Ephemerally Yours

Can I get a "what, what"?

A group pro-life activists demonstrate in a university's mall. They stand in the center, over an inactive fountain, unenthusiaticly holding up their signs, seemingly unaware of what is going on around them. It is windy and their flyers litter the ground. The huge panels behind them depict grotesque images of aborted children. A young man sits alone on a bench reading the three-fold flyer in the warm sunshine. The front of the flyer says "Abortion is Genocide".  He shifts positions as he turns the page. He laughs to himself.

Just, you know, a day.

On a bright, sunny day in the back-hills of north Mississippi, a girl drives home for the day. Things are going well, her gas tank is full, papers have been written, there is food at home in the refrigerator. She has been driving down this road for the past twenty-three years, and could probably navigate it with her eyes closed (she wouldn't try though). She knows every house, every car, every pet. She passes one house, they are always adding on some addition. Another, the levy broke that held the huge lake in front of their home, they are busy reinforcing it. Her favorite, the house with the pony and two donkeys. They always seem to make her smile. The house with the blue car and boat. Oh! There are three girls playing in the front yard. How nice to see. It looks like they are playing tag. They have bathing suits on, they must be playing in the sprinkler. Funny, from a distance they look to be about fifteen or sixteen. But, still, she is glad they are able to enjoy things like that. Are they wearing suits? They are not. They're naked. There are three naked teenage girls in the front yard of the house with the boat and blue car in the brightest time of the day. They see the approaching car and are suddenly ashamed of their nakedness and panic like Hebrews dancing around a golden calf who have just been discovered by a weary Moses. They crouch low into the neatly manicured lawn that all but hides them from view. She drives past them. There is the house that paints the trunks of their pine trees white. She has never liked that.

Sir Thomas Moore would be proud.

Overheard in the school Cafeteria:

Man One: I can't believe things are so expensive. Even like food.
Man Two: Yeah! Why should we have to pay for things like apples that just grow out of people's yards?

I'm trying to picture every human being, each with a yard, each with a garden filled with ripe fruits and vegetables that just grow without effort year round. No, I can't, because this guy is delusional. Nonsense and painfully obvious statements continued to pour out of this guy's mouth. It made for quite an entertaining lunch.

Also, there is a guy across the dining area who, while not retarded himself, looks like a retarded version of Orlando Bloom.

Concerned

I saw another disturbing commercial today. It begins with an always pad suspended against a blue background. Then down from the top of the screen floats a soft, square tissue. It falls on the pad to sort of mimic a bed. There is a narrator in the background talking about the comforts of the new always pad with cotton cover, but couldn't I just hear about it? I just because the pad gets all comfortable in the sheet, and I really don't like the idea of pads getting comfortable with me in my bed. It's just not right. Advertisers shouldn't try make things like pads and tampons appealing; and I think there should be a rule against personifying them.

Holy shit.

I was driving down to Van's house today, and I passed a motivational church sign. They usually tell me something uplifting, something I can hope for. These are a few of my favorites, most from the same church; God multiplies, Satan divides; Jesus is speaking today, are you hearing; God's favorite word is come; The most powerful position is on your knees; etc. Today's feature was exceptionally moving.

"If there was anything you could do to get into heaven, the why did Jesus die?"

I know what they are trying to say; and I appreciate the tip, but what are the really saying? They are telling me that there is nothing I can do to get into heaven. Well, not nothing. I could be nailed to a cross, that would get me there. No, I can't. There is no dogwood around big enough to make a cross. Maybe die and then three days later rise from the dead? That's not going to happen without Jesus, and he is already dead and risen. I am fucked apparently. They are telling me there is nothing I can do. Oh well, guess I can go murder someone, or covet something of a neighbor's; maybe I will not make the sabbath day holy. That's a good one. That can include all of the commandments. I will wake up, say a prayer to my Elvis shrine, pour a bowl of cereal, say goddamnit when I spill it on myself, not go to church that day because I am too busy playing minish cap, forget to put oil in my car, kill John Edwards (the Crossing Over one), steal an iPod shuffle, tell someone that I like ham, and finally wish that I had Gerry Hollawell's abdominal muscles (in the It's Raining Men video). None of it matters, because according to this church, the only way I can get into heaven it to die on a cross, and... that would hurt too much. But, that's not what they are trying to say, it was just simple mistake that they made and let remain on the sign for a while. Silly parishioners. So I am writing a letter to the church.

Dear Church (God),

I am little worried about your sign, I was under the impression that God was forgiving. Did he change his mind? Maybe you miss-worded your sentence. Should it be, "If you could do anything to get into heaven, the why did Jesus die?" I certainly hope so, because I am fucked up the ass if what you say is true. I don't want to die on a fucking cross, shit. Damnit if I ever let someone play dice for my clothes. Should I repent? Are you guys still selling those condolences?

Sincerely,
Katie (the one with the bald spot on her head)

Obesses much?

I know I officially played Resident Evil 4 too much when I see a crow on a fence and my first instinct is to pull out my semi-automatic rifle and snipe it for cash.

Concerned

Air a documentary about the construction of the chunnel; and when you break for commercial pose the questions, "Will the English and French teams meet? Will the stratum withstand the pressure of the 300,000,000 tons of seawater, or will the workers face their worst fears?" WHAT THE FUCK? ITS GODAMN HISTORY!

Just thinking.

After a month and a half of deliberation I have decided that there is, in fact, a speed boat engine in Edward's toilet. I flush as usual, see the water spin in a counterclockwise spiral, and run. I run out of fear that the toilet will suck me in and grind me up. The noise is so loud that I think it can be heard from at least five stories up on the sixth floor. It lasts about six seconds. When I come back in to wash my hands, the air rushing into the bathroom to accomodate the vacuum created by the toilet's turbine engine could knock me over if I wasn't prepared. One thing is certain, THERE ARE NO CLOGS IN KIMBROUGH TOWER PLUMBING! Say goodbye to your precious turds tenants! Once you push the lever, your shit will be annihilated!

Only in Mississippi...

One can find a raccoon's tail lying, unaccompanied, in the middle of the road, in two separate locations, on two separates dates, in a month's time.

Concerned

I made a composite picture for this dance studio today. I have to run the girls' names through a match program so it is easier to alphabetize the photos. I came across a very strange name, I called to verify. It was Magical Johnson. It was a little girl about six or seven years old. Hm......