Emergence of a Grotesque Sub-Culture
The initial conception of the traveling freakshow is one moment in human history that I greatly would like to have witnessed. So, for my own viewing pleasure, I present a re-creation of the earliest documented exchange between what would come to be known as a
freak, and an entrepreneur of sorts.
Act One (of one)
Businessman:
So, I see that you have a horrible, horrible disfigurement.Unfortunate Birth Defect Victim:
That's a keen eye you have, sir. I do indeed have a frightening malformation. Businessman:
You probably get this all the time, and you don't have to answer if you don't feel comfortable, but... can I put you in an exhibit that consists essentially of the general public staring at your stomach-churning deformity?UBD Victim:
Hmmm. An interesting proposal. Say I go with you, what kind of living arrangements can I expect?Businessman:
Horse trailers, buses with window AC units, maybe even a few Ramadas.UBD Victim:
Ramadas!? Now I'm not so sure...
Businessman:
Hey, if you don't want in, I got other clients to speak to. The guy that eats car tires is a real up-and-comer...UBD Victim:
No, wait! (Sigh)... where do I sign?Businessman:
Beautiful. Just beautiful. We're goin' straight to the top, you and me. You're gonna be in pictures, I can see it now...(Cut to classic cross-country, county fair montage)
Restauranting
I had just been seated at one of my favorite lumberjack-themed eateries, when the waitress approached the table with a most forward question: "Can I start you out with something to drink?"
Now, you may have been in this situation before and thought nothing of it. But if a person is going into this establishment cold, with no prior knowledge of entrees or options, and not the faintest idea of what they might want to order, the preliminary beverage selection may eliminate as much as two-thirds of the menu right off the bat. My reply to the initial inquiry: "Orange juice."
Snap. Just like that, the majority of the items on the menu have been rendered un-orderable. A bacon cheeseburger with a glass of orange juice? Are you daft? That combo could substitute for ipecac.
So, as of now, mine eyes have already been strictly relegated to the breakfast page. I suppose I could have simply told her that water would be suitable for the time being, but this didn't enter into my thoughts until after the OJ had already been delivered. Shit. And I kind of had a hankering for the meatloaf dinner. And don't even consider the option of sending the orange juice back, because that Florida Navel didn't have its innards liquefied for you to change your mind.
The preliminary beverage request paints you into a corner. A corner filled with liquid that you don't necessarily want to commit to. A wicked corner of hastily chosen, entree-specific beverages, of which I no longer want any part.
Give Me Liberty or Give Me Drob (a casserole made from lamb internal organs)
*In honor of Romanian Liberation Day, the following sentences were taken from a Bulgarian postcard, and then translated directly to English (If you think this sounds like the postcard you should have received had it not been misplaced/intercepted, you are most incorrect. You don't know anyone in Romania)*
Hello, friendly. It is happening to very good seeing him arrive in aeroport. An arriving of very nice lookings is not hungry to have. What is your name? Where do travel at supermarket at three o'clock? In seeing us safely, goodbye.
If that doesn't capture the resilient spirit of the Balkan people, then I may have to use a different adjective when describing them.
The Marvels of Human Advancement
As you may have already noticed from the previous ten words, this most recent post is being created on an entirely new piece of computerized-technology, and can no longer visually communicate in the archaic typeface seen in previous entries. Hence, the futuristic font. So you might as well get used to it now, because by 2015, all digital materials will appear this way. It's almost like looking into the future. Hopefully this font doesn't accidentally run into its counterpart of yesteryear, due to the drastic altering of space-time that would surely accompany the meeting, as well as the awkwardness of possibly making out with its mother before the Enchantment Under the Sea dance.Other probable future events coinciding with aforementioned font change:2015 - Cardboard box used as time capsule and buried by group of twelve-year-olds. Contained a toad, a calendar, a copy of Teen People, and an odd-smelling wig. 2016 - Replacement of "sliced bread" with "sliced cheese" when speaking in regards to "Greatest things since..." 2016 - Election of first US president with clearly visible, disturbing deformity.2018 - Time capsule opened way too soon, teenagers comment on how lame they all used to be.2022 - Complete eradication of hats.2023 - Tribe native to northeast Asia discovered to have evolved scary, hook-hands.DISCLAIMER *In order to get the most enjoyment out of this post, it must be read as if it were coming out of Peter Frampton's guitar. This actually holds true for most printed materials, but especially for this one*
Damn You Marie and Pierre Curie! Damn You to Hell!
