2003-03-12 - 10:50 a.m.
More immortal kick-ass words from Frank Zappa:
Debbie is thirteen years old. Her parents like to think of themselves as Average, God-fearing American White Folk. Her Dad belongs to a corrupt union of some sort and is, as we might suspect, a lazy, incompetent, overpaid, ignorant son-of-a-bitch.
Her mother is a sexually maladjusted mercenary shrew who lives to spend her husband's paycheck on ridiculous clothes--to make her look "younger."
Debbie is incredibly stupid. She has been raised to respect the values and traditions which her parents hold sacred. Sometimes she dreams about being kissed by a lifeguard.
When the people in the Secret Office Where They Run Everything From found out about Debbie, they were thrilled. She was perfect. She was hopeless. She was their kind of girl.
She was immediately chosen to become the Archetypical Imaginary Pop Music Consumer & Ultimate Arbiter of Musical Taste for the Entire Nation--from that moment on, everything musical in this country would have to be modified to conform to what they computed to be her needs and desires.
Debbie's "taste" determined the size, shape and color of all music broadcast and sold in the United States during the latter part of the twentieth century. Eventually she grew up to be just like her mother, and married a guy just like her Dad. She has somehow managed to reproduce herself. The people in The Secret Office have their eye on her daughter at this very moment.
I miss Frank. When I rule the world I'm building a monument to him. It'll be the only public space in North America where smoking is not only allowed, but mandatory.
***
You know what the worst part of a bad cold is? The very end. By then all the snot and assorted viral crud in your nasal passages and bronchial tubes has had time to coagulate. True, it's not dripping and bubbling around in your system anymore and making you generally miserable, but it's not in a big hurry to leave either. There's always one tough little wad of phlegm down in the middle of your chest resisting all your efforts to expel it, no matter how badly your coughing fits freak out the cat and how many almost-healed back muscles you pull all over again in the process.
I had pop another vicodin last night to get to sleep. Which is all good--I slept like a rock. The problem I have when I do that is with waking up--or not so much waking up as getting out of bed.
Gee. It's 7:30. I really should be getting out of bed.
Wow. It's 7:35. Only five minutes? I could have sworn it had been a whole hour since the last time I looked at the clock. What is time, anyway? Is it really the only thing standing between the universe and total chaos or is it just an artificial social construct with which we measure the amount of procrastination we do in an average day? And isn't procrastination really just a word the ruling class uses to shame you out of grabbing as much time away from The Man as you can?
Hey. I have a raging hard-on now. Perhaps I should masturbate.
Look. It's 7:36.
And so on. For the next hour and a half.
At least there weren't any dead babies crawling on the ceiling.
***
Apparently this "Freedom fries" meme isn't confined to just a couple of restaurants in Hicksville. My favorite quote: "The French Embassy in Washington had no immediate comment, except to say that french fries actually come from Belgium."
Hee. Those French. They sure do bring the funny.
Can we stop acting like a nation of spoiled and pissy little 5-year-olds now, please? I realize that we are a nation of spoiled and pissy little 5-year-olds, and that slightly less than 50 percent of those who bothered to vote in 2000 cast their ballots for a guy who thinks an occasional beer-and-booty run to Mexico makes him well-traveled, but if we all just took five minutes to look at the BBC's web site--or even just picked up a newspaper other than the Armadillo Ass Weekly Gazette and Discount Shopper--we'd realize exactly how petulant and neurotic we look. We'd also know that by all accounts, Jacques Chirac is one of the most pro-U.S. politicians in Europe and we wouldn't be acting like he's some kind of latter-day Marshal Petain. If we even knew who Marshal Petain was. Which most of us don't.
(God help me, I'm actually defending the French. Who thought that would ever happen?)
So we spilled American blood on the beaches of Normandy 59 years ago--that means the French are duty-bound to oui-monsieur our every dimwitted move until the sun goes nova? Some might say that our coming to the aid of France in WWII was simply returning the favor for all the help they gave us kicking King George III's ass. And what about "We are all Americans now" after 9/11? In just slightly more than a year and a half we've managed to transform a massive worldwide outpouring of sympathy and goodwill into near-total hostility. Only we could turn that much gold into dogshit in so short a period.
I think I'll go to Trader Joe's tonight and buy me a bottle of French wine (excuse me, "Freedom" wine). And then when France casts its veto in the Security Council I'll open it up and pour me a glass. Because I can.
I sure hope my cold's gone by then.
***
|
 |