The Virgin Prince's War Journal
The grim and gritty side of things. If everyone had a soundtrack to their lives, mine would be the best.
Thursday, December 04, 2003
Poured From A Blender On A Plane
Where have all the pink elephants gone? The dancing, slightly sexual, pachyderms promised to me as a gift upon reaching a drinking age. Much firewater has come and gone, in by mouth, out by bladder, and still more out by mouth, but nary a pink elephant. The lusty magenta vulgarians stay hidden deep within the hot tub and cocaine splendor of their Congo condominiums.
And I wonder what happened to all the little people. At one time they seemed plentiful, being enough to stand 3 at a time at Santa's side, with one more working the counter at the video store down the way, hidden behind the Cheech and Chong tapes and still yet, one or two more at the new McDonalds opening up the street, handing out cheap plastic decoder watches, the ones with hidden compartments in them, my favorite kind of piddly crap. Ronald McDonald of course would smile wide and lift you up, sit you on his shoulder, and Pops would take your photo. Inevitably, Pops would get distracted, either talking to another adult or checking his camera and Ronald would always take advantage of these moments, tossing you to his midget sidekicks, the round blonde one and the albino, who would hold you down while the third assistant, the effeminate Latino boy in the bright yellow suit, would shove food down your throat, McNuggets, fries, oversized bites of burgers, all forced down with generous helpings of ketchup, honey, and sweet and sour sauce.
This may all sound sweet and nice, like loads of fun, but was in fact far more insidious. What they did with those few bites of McDonaldland fried food was give you your first taste of their patented artificial beef flavor, gross, unholy shit that they inject their burgers with. This chemical concoction made from the foulest bits of a horse's ass, designed to stick to your arteries and get your body to gradually form a dependency on this foreign matter.
Old man McDonald wants your money and he makes sure he gets it. What starts out with a burger a week becomes a burger daily and from there continues to escalate to a value meal at every sitting and bringing you closer to your inevitable death, the final stage where you mix cocktails of chicken fat and biodiesel to shoot up between your toes. I've seen it happen and it's never pretty.
Indeed, as I've gotten older, everything seems to have lost its glossy shine, hope is harder to come by, and the friendly, furry creatures don't come by as much anymore. Perhaps I was better off in those naive days of thinking girls were gross and uncool. Those childhood gender battles, though tiring, kept you safe from the cute loose Persian girls that get inside your head and make you doubt your very sanity, or the Russian lasses that break your heart and crush your spirit, the ones that make you question your self worth. Even Mother, who at one time could make a boy feel 10 feet tall, now makes me feel hollow inside, shriveled up, dead and worthless.
And I get to thinking. I am the dreamer, but this is not my dream. I did not ask for this, this work-a-day world, this place of life-hour consuming employment, barely adequate domiciles, years wasted on educations that won't actually help you in the job market or improve your living situation. This loss of freedom that comes from being an adult. I would not waste my dreamstuffs on this, nor even the stuffs of my nightmares, for it's just not good enough. Not for me. This is not my dream. This must be YOUR dream. Perhaps then, you are the dreamer.
And I wonder what happened to all the little people. At one time they seemed plentiful, being enough to stand 3 at a time at Santa's side, with one more working the counter at the video store down the way, hidden behind the Cheech and Chong tapes and still yet, one or two more at the new McDonalds opening up the street, handing out cheap plastic decoder watches, the ones with hidden compartments in them, my favorite kind of piddly crap. Ronald McDonald of course would smile wide and lift you up, sit you on his shoulder, and Pops would take your photo. Inevitably, Pops would get distracted, either talking to another adult or checking his camera and Ronald would always take advantage of these moments, tossing you to his midget sidekicks, the round blonde one and the albino, who would hold you down while the third assistant, the effeminate Latino boy in the bright yellow suit, would shove food down your throat, McNuggets, fries, oversized bites of burgers, all forced down with generous helpings of ketchup, honey, and sweet and sour sauce.
This may all sound sweet and nice, like loads of fun, but was in fact far more insidious. What they did with those few bites of McDonaldland fried food was give you your first taste of their patented artificial beef flavor, gross, unholy shit that they inject their burgers with. This chemical concoction made from the foulest bits of a horse's ass, designed to stick to your arteries and get your body to gradually form a dependency on this foreign matter.
Old man McDonald wants your money and he makes sure he gets it. What starts out with a burger a week becomes a burger daily and from there continues to escalate to a value meal at every sitting and bringing you closer to your inevitable death, the final stage where you mix cocktails of chicken fat and biodiesel to shoot up between your toes. I've seen it happen and it's never pretty.
Indeed, as I've gotten older, everything seems to have lost its glossy shine, hope is harder to come by, and the friendly, furry creatures don't come by as much anymore. Perhaps I was better off in those naive days of thinking girls were gross and uncool. Those childhood gender battles, though tiring, kept you safe from the cute loose Persian girls that get inside your head and make you doubt your very sanity, or the Russian lasses that break your heart and crush your spirit, the ones that make you question your self worth. Even Mother, who at one time could make a boy feel 10 feet tall, now makes me feel hollow inside, shriveled up, dead and worthless.
And I get to thinking. I am the dreamer, but this is not my dream. I did not ask for this, this work-a-day world, this place of life-hour consuming employment, barely adequate domiciles, years wasted on educations that won't actually help you in the job market or improve your living situation. This loss of freedom that comes from being an adult. I would not waste my dreamstuffs on this, nor even the stuffs of my nightmares, for it's just not good enough. Not for me. This is not my dream. This must be YOUR dream. Perhaps then, you are the dreamer.
