Saturday, July 18, 2009

Off the Deep End in Shallow Water

"Wow, she really does have a big ass." Its unblemished whiteness bouncing up and down on top of what appeared to be a pair of disembodied male legs and genitals filled most of his computer screen. Alan thought about how the video's description; 'white teen with pigtails gets her round ass fucked,' had been quite an apt description. He wondered to himself whether he would have been able to write such satisfyingly apt descriptions for Ebay-sold products at the job he was offered and subsequently declined last spring.

Alan got up and pressed the button to shut off the laptop. He made his way into his bedroom, found the notebook he hadn't written in in months and went upstairs. Outside, he found the hookah right where he had left it. As he picked up the coal with the tongs, part of it broke off and fell onto the big toe of his right foot. "Well, it still hurts way less than my ingrown toenail on my other big toe." Replacing the coal on the foil he sat down. "I'll give this description thing a shot, but instead of products," he thought, "It'll be about my morning."

When I woke up, I still had the aftertaste of the previous night's extended dream sequence embedded in my mind and body. I felt like I had to come, but decided not to, and went upstairs. "There's coffee if you want it," Sean told me. After a cursory walk around the cavernous living/dining room I poured what remained of the contents of the french press into a green mug. After I initially brought the mug to my mouth Sean instructed me to put it in the microwave. "Nuke it," he said ironically, an obvious parody of those domesticated sons-of-bitches who use pet names for appliances and actions in the household.

With my drink sufficiently heated, I stared at it for a few moments ultimately deciding to add milk. I thought of my mother as I poured the coolant into the hot beverage. She always had milk with her coffee, yet for some reason I chose to emulate my middle school trumpet teacher who drank his black. It was only recently that I began putting creamer, and sometimes even sugar into my brew, a direct reaction to the continuously decreasing level of coffee quality at work. The creamer, of course was being used to improve the taste of the drink as opposed to the milk, which was being used to lower the mean liquid temp. Ultimately, however, I concluded that both the creamer and the milk were being utilized so as to make the drink more palatable; improving the speed and decreasing the difficulty with which I was able to ingest liquid drug caffeine.

All this thought given over to liquid stirred something in his bladder. Alan went to the bathroom to relieve himself. Upon entering, he realized he had forgotten to flush from the previous time he had urinated (right before his shower). He felt slightly good about himself for forgetting to flush, since he was saving water and in effect acting 'greenly'. After he finished, he returned to his seat on the deck and picked his notebook back up.

I took a sip of my coffee and sat down at the octagonal table in the living room.
"Do you want to smoke," I heard Don ask me.
"I have to take a dump."
"I have to take a piss"
"I'll go downstairs."

In the bathroom I was reminded of something Bill Mahr had said on the newest broadcast of his political talk show from the night before. It was something about America as a collective country being addicted to drugs. He used Michael Jackson's death as a comment on the fact that it is often the 'legal' drugs which are causing the most damage. However, as he went on to list some of our specific nationwide drug issues, potheads were described with almost the same level of derision as ten-year-olds on Prozac. While I felt a strange twinge of guilt as a result of these comments, I knew, as I had already concluded, perhaps subconsciously, that I would smoke the bowl of middies Don was undoubtedly packing upstairs. "Had I even agreed to smoke?" I wondered that as I flushed. I knew it didn't matter. Of course I would smoke.

I grabbed my laptop from my room and headed upstairs. After perusing the messages from insomniacs who, since I had forgotten to turn off gchat, had seen I was online at 5am and tried to contact me, I clicked a link for General Bullshit on After a cursory glance at the list of threads, I clicked on a newer one entitled 'Black People Have Highest Obesity Rate.' The original post began with "July 16 (Bloomberg) -- Blacks were 51 percent more likely and Hispanics were 21 percent more likely to be obese than whites," which did in fact back up the thread title. It went on to explain how the government study came to those conclusions and what they signify to the writers at Bloomberg. The initial responses turned me of with their juvenile racism, however half-way down the first of seven pages I found a comment that reinforced why I read the forums in the first place. "Check out this response," I called to Don. "Have there ever been any other instances in history where the poorer classes suffered from over-nourishment?" We both got a good laugh out of this partly because of its ridiculousness, and partly because of its truth.

I clicked on a thread I had been eyeing for several days. 'My senator told me never to write him again.' I could tell this was a much better thread than the one I had clicked on previously. Unlike that first thread, which simply linked an article and called for discussion, this one offered a personal story complete with digital images of both the author's original letter and its response.

