Friday, July 15, 2011

Don't Cry For Me (When I'm Gone)

The following post is a legal documentation of true, slightly embellished, events. Any embellishments included are slight and all exaggerations are mild and unintentional. These are truths; and truths stand without compromise or change.

Dogs. Ferocious, rabid beasts with foaming mouths and dripping tongues. We'd climbed the walls in effort to inspect the giant clam hidden behind the boundary and take for our own the vast treasure that lay within. It was after midnight and our plans were nearly flawless; enter where the defense was weak, gain entrance to the shell and take whatever was inside leaving no trace of our existence. The walls were breeched and, as we ascended the steps into the mouth of the monstrous clam all seemed silent. Shining my light around the vastness, it became clear as to why the silence prevailed; the entire being was in shambles and seemed to lay in crumbling abandoned-ness. Hours passed. A shimmer. A soft humming sound. There it was; the very prize we'd been searching for. High upon the pallet of the clam lay the largest pearl eyes had ever seen. It was a clever location to conceal a treasure of such greatness; for who thinks to look for a pearl inside of a clam? For generations, men had ravaged the giant oyster population in search of Monte Pearle; always disregarding the clam - until now. Assuming a series of traps would trigger once the pearl was removed, I grabbed the 16 pound pearl, lay a 18 month old baby in its place and turned to exit the mouth of the clam. Unfortunately, when I'd ordered my infant from, I'd neglected to check the "paraplegic" box and the darn thing rolled off the mushroom where the pearl had been. No sooner had he moved, than the clams mouth began trembling and, with what seemed painful force, began to close upon us. Grabbing my companions hand, we raced for the ever-fading light. We escaped. Sliding out in the final moments before the clam was sealed forever. We watched, arm in arm, as it sunk beneath the dirt and a beautiful garden of pineapples grew in its place; concealing all evidence that it had ever been there at all. There we stood, encaged within four walls, oddly enough, in a pineapple garden. Then it happened. Dogs. Ferocious, rabid beasts with foaming mouths and dripping tongues running directly toward us. Judging by the fact that they were already dragging bloodied, severed limbs and had rabies, we assumed they weren't the adorable puppies one would find yipping playfully in a basket, beneath the tree on Christmas morning. We ran. She tried to jump the wall while I walked out the unlocked gate right next to her. Just as she got to the top of the fence, she flipped backwards and fell headlong back into the cage. She fell 18 feet until her skirt snagged and left her hanging upside down just inches from the ground. We laughed at the situation for awhile until we realized we were still being chased by ravenous wolves. I helped her down and we both walked out, safe and unharmed, only moments before the dogs would have pounced upon us. Ironically enough, on the way back to the truck, I realized I'd left the pearl behind when I went back in to help her down. We weren't really that worried about it. The whole thing was really about the experience and building friendships more than anything else, right? At least we both were safe. At least until she stepped in a hole and broke her leg completely off. I had to sew it back on with a safety pin and an unravelled hat my grandmother had crocheted for me (pronounced crow-shayed; not crotch-it-ed). Sorry, Grandma.  - The End

On another note, in the bathroom some classless scum graffitied numerous lines stating his disgust for the Jewish, black and Mexican races. Why don't people ever pen uplifting graffiti? When have you ever heard the following conversation:  Some guy: "Hey Jordan, why are you smiling so much today?" Me: "I just feel so edified and exhorted by the graffiti I read in the Taco Bell bathroom this morning. Did you know that the Mexican race is a hard working, well mannered group of intelligent individuals who are responsible for some of the worlds finest, affordable culinary delights?"  The answer: never.
I long for the day that I drive past a bridge and read,  "I am supportive of the Jewish people and their struggle for religious freedom and peaceful existence!" or "High 5 for Emancipation!" written across a bathroom stall. Honestly, the only people we should be degrading to are those who design the artwork that goes on bowling balls. Trust me, I'm always the first to write, "I hate bowling ball art designers" across the top of a Nashville, McDonalds...

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