Enlightening Nonsense

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CONTINUED FROM “BROKEN EGGS: PART 1″ AT:

http://rebelyogi.com/broken-eggs-part-1

(Why you are continuing to read this is beyond me!)

After we walked back to my apartment, my Dad gave me a terrorist fist bump [See Fox "News" link in “Shit Flies” at http://rebelyogi.com/shit-flies], which was good because I didn’t want to hug that apologetic dark-skinned, bag of gold around his neck, peace pipe smoking fag. I gave my Mom a rushed kiss on the cheek, less to snub her and more because the last time I kissed her on the lips she used her tongue as a toothpick and removed all the food particles from my teeth and while very hygienic, it kind of grossed me out a bit. I think I was most grossed out because she had just blown me and I tasted my own semen on her tongue. Ew!

I then went back to Coogan’s and asked to speak with the manager. Gray-Haired Dave was the manager and we actually had a very pleasant conversation, which I attributed to my hairy-lipped cunt of a Dad not being there to intersperse his pussy juice on the situation. One thing I said, which I firmly believe is, “It is your restaurant and you have the right to make decisions how you see fit—and I firmly support this.”

If someone wants to charge at their bodega $2 for a single apple, while I wouldn’t buy their overpriced, extortion apple with a 10-foot pole—that being in a society that functioned on a barter system where a 10-foot pole was worth at least an apple or two—I would 100% support their right to do so, despite the fact that I would probably come back later at night and burn a cross on their bodega—not because they overcharged for apples but because the owner was black, which would never happen anyway as all bodega owners are Dominican.

I told Gray-Haired Dave that I am vegan, which I thanked my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ that he didn’t challenge with,“Are you really defined by what you eat or your so-called ethical choices?” to which I would have had to agree with him and thereby lose my “Fuck you and your restaurant” flow. I went on to say that there are only three vegetarian meals on the menu and two of them have blue cheese, which I don’t eat. He said, “This is not a health food restaurant,” to which I responded with understanding but added that if I could substitute something that might cost the restaurant a quarter to adjust, this would greatly enhance my dining experience, something I would think would be encouraged at Coogan’s, unless the management is made up of a bunch of cheap Jews. We laughed for a bit about World War II and how Hitler should have finished the “Jewish problem” and then came back to the business at hand.

Gray-Haired Dave told me that it was not personal, that his goal as management was to minimize and thereby streamline the communication between the wait staff and the chefs and any substitutions made the stream a little polluted. I totally got it. And I appreciated that he was straight up talking about his bottom line and not trying to bullshit around the issue. We talked about this and that, how they both have four letters and begin with “th” and end with a “t” and how only one letter distinguishes the two.

He told me a funny story about how he hired a Sous-chef, which after an embarrassing faux pas of commenting that I thought it was great that a Native American had gone through chefery school and that perhaps their history of scalping the white man could be applied to work in the kitchen, I learned was a second-in-command chef. The chef came from a very well-known French restaurant. Gray-Haired Dave had asked the chef if he could prepare a vegetarian omelet or casserole or crepe or something veggie for the weekend brunch menu. The chef excitedly said that this was actually a specialty of his.

Gray-Haired Dave hired the red-skinned tomahawk tosser and it wasn’t until weeks later that he saw on the bill for the food ordered for brunch preparation a whopping sum for pig fat. He asked the chef, “Dude, what the fuck am I paying for ten barrels of pig fat for a vegetarian soufflé or whatever the fuck you are making there?” and to his surprise the chef said, “That is what gives it it’s taste. Without it it would be tasteless.” And to think of all the times I’ve worried that the kitchen staff was jerking-off using my food when I should have known that they would be too busy jerking-off with pig fat to worry about stroking it with my meal.

As is typical of my pieces, I wait until well into the 9 page point before I get to the fuckin’ point and to the chagrin of most of my Velcro chop-wearing readers, the point is usually pointless. I told Gray-Haired Dave that I totally got the streamline scenario but that it seems the individual freewheeling dolphin gets caught in the tuna net of efficiency. He got confused by my analogy and said, “I don’t understand the references to the two fish,” to which I had to explain to him that a dolphin is not a fish but a mammal and we found ourselves in a place that was about as awkward as when I had to ask a nun if she had any vaginal lube as my non-foreskinned dick was starting to get irritated on her dry, hairy-lipped cunt.

In an unconscious society, which is the one we live in, if you dispose of rules—besides, of course, everyone wearing a black anarchy T-shirt with a red “A” in a circle—you have madness: people will be ordering the Egg McMuffin in the afternoon long after the breakfast menu is no longer being served, someone may walk their dog after 11:00 p.m. in a park, and women may walk down the sidewalks topless, which wouldn’t be as disastrous as men walking the same paths bottomless, most probably erectifying after the topless women!

I get it, we need rules to function together otherwise someone will order an Egg McMuffin at 2:30 p.m. and there will not be enough Xanax in the world to prevent the 16-year old pimple-faced grill boy from stressing out over it and taking his own life. But what inevitably happens in a rule-based society is that the individual gets thrown out with the bathwater, when what we should do is throw out the baby and add the dirty bathwater to the vegetarian pig fat soufflé.

