Let's Have A Partita!

Get the respite you deserve another time.

Location: Cantonment, Florida, United States

Well, uh, hmm...

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

New Post!

I didn't know where to post this, so I'll post it here. This is incredibly rare, as this is now serving as a forum for the email correspondence with various John Birch people. Hope you enjoy.

When I'm out traveling the world, many people ask me, "Would you like fries with that?" And I always have to answer the same way, "That is the eternal question, isn't it? We are always seeking more in life, over-indulging if we get half the chance. Where is the line? Can we expect that 'a little bit more' will really satiate us? Why are we never satisfied with what we have? It's true that we're never sure exactly how much we'll need in life, and taking that little bit extra may give us just enough energy to sustain us until we find sustenance again. Still, in this modern age, is that ever really a worry? When we do find ourselves in a situation of extreme lack, where we are so removed from society that we can't feed ourselves if we wanted to, isn't it usually self-induced? I think so. So, at the risk of sounding pretentious and self aggrandizing, I must say no, I don't need it. I am nourished by the knowledge that I don't let my 'eyes outweigh my stomach,' as it were."

The one who asked me the question always responds, "That'll be $6.39. Pull around to the first window." But, the underlying tone of their words always grants me access to their true feelings. "Bravo," I hear them thinking to themselves, "A slap in the face of rampant consumerism. I applaud you sir." Beneath their blank stares as they hand me my coinage, which is always carefully placed in the half broken coin tray of my 1979 Chrysler Cordoba (and yes, the Corinthian leather is rich), I can tell that they respect me. They look at me as if to say, "Why do drive that old piece of crap?" But I know what their words imply, "A true sacrifice you perform, sir, driving a vintage automobile when you could have funded the capitalist machine by purchasing a new car. You surround yourself in aged opulence, and passive safety thanks to your conveyance's sheer girth. Also, since you have the V-6 instead of the V-8, and not all cylinders are firing anyway, your fuel mileage is not Brobdinagian, and you can continue to sneer at SUV drivers as you fill your 25 gallon tank with 87 octane. I would tear up, but I must maintain my reputation with my coworkers as someone with a gruff exterior, but with a heart of gold."

As I pull away, a plume of smoke and a slipping fan belt announce my departure, and I think to myself as I drive 3 mph under the speed limit that I've met a kindred spirit in the form of an underpaid, acne ridden 15 year old who has rashes in unspeakable places. I then weep as I enjoy my single patty Whataburger with extra onions.


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