Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Chapter 24 (39,415 words out of 50,000) Part 1


I’ve been to Orlando once. At Orlando, you can find examples of everything that’s wrong with this country - you just need to sit on a bench at Universal Studios for five minutes.

For example, ninety-percent of the parents in this country really don’t want to be parents. I don’t know why they do it – they probably get knocked up to save their failing marriage and tell themselves that they’re doing it because of an obligation to the human race and God – as if either God or humanity doesn’t hang their head in shame every time they think they somehow influenced two fat pieces of white trash to raise a kid that they despise and, in turn, end up neglecting. I don’t understand the need to reproduce; I never really studied it since most of the people I interface with on a social level don’t have kids. They have careers. They have material items and pimped out apartments. They have things worth getting in on. There is a direct correlation to the number of kids a couple has and whether or not they’re worth knowing. One or two kids – maybe they’re worth seeing on occasion and keeping close by, they might have something to offer. I never met a lawyer with six kids though. Never met a fashion designer with more than one. The people that fucking matter – few kids. The people with NASCAR posters in their kitchen – eight kids. And they hate every single fucking one of them. They hit them, they call them “little shits”, tell them to shut up. I’m not the most patient dude in the world but Jesus Fucking Christ – these people made some sort of agreement with nature to spit these kids out of their cavernous vaginas – you’d think that fucking counts for something, taking on responsibility and shit. But none of these people want these fucking kids. They shut them up by shoving candy down their fucking throats – these fat fucking kids now serve as justification for these grossly overweight parents. They can say their fatness runs in the family – it’s in their fucking genes – and has nothing to do with the pack of twizzlers that’s running through their fucking arteries. These kids are miserable, all of them, while vacationing at the Happiest Place on Earth. Their fucking parents are miserable. And all of this miserable will translate to one of these fucking kids jacking me up at an ATM machine in ten years.

I’ve also learned that everybody hates everybody else. Not dislikes, not “doesn’t trust” – they fucking hate everybody they see and everybody they hear. And for the stupidest fucking reasons – they hate people for the shit that they themselves do everyday. They hate you if you stand too close to them, they hate you if you’re too fucking loud on the cell phone, they hate you if your kids are screaming, they hate you if you bump into them, if you walk too slow, if you’re taking too long at the concession stand, if you’re in a wheelchair and get to skip to the front of the line, if you get the last slice of pizza, if you’re in front of them in line for the bathroom, if you ask them what time it is, if you tell them they dropped something, if you’re sitting next to them at the fucking stunt spectacular, if you ask a park attendant a question that they know the answer to, if you’re laughing, if you look like you’re having an ounce of a good fucking time. They simply hate you. They pass by you and roll their eyes or look back at you and give you the nastiest fucking look. And the thing is, everybody is doing it to everybody else so you can’t even feel bad for people – and they all hate each other for the same fucking reasons.

Another thing you realize is how fucking ugly this country is. In New York, you don’t notice it as much. People put effort into their appearance here for the most part – a lot of people take care of themselves, keep in shape – have basic fashion sense even if they’re wearing cheap knock-offs of the good stuff. But in Orlando you get none of that. I fucking swear to God I’ve seen the same goddamn Tasmanian Devil shirt on ten different people within a five minute span, the only difference is the city they’re representing. One says Atlanta, one says Texas – as if the people in Texas are too stupid to break it down by city, they’d rather make it easy and declare the whole fucking state – one says Memphis as if Memphis is the kind of city you’re proud to come from – as if the Tasmanian Fucking Devil would be proud to come from Memphis – as if he wouldn’t shit on a preacher and eat a Baptist church. They all got the shirts that cost them two dollars to make and they matched it perfectly with the black or grey spandex shorts or pants that are stretched so goddamn far you can see their flesh through it – fucking spandex is not supposed to be see-through. These fucking people buy spandex so that they can feel thinner. They can buy an extra-extra-large instead of their usual extra-extra-extra-extra-large and pull it on with minimal effort but plenty of pain. Besides the clothes and the fat there’s just the general ugly. The crossed eyes, the damaged teeth, the scars. The fucking ponytails and the cornrows. The bad breath. The raspy smoker’s voice – the freckles and the sagging tits – the bellies sticking out from underneath their shirts. I don’t understand how these people get fucked. Even if I was as ugly as one of these people I wouldn’t stoop so low to fuck one of them. But that shit happens. There was this girl that was in my neighborhood growing up, her name was Luz. Do you know that person you picture when you think of the name “Luz”? That’s exactly what she fucking looked like. Big ass girl, looked like a fucking brontosaurus. Fat-ass face, nose that went from ear-to-ear. Greasy-ass black hair that curled down to the small or her massive back. Breathing heavy every time she moved, always talked in screams. This bitch was the type of bitch you expected to die alone at the age of thirty with a fucking chicken wing lodged in her enormous throat. No – she gets married. And has a fucking kid at the age of nineteen. What the fuck is wrong with this county? In any normal country she would be a fucking social outcast, a goddamn hermit locked up in her apartment and eating rats. In this country she’s not only accepted but she’s allowed to procreate – she’s not mocked or shunned and if she is it’s OUR fucking fault – we’re inconsiderate. And when you’d in Orlando – about three-quarters of the people here are like fucking Luz. It’s amazing.

I figured all of this shit out when I was fucking twenty. I finagled my way into some Youth Leadership conference in Orlando and part of the deal was a free pass to Disney World – I realized everything wrong with the other half of this country within five-fucking minutes. The girl I went down there to fuck, this chick named Emily, was having fun riding on Small Fucking World and the Peter Pan ride so I just smiled and pretended that everything was normal – that I wasn’t witnessing The Fall of American sitting on the Dumbo ride and eating a fucking corndog.

If I saw all this at the age of twenty, when I was still learning my shit, can you imagine what I would have realized at twenty-seven, when I’m on top of my fucking game? I would have written a fucking thesis on it so powerful and honest that the world would be talking about, fucking camel-jockeys out in Fuckastan would have been using it as their manifesto to why they kill Americans – people in our country would have read it with shame before slitting their wrists – it would have been glorious.

But the Orlando trip, the last week I was to spend with Agatha – playing her into a myriad or embarrassing and painful situations while being hundreds of miles away from home and trapped with me - had to be postponed for a later date.

My mother is moving in.


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