Liberation...
Well, I have finally invoked the Dionysian muse and have written like banshee from Hades all bloody afternoon. Here is the result, in an easily digestible dose. The drug use in this will get frightening, but currently you can enjoy inner monologues about cereal:
1
I’m currently downing my 19th bowl of Raisin Bran in the past six days. That’s Raisin Bran 3 meals a day for what threatens to be a week solid. My roommate spent all $125 of our food money at Costco on a 121-pack of Post Raisin Bran, which lies split open on the floor of our living room. I cursed him endlessly for his purchase of Post Raisin Bran and not Kellogg, which is obviously the superior bran. His argument that Post contained Sun-Maid Raisins pales in comparison to the inescapable truth that Kellogg’s has the “Two Scoops” sun mascot, which is far more aesthetically pleasing. The 11 x 11 set of boxes has been reduced by about a third since the initial purchase, and, seeing as by next payday isn’t for another week, we must continue eating this swill without the aid of milk. You either eat it dry or douse it in tap water, which aids only in digestibility and not in flavor. On the plus side, the high quantity of fiber in the bran has made my bowel movements extraordinarily smooth and precise. You could set a railway time table to the consistency of my restroom visits. However, I fear that this bran-based diet is simply flowing through my body denying it of precious proteins and vitamins. If I contract scurvy at any time during the next 30 days I will sue the Costco Corporation for a bloody mint. You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you’re hoping to become violently ill and Vitamin C deficient.
The house we rented for the summer would be quite choice if it had a hot water heater or an air conditioner. As it is we take freezing cold showers and sit on the couch watching the droplets of water sizzle on our bodies and evaporate in the cruel July heat. When agreeing to come to Iowa for the summer, I was under the impression that Midwestern summers were at least tolerable. Back then my mental rolodex wasn’t privy to the concept of humidity and the difference between the “temperature” and “what it feels like.” The hottest it’s gotten this summer is 95 degrees, but on that day it “felt” like it was 110. The humidity is so thick in this God-forsaken plain state that you have to wade through while you walk, pushing aside clumps of air as you meander down the sidewalk. It’s a rare occasion when you can stand outside for over 10 minutes without collapsing from exhaustion. At least it’s rare for me, but the bran-diet might have something to do with that too.
The most clothing I ever wear here is a pair of Bermuda shorts and a wife-beater. Normally I just lie around in my boxers covered in sweat, but jaunts into the outside world require a bit more coverage. I’m philosophically opposed to the wife-beater on the basis of its misogynistic overtones and white-trash associations, but damn if they don’t cool you off better than any piece of clothing I can find. Since I don’t have to go into town for at least another three hours to begin my night shift at Beaners, one of the few Midwestern coffee chains not to be royally bitch-slapped by our imperialist coffee-mongers in the great Northwest, I’m still clad only in a pair of plaid boxers. Every day I wake up expecting to get a call from my manager telling me that either a) I’ve been fired, b) The Grinnell, Iowa location of Beaners is being turned into a Wal-Mart, or c) Beaners has been bought out by Starbucks and all employees must now memorize a 175-page drink-list & etiquette manual, except for Arlo, who has been deemed unworthy of the title of “Barista” by Starbucks management. How Beaners has stayed open with a name like Beaners is beyond me. I know it’s referring to coffee beans, but it could just as easily refer to the janitorial staff. What, you think there aren’t any Mexicans in rural Iowa? Well, Grinnell has exactly one illegal Mexican immigrant, Raul, and he has chosen Beaners as his place of employment. I can’t tell whether this is genuine irony or the Alanis Morisette version, but either way it’s funny as hell. That’d be like the only Italian guy in a community busing tables at a Star Wars themed Olive Garden knockoff restaurant called Dagobah. On a more serious note, I’ve always been concerned with racism in popular feature films, and have many times wondered whether the planet of Dagobah in the Star Wars films was an underhanded shot at the Italian-American community. However, after much discussion I’ve decided to let George Lucas off the hook. The man wears far too much flannel to be any sort of white supremacist or fascist. If you look at militaristic, oppressive groups of society from the past 100 or so years you will see a direct correlation between fashion and action. The Nazi S.S., Mussolini’s minions, Communist Russia post-Lenin, the Ku Klux Klan: all of these organizations use heavily starched uniforms that are unpleasant for the wearer. It’s my own stipulation that part of the rage fomented by these groups was a direct result of the stiffness of their clothing. Any man who wears a versatile and loose-fitting material like flannel couldn’t possibly be a fascist.
He’s back, oh he is back, back, back, back, back. “Lucas, will you shag ass in here before I have a complete breakdown. Any more of this fucking bran and I’ll cut out my tongue.”
“Here you are my good sire. Just what the doctor would never have ordered, unless he worked in Beverly Hills.”
