Wednesday, September 5, 2007


Leaving the Austin airport with a bag full of turkey barbecue and its various accompanyments today, I forgot to pick up a plastic fork, had to fully realize eating potato salad, baked beans and coleslaw with one's fingers is not that easy on an airplane full of people, and no matter how you ball bread up or flatten it, it does not make a suitable eating utensil.

Regardless, I ate the turkey, as nimbly as I could, using my thumb and forefinger like crab pincer chopsticks. I'm civilized after all, and civilized animals eat with eating tools. This was my struggle with the awareness of another facet of my conditioning today. Humiliation in disregarding human tendencies of food etiquette.

I also made the mistake of walking to, and using, the tiny airplane toilet without my shoes, sticky piss covered floor and all wondering if anyone else holds their breath when walking into the lav after someone comes out right before them, to let the first whoosh of whatever personal smell waft out. Like in traffic when car's billowing black smoke from missing catalytic converters drive by, or when walking past some morbidly obese person with pit stains at a convenient store. Inhale, wait. Exhale. Inhale slowly.

It'd be different if smells weren't related to memory, or didn't have flavor. Someone passed gas somewhere around me on the plane today, and it was not much different from the inescapable movie theater POW fart . The kind where you either want to vomit or pass out. The kind you can taste.

A buddy who just dropped 25 after a breakup says his farts don't smell anymore, so now he's constantly passing gas without anyone even knowing. Funny to wonder which is more rude. The smell? The noise? A combination being the ultimate social and even intimate faux pas. "Anyone can do it quietly if they really try," I've heard. "The ones who make noise force the air out of their bodies and that's what's rude."

I dated a boy, for years, in a small southern city with limited options, who would not only pass gas at every opportunity, but pass gas on me. Sit one me, hold me down. So in a way, I'm traumatized from it. I Hate it when people do it around me. Hate them for it. Want to throw up on their face.

I think I'm entitled to that discrimination as emotional indignation, fully warranted--aside from conditioning, or cultural taboos, which I suppose have a lot to do with it too, but I can think of a million other issues to be more open minded about without deconstructing origins of human decency.

Fire ants for example. I'm sure some of them are really nice and only really mean ones who have had bad days put those stingy red whelps on people. I'm going to find some fire ants tomorrow and kill them with kindness. If that deson't work I'll give them sincere original compliments and offer to buy them 98% fat free frozen yogurt cups with unlimited toppings. After that---FIRE ANT ORGY.

After that, if they are still mean, and my vagina has whelps all over it, I will eat the fire ants with my crab pincer chopsticks, one by one, until there are no fire ants left, but one, and it will run for president, at gunpoint, against Hillary, and that guy who is just black enough to be black without even being black at all, according to purists, minorities, and a very lonely fire ant.

1 comment:

Robert said...

Hot walnuts...
That's all I'm saying.

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