Profound thought of the day: How large a cotton ball would be needed to kill a human if it were first soaked in rubbing alcohol and then sealed in a Cool Whip tub proportional in size?
Conclusion drawn: One that is
reasonably large. I'd imagine that the main obstacle would not necessarily be the ideal dimensions of the cottonous sphere, but would instead be how to acquire a sizeable quantity of rubbing alcohol without giving the impression that you're some kind of drug addict, or worse, an entomologist (assuming, of course, that professionals employ the same methods as morbid schoolchildren). I've luckily been mistaken for an entomologist only twice in all my years, but each misconception resulted in the ingestion of more Gypsy Moth larvae than I would care to mention.
Helpful Hint: Be careful that you do not ingest any moth larvae that you think may have been exposed to acute doses of radiation. In the case that you do, prepare for an unmerciful, internal ravaging, the likes of which haven't been seen since Japan, circa 1961.
A Day At Walgreens
Ran into an interesting situation the other day: While on an excursion to my local Walgreens, a refrigerated display case immediately before the register advertised the fact that you can purchase a 20 oz. bottle of Coke for $1.19. Not out of the ordinary by any means. But, on an adjacent display case (unrefrigerated I might add) there sat 2-liter jugs of the same soda, priced at $1.19. Now, am I to believe that a few degrees' temperature difference is to blame for the financial disparity that I witnessed? No. I am not to believe this.
As my curiosity began to get the better of me, I inquired of the check-out lady as to the soda inconsistency. She seemed to be taken aback by the question, but her annoyance soon vanished. I could see her ire turn into pure, seething rage before my very eyes. Her brow furrowed, and seemed to increase in hair density for some reason. This may have been an illusion, but an effective one nonetheless. A wicked sneer spread across her once-inviting face, and her nametag no longer read "Leslie," but morphed into "Lex Luthor." I was face to face with Superman's arch nemesis. Luthor looked into my eyes, and I was helpless to his smoldering, masculine charm. I knew he was reading my thoughts, or what I like to call my "Mind Diary." The time I ate ice cream out of the dog's bowl, the time I raped that hobo, even the time when I didn't cut the grass for two weeks, nothing was secret anymore. I fell out of the trance, but before I could escape he stabbed me in the left tricep with a large knife that he had whittled down into a smaller, sharper knife. My arm burned, like the feeling of being hit with a poison arrow by a Cherokee Tribesman in the dead of winter, after being spotted attempting to steal his cattle (children). I countered with the only item I had in my basket, a mace. Not that shitty little aerosol container filled with peppery water, but an authentic, medieval, motherfucking mace. Two spikes caught the flesh just under his cheekbone, only centimeters from his aorta. He let out an inhuman, almost demonic bellow, and with one swipe the counter came crashing down around the mace, swinging like a pendulum, covered in flesh and muscle-y things. I was caught off guard when Luthor then abandoned more complex, psychological tactics, and punched me in the ear. It was a fairly successful move, as my balance was thrown off to the extent that I collapsed onto a massive wooden shard from the freshly broken counter. The wood protruded a good foot-and-a-half out of my right thigh. Trying my best to fight through the pulse of blood that was escaping by the second from my wound and into the aisle, I reached for a Dale Earnhardt lighter that I noticed only inches from my outstretched hand. Luthor looked to the sky (ceiling) and let out a triumphant roar. "ROOOAAARRR!" he said. I seized this brief opportunity to grab a bargain box of post-July 4th firecrackers, and used the lighter to melt some chocolate bars into it, disguising certain death as a tasty treat. After igniting the fuse, I lofted the entire box, grenade style, into the general area of his face. It somehow managed to land directly in his gaping mouth and was swallowed soon after. With one rapidfire explosion after another, his esophagus was ripped apart in a terrible storm of splintering vertebrae, and rupturing tendons. His body then slumped over what remained of the desk, still spewing wet innards out of the tear in his neck. His head detatched, fell, and became impaled upon the large, wooden sliver still projecting from my limb."When you play with fire, you get burned," I delivered in a deep, Chuck Norris-like tone. I pried the skull off of my leg and prodeeded to wedge it forcefully into the fluorescent Walgreens sign.
Having solved the mystery of the mispriced soda, I returned home to make myself a grilled cheese.
*
may have been fictionalized
