Tuesday, September 22, 2009

By Way of Introduction

9/22/09
By Way of Introduction…

There are no naked pictures of me here. Consider yourself blessed. The sole adult content involves the judicious use of cuss words and random, frank discussions of genitalia as events warrant. Other than that, power down and put the lotion away. It ain’t that kind of show.

My name is Clarence Young. I’ve written 6 novels. You don’t know any of them. They haven’t been published. NOT FOR LACK OF TRYING. Actually, maybe a little. There’s only one in active circulation, and I’m beginning to think it really doesn’t give a you-know-what. It’s out there going through the motions, but where’s the passion? The book and I used to love each other, parting breathlessly with me eagerly anticipating word from it on its many adventures. Now it’s “See ya bye,” “Yeah, Ok,” and the manuscript shuts the door while I return immediately to the TV. I do short stories, the occasional poem, sci fi, literary drama, comedy, and—if the mood is right—erotica. Can’t read that word without getting tingly, can you? Reaching mentally for the lotion, aren’t you?

I love it when we’re horny.

You’ll never find me in McSweeney’s, which is a knock against them. Matter of fact, I’m thinking of posting everything I write, wrote, written here for bloody well free. New York can kiss my wrinkly left nut! Raise the one-gloved fist. I am in Dee-troit, dammit. I bicycle these mean streets for fun (actually a bordering suburb), and when I’m done I have TCBY yogurt. Or Dippin’ Dots if they’re open. My niece hipped me to the double D. Very tasty, and if you get just the right mix of flavors—heaven.

You betta recognize.

Understand, this blog isn’t about me. I’m not witty in person, not particularly thoughtful and, to hear it from my pre-teen nephew, sometimes I smell funny. Such a dear child will certainly go far. On a computer, via the light speed of the internet, I will strive to be serviceably witty, thoughtful, amusing, pithy, and sexy in briefs or boxers…but this isn’t me, is it? Unless we’re who we are when we get a chance to slow down and prepare. But that would mean this “fast paced world” is a sham. And surely our corporate entities, in whom we trust many valuable dollars, wouldn’t mislead us with false messages of haste and worry. By the way, I’m at work right now. White collar job in one of the older towers in the city, a gem from the thirties full of no-account doctors and tiny “Save the (insert perpetually downtrodden)” groups. There’s also a huge corporate office of Disney drones above me. Disney owns radio stations here in town. The building fears their unseen faces. It’s hard for me to defiantly shout “Stick it to the Man!” because my Man is, well, nice. Hell, he’s bought me chili cheese fries. Can you fault a man who buys you chili cheese fries? If you have no home training you can. But the idea of the Man—now you’re talking! Don’t get me wrong, I do my job extremely well (they pay me just enough to keep me coming and I do just enough to keep getting paid, etc, etc), but in the quiet hours when doofs aren’t calling on the phone with inane questions and salespeople return to their underground burrows to think up annoying phrases to mesmerize potential clients (more on “Powered By” in the future, bet on it), I have very little choice but to assemble a mental audience and sing to them. Feel the aria! In the quiet of the workday I sing a melody—Blogosphere! When the conference call it dawns, trapping my boss perhaps an hour—Blogosphere! When they see that I am typing but they don’t realize my words are rhyming—Blogosphere! I’ve written entire short stories here at work. That’s a proud accomplishment. There are any number of interruptions and distractions the job throws at me, but I persevere. That, dear ones, is what you and I connuble about. Perseverance and a sense of enterprise that opens the future like a floozie’s legs... and we’ve got 20 dollars and some change! Things just look bright for us. Very bright. There’s hope that people won’t be quite so dishearteningly stupid. That’s what this blogsite is about, Charlie Brown. If it makes me a million dollars, hell to the yeah!, but—as I’m sure there will never be more than 3 people out there reading this—more likely it will keep me from smearing grape jelly on my wife and doing filthy things to her to ameliorate yet another long, tiring day. Cathartic is the word. This is therapy. Please note my job offers no health benefits. I’ve been here 5 years but I’m still classified a temporary employee. Therefore, consider me proactive as I fight the power and increase my mental vigor with this, The Blog You Are Reading At Work In Lieu Of Performing Work Which Really You Have No Time For As It Annoyingly Interferes With Much More Important Things. Hell, there’s a short short story coming up. You might need 5 extra minutes on lunch. Oh, you 3 brave, proud men (women)…you magnificent bastards. I salute you to the last and would diddle you furiously if I wasn’t married, you weren’t a man (as, to date, I’m intractably heterosexual), and free love didn’t come with the additional baggage of free disease. Diddle you most furiously! Where there is passion there is life! God save the Queen. Let her hump to her heart’s content!


DIEMSTORE MATINEE
By Clarence Young

He was fired after two weeks when the manager overheard (to a pretty woman), “I grant thee fries with that.” Zoog was the last of the gods to step down among men after much tugging and pulling. Free fries seemed only right in exchange for possible lust or worship, even though in two weeks not a single worshipper had recognized him. But Kevin fired him. Had to set an example. Now he stood by the freeway because he had seen Foom do it. Someone could have told him that, god or no, at Wendy’s fries are never free.

