Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Of waifs and sanctimonious socialists

Conniving waifs. Them pointy little ears. Always adorning that sweet coif covering a brilliantly tufty coiffure. Wicked beady little eyes smirking out from hilariously bushy wrens nest eyebrows. Mystery of mysteries, how can mouths outwit themselves with lies heaped upon lies, deceit drooling from lips parched with the thirst for who knows what? Attention, scorn, ridicule, rapture? To crawl into bed at night knowing full well everyone you encumbered upon thought the less of you, my what a trip.

Must have been the upbringing we surmise. Negligent caregivers no doubt, allowed their five year old to roam the streets till the wee hours of morning, never a loaf of bread in the cupboard, supper only if someone was sober enough to cook. Created a spot of independence early on it did, that knack for shirking the grasp of child agencies in a land overflowing with sanctimonious socialists. Slipped through the cracks we sigh in hindsight, pass a few new laws and all will be well.

Is it freedom that is yearned for? To blatantly lie about everything in a legalitarianly correct society, heaping scorn and ridicule on oneself for posthumous amusement. That feeling that you screwed up totally everything in your life, leaving that empty feeling inside, no friends, no one caring the less at your burial. All in pursuit of that self image, unattainable dreams of a hardened compulsive. And then to laugh at it all. What masochists.

We create, us gods of human virtue. We create the valued and the admonished and the somewhere in between. We wheedle our unconscious pecking order loosed upon us by our hairy ancestors, we undermine the mesmerics of equality. Our esteemed values, ethical undulations of our kinky civilized thought, hiding in closets those obsessions which are too flagrant for social media, we are the perfect judges of our fellows. Speak not, and no one will hear. Use sticky notes.

Does Mr. Sun shine on you? Does he roast your skin with barbaric tan lines? Open up your lives to the gods of plenty, let the deceit drool from your lips that you may value the full encumbrance of freedom, the freedom to express the naughtiness of that five year old roaming the streets at 2 am. Piss in the gutter once or twice, then crawl into bed unencumbered by your deceit. Show up for work at noon, and just smile, willfully. Touch base with the nations downtrodden. Just smile away.

Express yourselves. Delve into the world of symbolism. Let those lies pour out their potency. Adorn that sweet coif covering a brilliantly tufty coiffure. Hum away your national anthem. Enjoy life. Those waifs will enjoin your presence in the park at midnight, although they may be somewhat underhanded in the expression. Catch a falling star. Be a waif.

We may sort of wonder what on earth we just esoterically obscured in the above conundrum. To make things perfectly clear, in our search for moral bedrock, when Mount Olympus erodes into the seas and the gods search for a new universe to call home, the waifs and sanctimonious socialists of yesteryear will be wandering the great halls of heavenly tablets searching and searching and forever searching.
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