The author had attended a hearing for a Filipino woman who had been living with her American partner for 23 years and who was now up for deportation due to her illegal status. The defense attorney was explaining the woman's situation, why she deserved to be allowed to stay and work on getting her green card. Both the Filipino woman and her US-born child were seen to be shaken up as the attorney explained the woman's legitimate fear of returning to the Philippines where a man who had brutalized her and murdered her mother and sister, (an obvious cause for her originally fleeing the country), was recently freed from jail. As the situation was being explained, the young child had begun to cry. In response to this, the Senator in question stated "Okay, enough with the histrionics." The author of the thread described the Senator in question as being of the type who believes that illegal aliens up for deportation only cry as a way of garnering support for their cause. Here we get to the meat of the post. The author sent a letter to the Senator expressing his disappointment in his representative politician both holding such a sentiment and being willing to express it in the halls of the judiciary system. Below the letter was attached the Senator's response letter claiming he never said such a thing and ordering the author never to contact him again.

As I finished reading, I Googled the Senator's name, Jeff Sessions, as it sounded familiar. I quickly realized that he was, unsurprisingly, one of the same Republican politicians who had been hounding Supreme Court Nominee Sotomayor for supposedly being a reverse racist. I had seen him on the news repeatedly asking her about her temperament, obviously unconvinced as to whether or not she might be the type of non-white female who might utilize 'histrionics' to garner support, or worse, might fall pray to those same 'histrionics' from others while on the bench. These thoughts reverberated in my mind as Don finished packing the bowl. I thought about trying to explain the story to him, as he is someone who would undoubtedly be interested in hearing it, but decided against it, figuring I could just show him the link later, now it was time to numb myself with weed.

While smoking, Don brought out today's Washington Post and alerted me to an image of Presidents Obama and Sarkozy seeming to stare at a woman's big white ass as she walked by. The article featured several responses from 'ordinary readers' including one which Don expressly pointed out for me to read. This response was from a woman who was calling for such images not to be brought to the public's attention as they serve only to debase both those in the picture and those who see it. It's funny," I said to Don, "the image and it's comment seem to negate each other. It's as if in their desire to be objective, the Washington Post becomes both the object of criticism and the criticism itself." Feeling good about my observation, I took a big puff of marijuana.

After Don left for Baltimore, I thought about the stories I had consumed recently and the media sources they had come from. I decided that print, Internet and television media should be able to co-exist. They all have their positives and negatives. My mind started to move towards something about how the future of media involves all players putting themselves on the line, everyone expressing their own point of view rather than the super-scripted heavily partisan yet masked as nonpartisan media of yore.

As he mulled these incomplete thought fragments in his mind, Alan heard his phone beep. He got up to check the text message he had received.

From: Harry
Unflushed shit in the toilet at empire chin buffet looked like a football and guess what no tp
July 18 3:54pm

To: Harry
You should have taken a pic. At least the perp is saving trees by not using tp.

After pressing send, Alan closed the phone and sat back down.

I was having trouble coming to any definite opinion on the subject and decided to take a shower and eat lunch. I thought about masturbating in the shower but decided against it. Something about that whole do onto others bit stuck out in my mind. For lunch I had a banana, a mug of highly caffeinated green tea and a bowl of soup. The soup had been purchased by one of my roommates, I only felt slightly guilty about it since I was pretty sure he was the one who ate most of my granola earlier in the week. Even if I knew for a fact that he was the one who ate it, I still would have felt guilty, seeing as how I was really confusing 'do onto others' with 'eye for an eye,' one of which I agree with, and the other I'm not so sure about.

When I had finished eating, I went outside and began reading the aptly-titled 'After the Banquet' by Yukio Mishima. After working on 'Infinite Jest' for the past few weeks, I decided I wanted something that I hoped would be a bit lighter. Again it struck me that 'After the Banquet' was a strangely apt title. Its sub-250 page large-font text seemed like an afternoon snack compared to the infinite feast that is 'Infinite Jest'. After setting up the hookah, I read about 30 pages of Mishima before deciding that the combination of low-grade marijuana, shisha and caffeine was having a bit of an uncomfortable effect on me. I thought about how nice it would be to have a girl appear, give me a blow job and then disappear, but I realized that was impossible. I couldn't fight it anymore. I went downstairs with my laptop, typed into my browser and clicked on a streaming video featuring a beautiful young girl with nothing less than a presidentially-sanctioned-and-approved big white ass to stare at.