Oh, sweet lord. How the hell can a crumpled brown-paper bag look so bloody luminous. Open, open, open it up. “Where did you get this stuff anyway? I though the town was dry.”
“The town was dry you fuck-nut, I had to drive to Chicago to get it. That’s why I haven’t been home since Thursday, or did you not notice?”
“I noticed well enough, but I thought you were just out turning your dick black with that diseased harlot of yours, Lucille, or something or other…”
“Her name’s Deirdre and she’s not a fucking harlot.”
“But she is diseased.”
“I can’t argue that point, but it’s only a cold sore. Hell, my mother got cold sores from time to time.”
“Well, then your mother’s a tramp too. And what the hell kind of a name for a hooker is Deirdre anyway? Sounds like the name of some damned Ingrid Bergman character.”
“She’s not a hooker Godammit! And Deirdre was her dead grandmother’s name so just shut your vile mouth and thank Deirdre for the goods.”
“Wait a minute, your little guttersnipe drove you to Chicago for this?”
“You better fucking believe it.”
“Well, then. I believe a toast to young Deirdre is in order. Hell, I can’t say Deirdre with a straight face, I feel like I’m in a bad Tennessee Williams play. Umm, I’ll call her Dee-Dee. That’ll do nicely. A toast to Dee-Dee and her gas money.”
“Arlo, I split the gas money with her to make it even.”
“Damn it all, that money’s communal. Do you know what that means you egghead? Communal, as in that shit’s mine too and wasn’t meant to be given up to some floozy that has your Calvin’s in a twist.”
“If I didn’t give her the money then we’d be stuck with nothing.”
“Alright, but I expect to see Dee-Dee naked by the end of the week.”
“What?!”
“You heard me; my part of the payment. Reparations if you will, for the insufferable solitude I had to endure while you two were gallivanting around the Windy City.”
“How does Dee-Dee getting buck naked for you constitute reparations?”
“I don’t make the rules, I simply follow like a sheep to slaughter. If you want I could be naked too and get a bit of a nudist colony vibe going here.”
“Just keep your pants on and cook this shit up.”
“I can’t keep my pants on if I’m not wearing any you beast. And may I once again point out that I am acting the part of the cart-mule in this operation. One day I’m just going to keel over from exhaustion and you’ll kick me a KGB goon in a gulag. Then what’ll you do you oppressive mongrel?
“Will you shut the fuck up and turn the burner on before I whelp you.”
“Yes sir Mr. Goerring.”
Warning: this is highly un-edited
1
I’m currently downing my 19th bowl of Raisin Bran in the past six days. That’s Raisin Bran 3 meals a day for what threatens to be a week solid. My roommate spent all $125 of our food money at Costco on a 121-pack of Post Raisin Bran, which lies split open on the floor of our living room. I cursed him endlessly for his purchase of Post Raisin Bran and not Kellogg, which is obviously the superior bran. His argument that Post contained Sun-Maid Raisins pales in comparison to the inescapable truth that Kellogg’s has the “Two Scoops” sun mascot, which is far more aesthetically pleasing. The 11 x 11 set of boxes has been reduced by about a third since the initial purchase, and, seeing as by next payday isn’t for another week, we must continue eating this swill without the aid of milk. You either eat it dry or douse it in tap water, which aids only in digestibility and not in flavor. On the plus side, the high quantity of fiber in the bran has made my bowel movements extraordinarily smooth and precise. You could set a railway time table to the consistency of my restroom visits. However, I fear that this bran-based diet is simply flowing through my body denying it of precious proteins and vitamins. If I contract scurvy at any time during the next 30 days I will sue the Costco Corporation for a bloody mint. You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you’re hoping to become violently ill and Vitamin C deficient.
The house we rented for the summer would be quite choice if it had a hot water heater or an air conditioner. As it is we take freezing cold showers and sit on the couch watching the droplets of water sizzle on our bodies and evaporate in the cruel July heat. When agreeing to come to Iowa for the summer, I was under the impression that Midwestern summers were at least tolerable. Back then my mental rolodex wasn’t privy to the concept of humidity and the difference between the “temperature” and “what it feels like.” The hottest it’s gotten this summer is 95 degrees, but on that day it “felt” like it was 110. The humidity is so thick in this God-forsaken plain state that you have to wade through while you walk, pushing aside clumps of air as you meander down the sidewalk. It’s a rare occasion when you can stand outside for over 10 minutes without collapsing from exhaustion. At least it’s rare for me, but the bran-diet might have something to do with that too.
