The Inherent Cruelty Of The Cosmos (And Everything In It)
There are plenty of things in this world we all could and/or should rail against. If there weren't, there would be no blogs and we wouldn't know that people with whom we disagree politically, for example, are most likely minions of the devil or that we are totally crushing on Timmy from Social Studies class, but he's an assface because he is totally going out with Mandy from cheer just because she developed boobs first.

These are things we need to know in order to recognize the Inherent Cruelty of the Cosmos , to identify the things we oppose and then to verbally annihilate them from a position of complete internet anonymity that is sure never to reach the intended target. Good, healthy, pointless catharsis.

For me, the issue today is the evil, evil Patriarchy and the phallocentric patronymic that is forced upon us at birth, restricting us to taking only our father's last name. There are millions of us who are thus stuck with last names (as I am) that are difficult, if not impossible to shorten into a quick, punchy nickname.

This has been a source of unending frustration and disillusion in my life and is primarily the reason why I speak to my father--bearer of the merely functional surname--in curt, clipped tones that I'm sure cut him to his core.

What I mean is, if my last name were Cooper, people could call me Coop as in "Hey Coop, how's it goin'?" to which I would respond "Right back atcha!" and give them the double finger-guns and a wink.

Or "Hey Coop, how's it hangin'?" or "Hey Coop, nice haircut!" or "Hey Coop, if you can't keep that fucking dog off my grass, I swear to God I'm gonna shoot it!"

And I would wave and smile, maybe even toss my head back and laugh a little as I pass. The sun would always shine and a little bird would land on my shoulder, whistling along with the tune I'd always be humming because I'd be in a state of perpetual bliss, like all people with shortenable last names.

And I'd turn to the bird and ask it something like "Hey bird, how is bird-life treating you?" and he wouldn't really answer because even though this is a fantasy, birds can't really speak the English language (I hear they prefer Portuguese) but if he could talk he'd say something like "Not too bad, Coop, not too bad!" just before he flew off into the cloudless 72-degree sky on his way to... wherever it is birds live.

And I'd walk by a school and all the little children would come pouring out, dancing in a crowd behind me as I walked down the middle of a street (which you really shouldn't do, especially with children). And they would dance and sing some kind of damn kids songs and we'd march along. We'd find something fun to do as a group, like maybe march to the ocean and kick around in the surf, or maybe check the internet for registered sex offenders, pick one out, find him and then stomp him to death en masse under happy, dancing children's feet.

These are just some of the things I could do if I had a last name that could be shortened into a nickname.

But alas, I do not. So I walk down my street and never once get a chance to offer the double finger-guns. Birds fly right past me as if they didn't even know me. Sex offenders go on living their lives without ever being threatened by a blood-thristy mob of singing children.

The Cosmos is indeed a cruel place and there is no justice.

But just when I'm at my lowest, just when I'm feeling my worst, just when I would be considering suicide if I were someone less vitally important to the survival of our planet, I find something like this:

Barack Obama leads Alan Keyes by over 40 points.

There is hope for all of us yet.


This post on the Narcissus Scale: 5.0


Pops

- posted by Pops @ 12:04 PM