Life is…. Confusion and conflict consume us.
Don’t take my word for it. Look around. Cognitive thought has capitulated. We’re in the abyss of digital arcana, home to no human voice. Computers control everything. Mattresses even play music. We’re hopelessly lost.
Recently we purchased a wire holder for office files. Ripping the box apart sapped the strength of two stout men. About 2,000 components cascaded to the floor. Directions were in Chinese. A picture yielded the only clue. Flee from anything that advises, “Assembly Required.”
Try opening simple packages, like batteries. You’ll lacerate yourself in the process. Or try buying an airline ticket from a voice.
Ed calls. He’s a lawyer. He whines that the accountant’s numbers don’t add up. He says the Gen Y gangs of MBA grads have gummed up the system. They can’t balance books on napkins anymore. They create enigmatic spread sheets, confounding the over-50 crowd. It’s complicated.
My phone rings. It’s the Probate Judge. “We need to talk,” she says. “We have a problem with your finger prints.” Now, hearing a judge say this is akin to the doctor’s office calling, saying, “About your X-rays….”
What’s this about? I’ll tell you. I applied for a gun permit. With crime exceeding that of Sodom and Gomorrah, citizens need to be heavily armed. Even pea shooters require a license. I learned this as a child. The kinetic energy of a pea is directly proportionate to the length of the shooter and the lungs of the blower. Dangerous weapons in the hands of young boys.
Do you know how many laws are in the federal statutes? Nobody does. The Federal Register, according to some, numbers 34,844 pages, weighs 340 pounds. There’re so many criminal laws that it’s easier to match the DNA of a Neanderthal to a monkey than to avoid breaking one law in your lifetime. Things are complicated. Ask the IRS.
Justice in Georgia lurks on every corner for people who curse dead bodies and carry ice cream cones in their pockets on Sundays. Donkeys cannot be kept in bathtubs and no spitting is allowed on Sunday sidewalks. Fried chicken must be eaten with both hands and you can’t tease idiots. Floggings for anyone tying a giraffe to a telephone pole. And more.
Suspended on the flag pole are flags of America and Georgia. Today, these symbols of the equal American Dream hang limply, their energy sucked out by the conflicting issues of states’ rights. They resemble worn-out warriors, entwined in an exhausted embrace in an indecisive, post-orgasmic ordeal. It’s complicated.
Inside, I’m told the GBI rejects my prints, say they oddly match those of Richard Nixon. I play along. They re-print me. She tells me if the FBI rejects them, I may be incarcerated and transferred to Quantico where detainees are interrogated by the goon squads of Guantanamo.
Probate Courts issue gun permits, marriage licenses, settle estates, commit the criminally insane and change names. I considered a name change to confound my enemies. “No can do,” she says. “The Women’s Anti-Defamation League still harbors a resentment against you.” I remember the bon mot, “Friends attrite and enemies accrete.” I let it slide.
I ask to withdraw my concealed weapon permit. “Too late,” she says. “Why?” I ask. “It’s complicated,” she says. “You’re ‘in the system’ now. There’s no exit.” I ask if the Probate court is connected to the IRS. She’s not amused. I zip it and leave.
Ace Blackbanks, a philosopher, calls, wants to have a drink. We have several. Give a man a drink and he’ll tell the truth. Says he’s concluded that shoddy mattresses are causing the rampant rise in divorces. Says the problem is always in the bed. He shows me a mattress photo. It undulates. A mountain in the middle separates two sunken valleys on either side. He calls it the ‘scrimmage line’ where extremes exist. He has too much time on his hands.
It’s all too much for one day. On the way home I also come to a conclusion. Life is not as complicated as we make it…just breathe!
Bud Hearn
January 26, 2012
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