Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Back to Life, Back to Reality

At a certain point, things can get too strange. This is rarely a cause for the loss of one’s attention. Unfortunately, sometimes, things can entirely lose their point, at which point I being to look for the nearest distraction. In this case, it was a group of costumed individuals racing each other to be the first to consume their respective popsicles. They were surrounded, easily, by over one hundred people. Most of them with cameras.

That is not to say that I wasn’t intrigued for a while. I actually stayed to watch the entirety of the absurd spectacle. Once the competition had reached its end—the gentleman just right of the top center with the blue hair won—I was both incensed at the lack of bravado on behalf of the winner and equally angered at my own patience for maintaining the assumption that the result of the contest would be something that could be objectively considered to be genuinely entertaining. It was not. At this point I suppose I merely needed to put things into perspective.

Bingo! Again! Not to hot. Not too dry. Palm trees. Not a cloud in the sky. As can easily be seen, my sunny disposition reflected the vibrancy of my surroundings, not to mention the radiant sunlight. I must declare that I’m looking rather fit here; I seem to have finally blended into my environs—only the spots of a chameleon could aid me further! Sadly, being an avid follower of the daily news programs, my heart sank as soon as I reached a sight that I knew would deeply affect me once I inevitably approached it:

Where can one begin with the so-called “King of Pop?“ As I watched fan after fan pass by, some of them signing their names upon the ghastly-arranged board of bills, the density of the scene and the gravity of my sorrows pulled me down into an abyss.

I was overwhelmed. Pop songs that had been playing in my head endlessly for the previous week ceased. I could not put words upon why this had such a profound effect upon me. Perhaps it was because I had anticipated a man’s heavily promoted return to form. Perhaps it was because fate had dictated that my first sojourn towards the ‘left coast’ would be greeted by the loss of one of the area’s most impactful residents. Maybe I just really, really, really liked anything he and his songwriters managed to defecate, even on their off days, from “Leave Me Alone” to “Man in the Mirror,“ merely because they were better than most everything else out at the time. But clearly, It mattered not where I went in this strange city—I would only find myself still overwhelmed. I fled back to my hotel room. On the way there, my panic was heightened even further!

My handler, up until this point, had brought me much closer to the American pastime of “bases ball” and, in my spare time, I was taking a great liking to the game. I knew of this man—he, being aggrandized in this hyperactive city for cheating of all things. This image revolted me. If anger is a stage of grief, I accelerated to such a place very quickly and, rather opportunely, found myself in a location that could serve greatly to alleviate such emotions:

Back to baseline I went.

My inhibitions diminished, I decided to piss off a couple of bears:

Yes, it was probably a bad idea.

Posted by Pooptoad on 07/22 at 08:13 PM
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