I have grown so fond of you. I think you remain unable to process just exactly what I am and where I come from, and I don't blame you for that. Its a collectivist's dream, this post 911 world we're living in. If I'm crazy, I've got to be woo-woo. Except I like logic, and don't see fairies. If I were of your ilk, I'd wear turquoise with khaki, listen to Chris Spheeris and have a McCain sticker on the back of my not-so-woo-woo spanking new car. Maybe my bumper remains void of any McCainery because I'm not fond of spoiled psychopaths.
Why can't I play? Huh? I may already be worthy of membership, you don't know. If I weren't a member of your club, I wouldn't have enjoyed when you snapped up the remotes and chose for all of us working out at Snap Fitness Fox News' psychotic treasure of a Glenn Beck, and you know what? I did enjoy it. I did. I laughed my nuts off.
I like your stuff. I do. And in an effort to endear myself to you, I'm going to do you a solid.
You don't like lights.
You really don't, and I get why. Sure, I once thought this whole lights vs. no lights thingy was racism in action, but I've since come around to your side of this issue. Our sky, at night, is a treasure, and I can understand why the only lights you're in favor of are the kind made of burning balls of hydrogen and helium. They're so very pretty. They twinkle. Twinkle, twinkle. Sparkle, sparkle.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but these street lights Ms. Nancy Scagnelli is intent upon putting up, they're butt fuggin ugly, aren't they? Like War of the World type lights. They're going to ruin the starscape. Pretty much everybody loses, then, except for: 1) people who like to do jigs in the middle of dimly lit highways when intoxicated, 2) whoever is cutting Nancy Scagnelli in on the considerable construction cost of erecting these fuckers, and 3) that lovely schizophrenic dude who does calisthenics at dawn on Airport Mesa with his nuts hanging out of his running shorts; the one who thinks every light in the sky is a UFO. That's like, what? Maybe ten or fifteen people who win? And the rest of you lose.
So what's the deal, kids? You go to this Scagnelli lady and say, honestly, you don't want lights, and she says, "Oh, you want lights? I can do that. How many?" And then you say, Uh, Nancy, we don't want any lights, and she says, "Yes, lights! I can get you some lights!" And you say, No, no. We don't want any god damn lights, and she says, "I got an idea...let's put up some lights, and while we're at it, let's hire more mentally ill cops with daddy issues."
What will she do next? Appoint your mayor for you? Oh, wait...
I suppose this is none of my business, since I'm the newbie and not really in the club, per se. I suppose I should keep my mouth shut about people I don't know, but I'm not going to do that for many self-indulgent reasons, chief among them the fact that I post these words on the internet, the last bastion of true truth, justice and American narcissism, and in the interest of honoring those three wonderful things I've got to pose this question: if you don't like lights en masse, why would you vote for someone intent upon ignoring your wishes and putting them the fuck up anyway? And furthermore, why would you vote for anyone associated with such a jackass (cough: Jerry Frey: cough)? Because he rides horses? Sure, he may be married to the sort of lady who would verily eat your liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti (slurp, slurp, slurp), but!...he rides horses. Why question his associations? Keep it down, you silly little lambs. He's a horse-riding guy; that makes him the right guy.
I'll tell you what, if there was a ballot I could check guaranteeing I'd never again have to drive down Culp's Hill and say, "Oh, look. A bird!" only to come to the bleak realization that it is just that nylon bastard who flies above the gas station in figure eights of trickery and deceit, and I've been duped yet again, for perhaps the seven hundredth time, I would check that ballot till my pen tore the paper.
You have to honor your own wishes in this world, and honor the leaders who will listen to them and act accordingly, whether they belong to your club or not, or else you'll find yourself paddleless, up shit creek, having to put the lotion in the basket at the risk of getting the hose again. No one wants the hose. Don't vote for the hose.
Sloppy kisses on your faces,
E. Rider