The most clothing I ever wear here is a pair of Bermuda shorts and a wife-beater. Normally I just lie around in my boxers covered in sweat, but jaunts into the outside world require a bit more coverage. I’m philosophically opposed to the wife-beater on the basis of its misogynistic overtones and white-trash associations, but damn if they don’t cool you off better than any piece of clothing I can find. Since I don’t have to go into town for at least another three hours to begin my night shift at Beaners, one of the few Midwestern coffee chains not to be royally bitch-slapped by our imperialist coffee-mongers in the great Northwest, I’m still clad only in a pair of plaid boxers. Every day I wake up expecting to get a call from my manager telling me that either a) I’ve been fired, b) The Grinnell, Iowa location of Beaners is being turned into a Wal-Mart, or c) Beaners has been bought out by Starbucks and all employees must now memorize a 175-page drink-list & etiquette manual, except for Arlo, who has been deemed unworthy of the title of “Barista” by Starbucks management. How Beaners has stayed open with a name like Beaners is beyond me. I know it’s referring to coffee beans, but it could just as easily refer to the janitorial staff. What, you think there aren’t any Mexicans in rural Iowa? Well, Grinnell has exactly one illegal Mexican immigrant, Raul, and he has chosen Beaners as his place of employment. I can’t tell whether this is genuine irony or the Alanis Morisette version, but either way it’s funny as hell. That’d be like the only Italian guy in a community busing tables at a Star Wars themed Olive Garden knockoff restaurant called Dagobah. On a more serious note, I’ve always been concerned with racism in popular feature films, and have many times wondered whether the planet of Dagobah in the Star Wars films was an underhanded shot at the Italian-American community. However, after much discussion I’ve decided to let George Lucas off the hook. The man wears far too much flannel to be any sort of white supremacist or fascist. If you look at militaristic, oppressive groups of society from the past 100 or so years you will see a direct correlation between fashion and action. The Nazi S.S., Mussolini’s minions, Communist Russia post-Lenin, the Ku Klux Klan: all of these organizations use heavily starched uniforms that are unpleasant for the wearer. It’s my own stipulation that part of the rage fomented by these groups was a direct result of the stiffness of their clothing. Any man who wears a versatile and loose-fitting material like flannel couldn’t possibly be a fascist.
He’s back, oh he is back, back, back, back, back. “Lucas, will you shag ass in here before I have a complete breakdown. Any more of this fucking bran and I’ll cut out my tongue.”
“Here you are my good sire. Just what the doctor would never have ordered, unless he worked in Beverly Hills.”
Oh, sweet lord. How the hell can a crumpled brown-paper bag look so bloody luminous. Open, open, open it up. “Where did you get this stuff anyway? I though the town was dry.”
“The town was dry you fuck-nut, I had to drive to Chicago to get it. That’s why I haven’t been home since Thursday, or did you not notice?”
“I noticed well enough, but I thought you were just out turning your dick black with that diseased harlot of yours, Lucille, or something or other…”
“Her name’s Deirdre and she’s not a fucking harlot.”
“But she is diseased.”
“I can’t argue that point, but it’s only a cold sore. Hell, my mother got cold sores from time to time.”
“Well, then your mother’s a tramp too. And what the hell kind of a name for a hooker is Deirdre anyway? Sounds like the name of some damned Ingrid Bergman character.”
“She’s not a hooker Godammit! And Deirdre was her dead grandmother’s name so just shut your vile mouth and thank Deirdre for the goods.”
“Wait a minute, your little guttersnipe drove you to Chicago for this?”
“You better fucking believe it.”
“Well, then. I believe a toast to young Deirdre is in order. Hell, I can’t say Deirdre with a straight face, I feel like I’m in a bad Tennessee Williams play. Umm, I’ll call her Dee-Dee. That’ll do nicely. A toast to Dee-Dee and her gas money.”
“Arlo, I split the gas money with her to make it even.”
“Damn it all, that money’s communal. Do you know what that means you egghead? Communal, as in that shit’s mine too and wasn’t meant to be given up to some floozy that has your Calvin’s in a twist.”
“If I didn’t give her the money then we’d be stuck with nothing.”
“Alright, but I expect to see Dee-Dee naked by the end of the week.”
“What?!”
“You heard me; my part of the payment. Reparations if you will, for the insufferable solitude I had to endure while you two were gallivanting around the Windy City.”
“How does Dee-Dee getting buck naked for you constitute reparations?”
“I don’t make the rules, I simply follow like a sheep to slaughter. If you want I could be naked too and get a bit of a nudist colony vibe going here.”
“Just keep your pants on and cook this shit up.”
“I can’t keep my pants on if I’m not wearing any you beast. And may I once again point out that I am acting the part of the cart-mule in this operation. One day I’m just going to keel over from exhaustion and you’ll kick me a KGB goon in a gulag. Then what’ll you do you oppressive mongrel?
“Will you shut the fuck up and turn the burner on before I whelp you.”
“Yes sir Mr. Goerring.”
Warning: this is highly un-edited