Who could have ever predicted in the wildest of hallucinogenic dreams that an ad hoc quasi-free-lance-part-time hanger-on formerly compensated in supplemental goods and services by the golden state of California to organize and unleash staid and proper nouns, inoffensive verbs, and no small surfeit of unapprecriated adjectives, was unqualified to receive comprehensive medical insurance under an unjust capitalist law, and would be kicked to the wayward curb like a guttersnipe left holding a brown bag under duress? A lot of fucking appreciation that is after months of indifferent service for high pay. With neither long term pharmaceutical care nor easy access to rehabilitation services to fall back upon, either. Or continuity in renewed supplies of pork banh mi and filthy lucre. You know it wasn’t me. But, Lt Guv Gav Newsom seemed to know.
The last time I heard from Lt Guv Gav, he said, “I’ll see what I can do.” It was in a speech he read, I wrote, recorded faithfully on an eight track cassette warehoused on a shelf in a foil lined microwave wall safe in Sacramento. He had been zooming up the pop charts like a silly myth roaming the flat earth ever since. As he approached the blockbuster stage of zealotry that included the delusional parting of seas, his popularity surpassed the Nominal Billary Clinton Concision by scads. Cartoon characters wearing sandals nodded off, sagely, in approval. Of course, the choker @trumptf@donaldcharacter@caricature was out of any bigger picture by then.
Support for the freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles had become so universally hip, slick, cool, and sick in California, sick being as cool as cool currently gets on the glib scale of demographic hipness, that new advantageous webs of algorithmic nebulae were becoming spun in sub-basements nightly. Advantages were primed for taking. AUMA became like so much like a done deal, like duh. It was no longer necessary to waste words on a mere meaningful explanation. If you did not yet know by at least way back when that the U stands for Use, where had you been lamely hiding lately? Indiana? I was able to feel a residual boost in self-esteem that stiffened me as if I had portrayed a salacious starring role even if I did not.
“I hear ya, bra.”
On a need to know basis, now that we all know what’s done is done, what else is left to be said about the history of old hats? The newly crowned and dandified Lt Guv Gav became The Fucking Man. Ash gray and butter yellow melded into a lovely shade of muddy sludge. Beige was reborn the new black. The next election in 2018 that would be coming right up before any gob-smacked thoughtful mind knew what the fuck was what became key. Politicians have to gurgle non-stop like sharks to remain stagnant afloat and blow. The current Lt Guv Gav was about to grow like the greatest heavyweight champion of pumpkins from Half Moon Bay into the seat of Guv Gav of California. Now, even fucking international robots were buying in. Win-win. Though they were still demanding my head.
They wheeled me down and out of a hospital off-ramp in the middle of the night, whoever they were pretending to be this time, camouflaged as a junkie who had attempted to kick back but fell short. I was carrying the same brown bag. Roast pork had once stayed firm and warm wrapped inside. A lovely baguette had a chance to stay crispy. Filthy lucre, too. Then I was pushed, jostled, and shoved. Then, I found myself strapped into the back seat of a moving vehicle. It resembled the plump Oscar Mayer wienermobile of my dreams. The straps squeezing my guts into skin were frayed from overuse. A vertically challenged munchkin drove with a lead foot. Now, I’m all of a sudden supposed to become abnormal again, and continuously self-reliant. As if.
“You’ll stay shut up if you know what’s good and tight for you.”
I woke up one day soon thereafter, assaulted by the latest chronic invasion of one hapless eye that quivered. Must be more of that historic tightness going around. I was informed that residual tics and spasms might recur. Voices, too. Metaphysically, there were doubts. And lumps. Phenomenology? As if. Pharmaceuticals were still nearby, though.
The bright and shining spawn of my loins, the teen twins, were there, too. Along with an ex-wife who came and went though not the one they would recognize as their mother. She went again. I kept the one good eye shut tight.
The yang twin asked, “Who was that”?
“Was she wearing a mask like the lone ranger?”
“You might look sick but you sound the same to me.”
“Go where your keen eyes lead.”
“I think you’re faking it.”
“A diverse grab bag of injuries is a condition, not a sickness.”
“A contradictory condition is guaranteed no fault just as much as any addictive disease.”
“If it was me, you’d send me to school.”
“But, you would take advantage and cut school.”
“Would that be middle school or high school this year?”
“That proves you’ll never know the difference.”
“That’s not proof of the future.”
“So, why aren’t you attending one of those schools as we speak?”
“Unless I’m faking it.”
“So you will be leaving any minute now to start wasting your time.”
I tried to roll over to my good side, but came up short again. Despite infirmities, I remained free to be no less than or equal to me. A public radio station was tuned in and turned on, begging for archaic alms before dropping out into a hole. I heard a faked falsetto voice whining, “stay just a little bit longer,” but I ignored the implicit socialist bias and stood self-reliantly on my own two feet to piss straight into a dingy bowl and fulfill my full potential.
It had not been easy to get out of bed, though, believe me, even if anyone who has to ask to be believed, or trusted, never deserves to receive the benefit of either, especially a religious fanatic, tricky politician, or psychiatric patient. What else am I really doing here in any bigger picture, though? I know that brown beer does not grow on trees like greenback dollar bills and will not become meticulously brewed by the metaphysical power of extraordinary will alone. I pulled out a big pot with which I had a history, and banged. I wobbled as I stirred a tad of freshly ground coffee into the mix to provide fortitude for the preservation of future generations still to sip, never gulp, or chug, upon generous pouring.
I had just about reached the successful end of my rope with no more loose noose attached when the shrill lamestream media showed up to jackhammer dents into my door and demand a statement to exploit my condition. They claimed to have uncovered perennial entitlement issues at risk in the muck about to be raked. Where I stood was shaky. My bed might become subject to search and seizure. Techno-yuppie dweebs employed by robots were enabled by engineering fiat to probe underneath. I could be tied up and strangled by suits.
Was I cowed? Fuck, yeah. Tight suits that cling tend to chafe sensitive skin. But I resisted the urge to run and stood erect dressed in my rags with holes showing once private parts sticking out to respond.
I heard, “Ooh look, that’s disgusting.”
I heard, “Got a tight close-up.”
My dignified response was brief and to the point.
“I was just stirring a pot. Now I’m all done until later.”
They found some good quotes in that to take out of context and falsify on the nightly news down home. I knew exactly how it worked when I did it. Not much had changed. The freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles was still threatened by neanderthals itching asses. I climbed back to bed. I slept through most of the details.
I was later contacted by agents of the enemy robots who wanted to make a deal. I was offered one last chance to shut the fuck up forever. I said I’d take it.
But I lied. Fuck ’em. I was saving the truth for myself. A win-win for my side.