Just a simple timebound political whine

Dear diary,

I must keep repeating this fact, because you keep forgetting it: I am writing from the year 2019. The reader is reading my words from sometime either in the far past or the distant future, so she has no idea what I’m talking about, ever. For instance, if I complain about rich fux being so maddening, my reader replies “No way! Rich fux are good. It’s the poor who are bad.” Cuz in the far future, on planet Movie Telephone Prefix 555, all the rich fux are intelligent and compassionate and well-read and kinda cute, wheras the poor are greedy liars devoid of humanity. But you have to remember, dear stupid fool, that I Bryan Ray don’t live on no future planet: I live on Death Star Earth in the Year of our Lord between World Wars Two and Three, back when Neo-Feudalism wielded the iron laws of freedom, and no birds sang.

So when I tell you that I’m in a foul mood right now cuz I just made the mistake of reading, directly after waking, a newspaper article by one of our eon’s richest fux, and its gist was “Why the U.S. can never implement a system of actual health care”, I don’t want you to respond “But everyplace has health care! A country that doesn’t have health care ain’t a country but rather a gang of barbarous thugs”; no, don’t respond this way; for, by saying such nonsense, you prove that you already forgot the foundation of my tragedy: that I live in 2019.

So that’s the worst part of being alive right now: you can’t avoid the knowledge that nobody will ever want to read your autobiography. It’ll just be boring. For, if some future person has the desire to learn how hard life was for men in the ancient past, she’ll skip right over MY age and go straight to sugar-slavery, or cotton-slavery, or to the creation of the heavens and the earth (cuz the first chapter of Genesis is an instance of slave labor too); no self-respecting connoisseur of misery is going to peruse voluntarily the blog of a dork whose generation simply lacked health care, when autobios of rare-element miners are available.

Plus it’s supposed to snow today: that also sux. Here in Minnesota we’ve endured a boastful winter: loads of snow. I can’t even see over the top of the snowbanks at the end of our street. And I had to rake my roof X times this month. It’s really a trying ordeal, so feel bad for me. Blizzard after blizzard has rendered the act of casual shopping a drag. And it’s not just the responsibility of having to shovel our driveway that is killing me: it’s the fact that I must shovel the space in front of our mailbox as well.

Also I must shovel around the fire hydrant; cuz if the firefighters stop on our street in their big red firetruck, and they see that that hydrant is buried under meters of snowfall, there’ll be hell to pay. And they know I’m the culprit.

& they have this dog named Spot, who rides with them everywhere that they go; consequently the firefighters will point in MY direction while saying to the dog “Go seek Bryan: give him a fright!”

So now Spot dashes at me yipping and barking. But it takes a lot to scare me, cuz I’m naturally courageous in the face of danger (I draw strength from my steadfast belief in Life Eternal — tho I’m decidedly not a Christian); thus, in order to get a rise out of me, Spot must increase his level of threat; therefore he progresses from yelping to biting.

Now my body’s in pain: for it hurts to be nipped in the shin by a well-groomed firedog. Then the police arrive, because they routinely circle our block (in search of suspicious activity), and they stop in front of my house because they see the firefighters standing around like an audience watching an opera. And their firedog, Spot, is positioned directly before me: tucking his tail and looking ashamed, cuz my pant leg’s all bloody.

So the cops ask the firefighters, “What happened?” And the battalion chief explains, “The plan was to surprise the heck out of the grizzly by sicking the dog on him. But then the whole thing backfired.” As it is written:

What man is there of you, whom if his son ask a fish, will he give him a serpent? (Matthew 7:9-10)

Oops that’s the wrong passage. HERE’s the passage I really meant to quote:

Woe unto you that desire the day of the LORD! to what end is it for you? the day of the LORD is darkness, and not light: As if a man did flee from a lion, and ran straight into a bear. (Amos 5:18)

So, after the officers cuffed me and took me down to the station and roughed me up, and played good-cop-bad-cop with me, and forced me to admit to many horrendous deeds that I never did do; I got my day in court and lost my case (cuz my lawyer broke one of the knobs on the judge’s grill last weekend); then I served my time and paid my debt to society; so they released me from jail with seven dollars and a bus ticket in my pocket. So I took the bus home and entered my rambler; and I leaned my hand on the wall, but a serpent bit me. Then, later that evening, I went out man-hunting with my neighbor Jesús; but all we caught was a fish.

What kind of father treats his children so shabbily? for he KNOWS that we have need of so many things: food, clothing, shelter, nationalized health care — yet he makes his sun to rise on the rich fux only, and raineth luck exclusively on the unjust. (Matthew 5:44-45)