THE END

Next Up: Smurfs!

6 comments:

  1. Denizens of the dank cubicles that are sopping wet from your toil and sweat, join in! The Man can only watch so many of us at once. No chauvinism implied, The Man takes many forms, such as The Woman, or the backstabbing, The Colleague, or after a two-hour "business lunch," The Drunk. Stare at your computer screen like you're just one confirming look away from hitting the "enter" key and making the company millions. Then blaze your fingers across the keys in fiery defiance of the ball and chain. Blog on!

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  2. There is one person reading this! The glorious revolution begins!

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  3. Unrelated to any of your posts, somebody got my dander up about Obama's Nobel Peace Prize. I had to respond...

    A student is admitted to Harvard based upon their potential to excel. Another is admitted to a school of medicine, or law, because of potential. No one says, “Before we let you in, show us how you’ve solved that persnickety problem in quantum mechanics. Let’s see how you do excising a kidney, buddy. Or show us what you got in putting away these two murdering scumbags.” No, it’s all about potential. What you’ve shown in academic achievement, your concern for your fellow man (and others), and the value system that you bring to the table. Thank God for recognizing potential. It doesn’t trivialize, it vitalizes an effort. Barack Obama himself said that the award was not one of accomplishment, but of potential. So where’s the beef? We’re all just electrons…potential differences. Without the profound recognition of potential, we would have never struck flint, and all of us would be living in the dark. Which might not be so bad. Fox News wouldn’t be able to find us. Lights out everybody.

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  4. Here's what I say about Obama and the Nobel Peace Prize: damn. As in "Ok, dude, you're black, you're the president of the United States (a statement taking no less than 4 !!!!exclamation marks), your kids are freaking angels (for now; may the ghosts of the Bush twins be exorcised from the White House), you've written 2 best-selling books, you exercise regularly, you’ve probably got the keys to several secret societies, your wife will throw a righteous left hook on your behalf, and you’re—again—the first black president of the United States. Now a Nobel? Dude. Dude? I offer up my wife to you…and take my rightful place at the rear of the pack.”

    See, no jealousy here. Like you said, he acknowledged the surprise of it and said quite clearly that the prize was not about him. It’s about potential. For 8 years (longer than that; the ghost of Reagan floats above my bed) our country has led the world to a triumphant hell in a handbasket. We get a president who says “Let’s peg stupid down a few notches and get a few things done.” He knows we can’t ignore crazy people and he knows people think we are crazy. He’s the guy I’d like a beer with if I drank beer, which I don’t because it tastes like horse pee. We’d sit down, talk about what was bugging us, look one another dead in the eye, acknowledge that the way things are just wasn’t working, then suck it up and start getting things done. Despite what many think, there is such a thing as the common good. Except for dumbasses. For dumbasses we do like the Soup Nazi and say “No common good for you!” But I’m just being mean. I’d go into this fascinating subject deeper but I’ve been up way too long (not a morning person, even less an early-early morning person, but the job required it today and by God I gave it all of my fifty-eight percent!) and I’m about as clear-thinking as your average politician. Mr. Obama could not have gotten where he is by being an average politician, not unless the alien lizard overlords wanted him there. Not saying they didn’t. But the man has the potential to start an amazing process--hell, he’s already started an amazing process. How refreshing is it to have a president who says levelly “I’m not your enemy, I’ll talk to you, but if you #$%* with me I’ll kick your ass”? It is very refreshing. Some might even say it requires a prize.

    Peace.

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  5. You limp your car into the dealership. You've never changed the engine oil or transmission fluid, wouldn't even know where the dip-sticks are located. You think they're somewhere under the hood, but you've never looked. Your tires are balder than an eagle and your spark plugs wouldn't frighten Smokey the Bear. And there's a dull grinding sound coming from everywhere. You know there's a big repair bill coming, that it's going to take a bunch of bucks to fix this neglected mess. You don't have it, so you pull out your credit card, deficit spending, but still a heck of a lot cheaper than buying another car. Once you've okayed the repairs and settled in for what you know will be a long wait at the shop--they wont give you a lift, you work in BFE--you proceed to ask every five minutes: Is it fixed? Why not? Is your plan working? How come an informal poll of my fellow neglectors show you with a 49% approval rating and falling? Were you born here? Who do you think you are, the Repair Czar? And I saw you offer free coffee to the others. Socialist!

    Sound familiar? It took a long time for America to get into this mess, and contrary to 24-hour, sensationalist news cycles, it's going to take a long time to get out, to get us all back on the road to prosperity.

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  6. A-freaking-men! Ladies and gentlemen, you should feel smarter already reading the astute comments on this modest blog! You're not sexier yet (no miracles, but hang in, you'll get there) but there are brain cells firing and you can't deny it. I'm precariously on a limb here...but I predict that by no later than year's end there will be FOUR people reading this. Fox News will aquiesce to the glorious revolution! Mr. Limbaugh will become a peanut farmer and devote his life to the canonization of George Washington Carver. Viva Zapata!

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