Tuesday, January 19, 2010

To the Judgmental Woman who Sold me a Skull

Dear JWwSmaS,

You’re selling skulls, okay. What’s with the ‘tude?

Granted, it was the skull of a cow I was buying from you, which is the skull of an animal we humans verily eat and skin and use in any way we please, and score 1 for you, because the dead cow skull is a clichéd piece of southwester décor--along with those rusted antique appliances and hole-punched pieces of tin—but I don’t think it was necessary to so unceremoniously balk at my suggestion.

If I so choose to adorn my cow skull with rhinestones and feathers, I so choose, and this is free country, dammit! And if I so choose to ask you how I can further add to my skull and war weapon collection with the skull of a human (an animal we other humans—in a way—verily use) it is my right to ask. Maybe I was just joking (I wasn’t), and you didn’t get my unique sense of humor. Maybe YOU’RE the problem, judgmental skull seller. Yeah.

You see, we all get to choose. It was your choice to grow that grizzled mane of old lady hair and eschew any of the helpful products in the beauty aisle of your grocery store, growing hair and doing nothing attractive with it. I didn’t roll my eyes at your frizz. Inwardly, perhaps, but I’d never let you know I find your decisions in life—like the decision to never, and I mean never, wear sunscreen at any point during your tenure on this planet--to be foolish. These decisions are yours. You want to look like one of your saddles? Okay then.

What I mean to say is, you don’t get to tell me what to collect, missy. You don’t get to tell me what to do with what I collect. You know what? I’m off to the craft store. Oh, yeah. The craft store. You know what I’m going to buy there? Glitter. Lots and lots of glitter, and I’m gonna whore that cow head up till its as gay as a Technicolor Dreamcoat in a lube factory!

E. Rider

Sunday, January 17, 2010

To the Smoking-hot, Christ-worshipping, Homeless Terrorist


You are so dreamy. Dude.

Even with the stench. Even with the several feet of dreadlocked, licey hair that festoons your schizophrenic noggin. Even with your love of all things Jesus and bathing with Ayurvedic soap in public park rivers. Even with those teeth. You are hot, my friend.

We met in a coffee shop. I was doing my job (oh, I’m such a materialist; such a godless drone!) You were attempting to color-correct photos of Aryan Jesus for some purpose. You smelled like an old gym sock. I wouldn’t have helped you if you didn’t have those eyes and that bod (oh, I’m a wanton whore!) You don’t believe in the concept of material ownership, but somehow had a laptop with Adobe brand photo-editing software. I taught you how to use it while breathing through my mouth. You informed me that casting off the burdens of material ownership was the only way to achieve the state of true and constant bliss you operate from within, and also that you’d also like to throw yourself off the tallest rock in Sedona.

We had a deep and extremely confusing discussion about the many simultaneous contradictions you presently hold in your pretty, pretty, bug-infested head region. You like Jesus, I’m totally sure of that. You like Jesus, and you like smoking weed. I was excited because, though I find his followers wholly repellent, I dig Jesus, and I think its also pretty apparent—if you’ve read this or any other of my missed connection type musings—that I enjoy smoking weed. A lot. We had a deep spiritual thingy going. Or rather, with a few minor changes to your person we could have made a deep spiritual connection, and by “few minor changes” I mean you would have had to shower with chemical soap and cut off the nest of hair, and by “deep spiritual connection” I mean two days worth of dirty fucking in every contortion in the Kama Sutra followed by you not calling me or coming to my house ever again.

If only you hadn’t also been a terrorist.

Yes, I understand that God and Jesus made the earth and that all things upon it (weed) are beautiful, and the many wonders of God and Jesus’ making (weed and mushrooms) are placed within our grasp as a people in order for us to both enjoy ours lives (by smoking weed and eating mushrooms) and to well-sustain these separate skin sacks our spirits inhabit. I understand that God's and Jesus' wonders include the rivers and streams you routinely bathe within without achieving any sort of cleanliness. I do not, however, think it’s a good idea to blow up dams in order to release reservoirs that support and sustain communities, irrigate farm land and keep the many people who live beneath them not dead so that wondrous chunks of water can flow in unimpeded, disastrous tsunamis through developed land to the oceans, in the process, murdering God's and Jesus' less wondrous creations: American citizens.

I get your fervor. I love that you love, love, love Jesus and weed. Your eyes and your ass make my nether regions wet as your schizophrenic fantasy of a dam-less America, but what kind of patriot would I be if I fucked a terrorist? Not a good one, sir, and how can I disparage a country that continually tolerates--nay caters to--my wanton, drunken, drug-crazed, materialistic, narcissistic generation, which I love and cherish with all four chambers of my hard, black, slutty heart?

I say good day to you, sir!

E. Rider

PS—If I were going to throw myself off a Sedonian rock, I’d go with Coffeepot Rock, which is tall enough to get the job done, but also, politically speaking, carries with your suicide the dual message of “Dams are sacrilege,” AND “This rock doesn’t look like a Coffeepot any more.” I don’t know when Sedona is going to realize this.