Speaking of pigs, I remember some Central Park Nazi hassling me that I had to put Abandon on a leash, to which I responded, “If I am able to control my dog to walk by my side, why would I need to keep her on leash?” I think the discussion degraded into me shouting at him, “How about you put your fat, ugly mother on a leash then, douche?” I said “mother” instead of “wife” as I thought he might have been a gay, black, Jewish, Indian and that my insult would fall on deaf ears.

The typical answer to this is, “OTHERWISE THERE WOULD BE CHAOS!” It comes off more mildly in the form of, “If everyone did this…” What? If everyone did this there would be a few less squirrels in the park? Who gives a fuck?

It is the typical answer of, “No exceptions to the rule,” which reminds me of my inquisitive youth when I used to ask my parents in an effort to expand my understanding of the world I lived in, “But why do I have to do this?” to which they would reply, “Because I said so.” This taught me the valuable lesson that the world is an unfair place and parents, when they’re not busy sodomizing or choking you, are evil tyrants who rule with an iron boot that usually winds up lodged halfway up your ass.

This type of “group rule” totally disrespects the individual, establishing the straw man of “society” as a viable, post visiting the Wizard of Oz, living being and relegating the real flesh and blood individual as a persona non-Latka Gravas.

Because even as a baby I crawled to the beat of a different drummer, who was not actually a drummer but a clarinet player, I have always found myself butting heads against the Rule Man. There was one time where a beach had a sign that said, “YOU MUST WEAR YOUR BIKINI TOP!” and I had to wear a bikini top because the lifeguard was no Beckham and couldn’t “bend it” for me. It was pink with yellow polka dots and I did look cute in it but that is beside the point.

The restaurant worker was put in front of the restaurant and told by management to no one could be seated without first putting their umbrellas in the basket designed for them. A man came in and asked to be seated. The restaurant worker said, “Sir, I cannot sit you until you first put your umbrella into the designated basket.” The man said, “What the fu—? I don’t have an umbrella.” “Then,” said the restaurant worker, “You need to go out and buy an umbrella before I can seat you.”

Gray-Haired Dave showed me how an order worked on the electronic cash register. “Say Table 22 orders a Pig Fat Veggie Wrap. I hit this button, “Pig Fat Veggie Wrap” and—there. That’s it. That’s what we want. Simple, no hassles, no adjustments.” I told him that in the world of human interaction, we don’t function like machines. And this is probably the core of the problem.

In this society we care more about efficiency and our kids’ grades and how much electronic money changes hands each day and we forget that it is never “efficient” to stop and smell a flower, that your kids’ anal focus on grades has more to do with peer pressure and your ego attempting to usurp their individuality for its own gain and less to do with the child’s happiness, and that electronic zeros and ones being added to imaginary corporate “beings” has little to do with feeding the hungry and clothing the bare.

I left Coogan’s telling Gray-Haired Dave that he would probably never see my gay, black, Jewish, Native American ass or my parents’ collective asses again and, “Factor that into your fuckin’ electronic register, you hairy-lipped cunt!”

I won’t share this story with my parents, as my Mom’s response will be her predictable, “I find this tasteless, racist and not clever at all!” and my Dad will probably make a special trip to Coogan’s to apologize for having a son that voices his opinion.

My greatest disappointment of the day was a result of a conversation with God last night in bed that apparently went unanswered. That evening Ogre and I had a shout-at-the-top-of-our-lungs battle of the egos (that, I shit you not, the main drug dealer on my block commented to me about today!) before we fucked and allowed semen and pussy juice to soothe our throats hoarse from all the screaming. After she left, joint orgasms covering the battle wounds, I walked Abandon because that bitch apparently needs to shit and piss each day.
When I got home and went to bed, I was at my wit’s end about being a slave to reacting via conditioning to buttons of mine being pushed. I told the Universe:

I WILL NOT ACCEPT THIS FOR A SINGLE DAY MORE! EITHER YOU GIVE ME THE MEANS ASAP—WHETHER IN THE FORM OF A TECHNIQUE, AN UNDESRTANDING OR A REVELATION—TO BREAK ME FREE OF THIS ROBOT-LIKE REACTING SLAVERY TO THE WORLD AND THE PEOPLE YOU PUT ON IT SOLELY TO ANNOY ME, OR I WANT YOU TO TAKE ME OUT OF THIS LIFE!”

After today’s continued reactionary ways, I realize that I have not been given the genie in a bottle that will shake her nose and make all my conditioning disappear… and so I will probably have to kill myself.

I wanted to leave a master and not just a participant. I also didn’t want to leave Abandon abandoned. Now I am resigned to the understanding that the Universe is a heartless hairy-lipped cunt that wants to make me suffer and that Abandon will probably be happier without my dumb ass forcing her to eat nothing but carrots and celery sticks. You know what they say, “Life’s a bitch and then you marry one.” Here’s my own variation:

“Life’s a bitch and then you kill yourself and yours gets brought back to a shelter because your family are fuckin’ assholes and would rather ship her vegetable-eating, piss and shit multiple times a day self off then to take her in.”

Maybe a bit wordy. Then again, so is this whole piece.