So. Here we all are once, and again, reflecting on the havings and have-nottings perpetrated upon us by the C-19 Virus. Me? For my parts I find myself in an ever-growing dichotomy of bipolar feelings, senses and sensibilities, and desires. My Brain is engrossed in this mind-bending exercise as a back-channel is conducting the Wimbledon Mixed Doubles Quarterfinals in multiple spaces and times, each of the four courts situated on different geo-spatial planes, with an assortment of players from different eras.
The women are Margaret Court, Billy Jean King, Martina (my love), and S. Williams. Interestingly, the men are Arthur Ashe, Bjorn Borg, little Johnny Mc Enroe, and a pre-operative Renee Richards. The pairings are as dichotomous as the anachronisms and…
Whoa, Nelly, stop the train. Before my ADD grabs me by both ears and rattles my brain furthermore, please allow me to enumerate but a few examples of such fronts and backs.
A first yin-yanger (ying-yanner?) is that I think I say “fuck” too much. Then, again, these times require more “fucks” than ever.
Second would be that I am staunchly anti-gun, yet I have started a mind’s list of personages that if I were God—and the smiting sort of fire-and-shit-storm deity at that—I’d be picking a detail of long-range plunkers from the already gun-deranged among us, and point them in particular directions. For all you trolls out there, please note that this is an atheist’s hallucination and not a plan. Think of it as a dream if you will.
OK, maybe I was a touch too strong there and perhaps a “detail” would be an inappropriate choice for my gunner group. My limited knowledge of what a military detail comprises is only to say that it is a small group designed for a specific project, like peeling taters for dinner, cleaning the latrines or whatnot, with commode duty the best example of my thoughts, herein. But as my God-appointed detail of targeters would be cleaning up what I see as messes, detail could be the word, but, and alas, as the number of targets seems to be growing daily, maybe “squad” is a better choice. I think the squad is mightier than the details.
Then again, if this quarantine lasts much longer I might need an entire army.
A third example is my love/hate relationship with relations. I really care that my kids and their kids are doing well and I really care what everyone is doing while sequestered. TO. A. FUCKING. POINT!!!
Facetime phone calls will heretofore be of twenty-minute duration or shorter. Otherwise, as with any visit with my brood, I’ll be Forced to show my asses. Both asses—the fuzzy, round and handsome ass, and my not-so-handsome figurative ass. I get embarrassed when my attention wanders, and wonders as well, at the fifteen-minute mark. Imagine that you’re rabidly involved in a fantasy involving Barbarella and the four-framed Zoom group of family is talking about the next family get-together.
Which brings up a point. Why do so many people seem to have the patience and tolerances required to have healthy relationships and a few of us lack any of both?
My next point to all of this is that I actually like people, so I should be going bonkers like so many others, but I’m not. OK, bonkers is a poor word choice there as I captained that boat from its maiden voyage. Better said, I should be getting all antsy and shit because I’m denied direct human contact, but I’m not. If I feel the need for someone to get all up in my shit I’ve got the Squirt; if I need to talk something out with someone I’ve got that same little brown puppy; and if I need someone to listen to my rants I’ve got you guys.
Fifth would be that old dogs really can learn new tricks. For years I have only purchased my papel de toilet from Costco. Until the last few years I even travelled with a few rolls wherever I went. To be forced to use thin, flimsy and filmy butt wipers is akin to being forced to sniff rotten fish. But now denied my favored TP, I’ve learned how to effectively use thirty-six sheets of Bud’s Bargain Wipe to replace the five sheets from Costco.
And get this one. It really, truly always is five-o’clock somefuckingwhere. I got on the I-net the other day just to be certain. And here’s one for you- when I Googlated “world time zones” there were 370,000,000 hits. That means a third-of-a-billion of us were thinking of early drinking all at one time, right? I can remember a time in the not too distant past when there were fewer than one million computers in the entire fucking world. Now 370 million of us can compute our drinking preferences at the same time.
Makes me want to drink, and 10 am here to our place is guess what? Five pm in Katmandu! And what better way could we possibly represent getting high than thinking on Nepal? So hoist your preferred beverage with me and let’s all salute something.
“Cheers,” and, “fuck Walmart and Trump!”
