I’ve seen your bumper sticker, and it’s not awesome.
I want to crush this particular silver Honda that I see driving around the Clintonville section of Columbus. I’ve been behind it at the light at Henderson and High, and I had to fight the urge to rev up my Volvo and give them a good smack in the ass. The other day I chanced to park next to them at the Krogers. To make a long story short, they’re lucky I was in more of a depressive mood than an impulsive mood. Otherwise, I would’ve keyed a penis into the trunk of their car. First of all, this would have fulfilled a lifelong dream to draw a penis on something; I feel I’ve missed out on something by never having done that. Second of all, they had this bumper sticker:
WTF?!? I’m so glad you find the disease that’s repeatedly derailed my life so effin’ amusing. Now, before you go and accuse me of having no sense of humor, trust in the fact that I find myself very amusing. Hell, I used to do improve: Yes… And take a look at these other great disease-related bumper sticker ideas I’ve come up with on the fly:
- Diabetes is sweet.
- Hypertension makes my blood boil.
- It grows on you.
- Amputation makes me hopping mad.
- I don’t see what’s the big deal is with glaucoma.
There. Call Cafepress.com: I have five good pieces of merch they can sell alongside the 49 different versions of “I hate being bipolar/it’s awesome.” You can wear it, drink out of it, mouse on it, and, of course, slap it on your car’s ass. I wider Google search brings up 6,100 hits for the bumper sticker and 53,300 for the t-shirt.
I get it; you find an inherently humorous juxtaposition in the bipolar. One minute crying, next minute laughing, next minute crying again. Those people must cycle through all two available emotions thirty-seven or thirty-eight times a day. Continue reading
1971, Long Island, Exit 50
That is not a Road Runner costume; that is a THE Road Runner costume. At this point in his life, the boy is waking up at 7am in order to make sure he is in position for The Bugs Bunny Show to start at 9am. He knows what Road Runner looks like, and he has a yellow beak. This THE Road Runner looks like a radish. “It’s says ‘Road Runner,’” says anyone who will listen. Even if one buys the argument, Mom, that there are probably lots of different road runners, the use of the definite article, THE, implies that this road runner on the boy’s blouse is Road Runner from the cartoons he watches. It is not.
All interaction is deceit.
The blouse itself… Even if it was Road Runner, which it’s not, there’s no way Road Runner would wear a satiny blouse proclaiming he was THE Road Runner. As it was once said by those far more learned than the boy: “Disco Stu doesn’t advertise.” A five year old shouldn’t have to worry that his costume is too meta. “Trick or Treat. Smell my feet. My costume is dialog about the nature of the signifier.” Besides, Road Runner is naked, free, and fast. THE Road Runner pictured on this blouse doesn’t even have a body to be naked with. Again, he is a radish.
Culture is a ravenous ouroboros that feeds off the assimilationist dreams of children.
When were these pumpkins carved? Labor Day? This child has not yet learned to delay gratification. Now all is decay. The child wonders, “How long before my teeth rot and fall out and I die?” Culture gives him candy as an answer. The candy is called Life Savers. The boy clutches them because he is pretty confident he understands irony.
Entropy will eventually rend asunder even the bonds between the molecules in your face.
The price tag is still on the big pumpkin.
All joy is commodity.
The flash of the camera’s un-blinking eye also illuminates the back inside wall of each pumpkin, giving each gourd a two-dimensionality that masks the trauma they underwent weeks before. They scream, but no one hears. They are now just images of pumpkins, trapped in a chilling rictus. A child can only ape their frozen grins as he, too, has been flattened by the gaze. Also, his hair looks stupid, and it will look stupid forever.
Guy DuBooooo-ord put it best: “…Imprisoned in a flattened universe bounded by the screen of the spectacle, behind which his own life has been exiled, the spectator’s consciousness no longer knows anyone but the fictitious interlocutors who subject him to a one-way monologue about their commodities and the politics of their commodities. The spectacle as a whole is his “mirror sign,” presenting illusory escapes from a universal autism.”