close that in a different context it might be considered lewd if not pornographic, I said, “One hand washes the other.”
He said, “That’s not an original thought you’d want as a stain on your permanent record.”
“That’s the job sharp erasers exist to perform?”
He had other near needs in kinetic purchasing prowess that would have to wait until later in the grand scheme of commodities and things, pre-baked dough for stuffing, studded leather belts for cinching, silky drawers for sagging, heavy hammers for banging.
Still, he yearned for the smell of newly crinkled shrink wrap in the morning. The wholesome values of chemically bonded polymers softened the tears that crusted overnight in his eyes. Any less was no more than so much yesterday.
I added, “The last must-have product I had to have came with imported dust that made me sneeze.”
“Ironically, too much hand-washing is not good for the environment.”
“Nor is too much irony.”
“The higher you go, the thinner the air.”
“A better way to take a dive, too.”
“But, deal or no deal?”
“I deserve better.”
“But seriously, me too.”
I remain reluctant to purchase products that stink. Rising aerosol air fresheners are also not good for the environment. Muzak is not good for the environment. Pyramid schemes are not good for the environment. Cooped up beef cows that fart non-stop during business hours are not good for the environment. Expanding teenage swamplands with remote-controlled turnstiles are not good for the environment. Too much monkey business is not good for the environment. Herds of Norwegian wool shorn from bleating sheep are not good for the environment. More of everything is not good for the environment. Too much of nothing is not good for the environment. Slippery mumbo-jumbo masquerading as razor sharp marketing is not good for the environment.
It takes a lot of hard work to deny the obvious fact that too much shit piling up stinks. It takes a lot of greasy lube jobs on the grinders and gears to wrench a head away from the debacle while coughing up blood. Precision work like that requires relentless sacrifice from endless scads of peons. The expanding shrink wrap industry continues to work overtime in order maintain an iron grip on posterior positions in the marketplace. Why else would the inflation rate of common pain killers be rocketing skyward from the floor up through the roof?
The Unpaid Internet Content Provider said, “I like to hope my next exercise of purchasing power will be more satisfying than the last.”
I said, “Just say no.”
He said, “How can you say that?”
I said “Look how well it worked out for the sponsors of shrink wrapped Nancy Reagan.”
“You won’t find real chic like that anymore.”
“Not in the flesh.”
“Her show biz hubby was frozen stiff for posterity.”
“You might be confusing him with Walt Disney.”
“If so, an understandable mistake.”
“They both had success with animal acts.”
The Unpaid Internet Content Provider is trying to come to grips with his excessive spending by earning more to spend. He grows incessantly weary of being unpaid, even though he was warned it came with the territory when he signed on the crooked line. He is currently immersed in a re-training program in which he will gain new employment skills that will become valuable in the interim period before shooting off to Mars.
Incredulously, I remarked, “Higher education?”
Timidly, he replied, “Sort of.”
I said, “Cut to the chase.”
“I gain a higher sensitivity in the finessing of delicate dials.”
“Why can’t just any dweeb learn to twist a knob or dial of his or her own heartfelt choice?”
“Not in the way that makes it sizzle like bacon on the grill.”
“It’s what it takes to get the least common denominator to rise.”
The long voyage to Mars will require sacrifice on the parts of many least common denominators. How many isolated game players wracked by the munchies will be willing to breathe that shallow for so long? How many willing consumers will bite enough bullets, gobble enough gruel, chug enough swill? Is seven billion enough? Nancy Reagan is just one shopping expert among many to consult on rates of shrinkage. Only Elon Musk seems equipped to know for sure.
The Unpaid Internet Content Provider said, “I will need a lot disposable cash to start stocking up on essentials.”
“Do you want to know that there’s still blood crusted on your lips?”
“Can I get away with it?”
“Works for me.’
“Is all you’ve got to say for yourself, no?”
“You can’t beat how well it worked out for Nancy Reagan.”