Dear diary,
But then I am compelled to go to a business seminar titled “How to be Western”. Now, I mostly dislike the East, but I secretly hate the West much more as well; so this event is tedious.
I don’t even understand where the East stops and the West starts. Why is there an “us” and a “them”? Same with North and South. I wish we could simply share everything and consider ourselves a unity. (Tho it might sound dewy-eyed, I truly mean this.) But I guess that there will always be some miser among the multitudes who cheats and hoards; and, since nobody wants to be the so-called fool who forgives, everyone races to the bottom attempting to cheat and hoard the most.
These are my thoughts as I enter the saloon-style doors of a pyramid tavern down the block from where I live, after the seminar. A large group of folks is gathered here, so I ask:
“What’s the occasion?”
Someone nearby answers: “You’re the King of Egypt, yet you don’t even know that this is the day that our great nation has set aside to memorialize our soldiers who were slain in battle?”
“I guess I was unaware,” I admit. Then, after ordering an absinthe and enjoying it along with a few more absinthes, I reply to this subject of mine: “If you don’t mind me following up on our recent exchange, what is this battle that you speak of?”
The fellow looks perturbed. “This day commemorates ALL the battles. Everyone knows that.”
“Well I didn’t know it,” I say, tho I keep my tone polite because I wish to avoid a bar-brawl. “So these battles that our soldiers got slain in — did we end up winning them?”
“Of course we won them,” sez the fellow. “That’s why we’re a nation.”
“Ah, of course,” I say. Then I drink the rest of my absinthe and order another. “May I ask,” I say while sipping my upcoming absinthe (before it has arrived): “What do you think would have been the result — I mean, for you personally — if we had NOT won these battles that you speak of? Or, to put it another way: What if the soldiers that we’re honoring had chosen to remain DEATH VIRGINS by abstaining from sacrificing their bodies to war, and thus refusing to serve as the foundation of the creation of our nation of Ancient Egypt? Where would that leave you and me?”
“If we had lost all the battles, then we’d be owned by some other company, like Ancient China, or Ancient Russia, or the Arabian Nights of the Islamic Golden Age. So life would suck. You would be King of nothing, cuz there’d be no Ancient Egypt; and I would be lambless.”
“So you’re a lambherd?” I say. (I was wondering what this man’s life-passion would turn out to be.)
“Yes, I wrangle lambkins.”
“So what would it mean to you personally, if this establishment where we’re imbibing our beverages were called, say, Greater South Africa rather than Ancient Egypt?”
“Then my lambs would not like the tin cans that Saint John feeds them, and their coats would be piebald instead of one flat gray hue. And their sour milk would fetch a worse price, and I would curse the TV for having less decent programming.”
“So you are thankful for our existing entertainment,” I say.
“Indeed I am,” sez the lambherd. “I like the shows where our Ancient Egyptian Soldiers go in and do battle with foreigners to bring back better TV series for our great nation, and marginal prices for stank-wool and sheep cheese.”
I order just one more absinthe.
After a pleasant lull in our confrontation, the lambherd turns to me and sez: “Let ME ask you a question now, Mister Mighty Majesty. — Whenever I imagine MYSELF as our Ancient Egyptian Emperor, I think I would do a good job.”
I wait a moment and then reply: “Am I wrong to interpret what you just said as more of a statement than a question?”
“My question is implied,” the lambherd sez. “You’re doing a bad job as King.”
“And yet you love this nation?”
“Yes, the nation, not its King.”
“So how do you define the part of the nation that you like? Is it the people?”
“No, I hate most of the people. I only honor the entrepreneurs who supplied the ROX this place is built upon, plus the soldiers who died to be glue for the Sands of Time’s concrete.”
I finish my drink and say: “Understood. I wish that the creation of life-sustaining systems did not require the sacrifice of genius, but I would never dare question your dream-logic in this regard. So I’ll go return my crown and resign from power. Nice meeting you,” I shake hands with the lambherd and take my leave.
Now I go perform all these acts that, when inebriated, I promised to do: I give my crown back to Royal Retail, in exchange for store-credit; and I write my resignation letter to my boss:
Dear Jehovah, God of Gods,
I Bryan am writing to let you know that two weeks from today shall be my very last moment as King of Egypt. (Ancient Egypt, I should specify — for I will never relinquish my position as Emperor of Postmodern Egypt.) Please find another man to do the job. If I may make a recommendation, there is an herder of lambs that I met at a watering hole who seems opinionated. Or, if you prefer a woman (as I myself recommend with all my heart) then maybe bring back Cleopatra: she’s smart and saucy. But if you like the lambherd whom I referred to, then go with the lambherd — it’s really no longer my concern.
In closing, I wish that you had created human beings more wide-minded; but I guess that your plan is the best, in some way that I can’t discern.
I end this with my paw print:
[Signed, Tyger Bryan]
Now, being no longer King, I am happier and more relaxed. However, I’m often confused; because, now that I spend most of my time nursing people back to health, as soon as they’re well again, they always fall in love with me; and I never know if it’s better to requite their affection or tell them: “Drape a wet cloth over your lust-fire: tis evil; put it out!” Thus I opt to spend the rest of my days as a creature positioned at the back of a cave and starving to death.
No comments:
Post a Comment