The long sought yet elusive recipe for perfectly whirred peas on earth turns out to be no biggie. It was always simple. Become conscious. Fly higher. Practice figure-eights while stirring. No ramming, no jamming, no scarring with hot branding irons. Add aroma. Don’t race the blender to crack ice at high speeds. No faking it. Avoid self-inflicted wounds. No more eating shit. Creamy hot sauce in a hellhole is not safe for consumption. Reconsider contradictions. Don’t burn or eviscerate evidence. Hips must be rolled in proportion. Add pungent spices. Clapping like thunder is allowed. Turn off rote switches. Don’t be a low common denominator. Reduce size portions and profit margins. Fake is embarrassing to look at in the morning mirror. Artificial sweetening is stupid. Make your own mistakes. The answer is simple, not stupid.
What you and I get as a poor substitute when simple instructions are not followed, and mixing, stirring, whirring occurs willy-nilly at high speed, because stupid wins by a landslide when stiff bipedal objects are not rising higher, along with the like-minded meat grinder in the next stall, the sharp shooter on the razor edge, the wacko incendiary, the dry cleaner sweeping streets, the ticket ticket still faking it, and that dickhead dilettante peddling lube jobs next door to the nice lady next door, falls short, flat, fake. It tastes moldy like an archaic soft shoe dance sporting a perennial shit eating grin.
Advertising like that cannot be bought cheap enough. Rampant shit eating gains market share accordingly. It makes all the sense you’ve earned. Rolling down into just any common abyss gets hard to stop. Much marching, charging occurs. Fleeing bugs wriggle, squirm. Exposed toes get squashed. Foreign objects turn into enemies. We all know where that leads, not precisely to the lowest form of consciousness, but uncomfortably close.
Remarkably, it does not come cheap.
“Do I get to wear flip-flops on the job?”
“You and all the other ironic sports fans with pot bellies and grody toes.”
“Will there be ample time for self pleasuring and procreation too?”
“Not every day.”
“But, I’ll be working strictly on commission.”
“Plus the package deal.”
“I’ll be happy to take it.”
“You’ll be thrilled with the results.”
Without rolling hips to serve as a fulcrum in the vital realm of the real nitty-gritty, mistakes, the third most basic building block of the multiverse, multiply and divide. Loads are hauled from behind and followed religiously. The bass rumble you hear going on goes nowhere near low enough. All those broken down knees, the guilty victims of too much bending, are dragging. The chains won’t let go.
The unfolding drama, though, once wrapped tightly in so many suffocating cloaks and robes, and kept rerunning continuously on a patchwork celluloid loop, can’t stay hidden much longer. The cloaks are tattered and the holes leaking vital fluids. Cartoon heroes that used to be revered for chugging cheap wine, slitting throats, and walking on water, are sinking at ebb tide. There are many here among us who desire pain, honor pain, inflict pain, worship pain. Keep on keeping on, they preach at the point of a sword or gun, or the boogie man will get you. Don’t be one of them because it hurts me, too.
What other creatures on this planet remain willfully unconscious of where they came from and where they are going? Some smarts, huh.
“But, I thought we all came out of Africa.”
Before that, there was no beginning and no end to point at and deny. Nothing to undo, like a vital screw, by a collection of dolts with no tools. It was what it is, and will be. But then spears appeared in clenched fists, then arrows, then tribes, then religions, then nations, then corporations. Lots of guns in the mix, too. Each came in a boxed set including iconic cartoon figures ready to rumble. Each was unbeatable in its day. All they had to do was wander in a shitty desert and throw pitiful low blows to succeed. Being dumb and getting nowhere was no obstacle. But then heroes turned super in full color with radical powers that could not be beat. Until the next contender came along. There seemed to be no end to contenders. Those became the rules on the court and arena. Wait your turn to be next. Not even punks and dolts dispute it. Only the wacko incendiaries don’t get it. Like, duh. Now, robots got next. Are you surprised?
My friend, the Unpaid Internet Content Provider, claims he can spot smug gangs of robots whenever he crosses the Santa Cruz Mountains to seek a permanent resting place in Silicon Valley on the darker side. They are pretending to be busy but secretly ogling his flabby ass to exploit as a model for future production molds. He is also concerned with aural drug tests that can detect traces of cinnamon under variable conditions, including clouds. He is willing to bend over like a lamb but not so far that he has to swear off cinnamon.
Arching a wry eye, I remarked, “Cinnamon.”
“An unappreciated performance enhancer in sheep.”
“He said, “Up the wazoo.”
I said, “I like cinnamon.”
Many animals in the forest are happy that the robots are doing such good work with disadvantaged humans, getting the messy murderers lined up in chains while waiting to be launched in a padded seat on the long ride to Mars. The sooner the louts are all gone, the happier all the creatures in the forest will be to party on. The enterprising beavers have big plans for split level lodges on multiple planes simultaneously.
Once we are able to accept our severely handicapped status as a myopic species it’s not so hard to become a subjugated place holder for the passengers with real tickets to ride. It works out best to dispatch fear, desire, resentment, attachments, expectations, and appetites in the here and now, which is what it is and all there is, and become sure to grunt and whistle while you work on the hips, which need the most work, to begin to better serve our betters.
“Service begins upon proximity, not contact. Schedules are not posted. Anticipate angles, calculations. You learn by doting. You’d better learn.”
But you’d better start learning that fast if you know what’s good for you.
According to the latest figures, the short list for dibs on the long line for Mars is filling up fast. Billions want in badly. You may now be speeding helter-skelter on your way to being left behind.
Small bodies are the smart, preferred solution to fill the economy seats deep in the rear. Asses are easiest to fit. Legs may need to become expendable. Growing heads inside helmets might become a long-term issue.
The Unpaid Internet Content Provider thinks he can shrink his ass far enough to fit. I remain unconvinced from a safe distance.