"If you don't have time to type out a grammatically-correct
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"If you don't have time to type out a grammatically-correct and properly punctuated story, just don't bother!" I thought aloud to myself as I flipped through a women's magazine.
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The same magazine I would find myself writing for a year later. The irony, I thought, well it's always better than writing for that ridiculous and pathetic magazine called
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"Girls and Corpses". I knew perfectly well that the depicted corpses weren't authentic having grown up with Gunther von Hagens as a neighbor. I vowed to publish a better mag,
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And that's how "American Girl" was born. It was supposed to rival Playboy, but unfortunately, I was sued by a preteen girl magazine for having the same name. "Oooh! So that's why
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Kim Kardashian is famous!" And Perez Hilton's feet went clippety cloppity and he made jazz handtastic gestures until the
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fire in his cold hipster heart went out and he crumpled to the floor and rolled on the clacking gears of the gossip machinery ala Mario Savio to end
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all road work across the world. "End road work now!" people protested, carrying pilfered highway signs. A stirring photograph of a toppled toy toddler wagon on a highway's edge
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stirred the people to even higher levels of action. Anywhere the mobs encountered road workers they would ply them with alcohol & YouTube videos. Soon all road repairs ceased and
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interstates transformed into discos. No parking, baby. No parking on the dance floor. Things improved dramatically after that happened. Life was no longer about getting to work. It
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was living life in the fast lane under the glow of the disco ball. Cops in powder blue hot pants handing out tickets to be divine. We were the stars under the stars. Get down.
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- Started
- 2011-04-29 21:01:25
- Finished
- 2013-08-20 00:56:17
1 Comments
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Zetawilk Aug 20 2013 @ 01:04
This was one of my most inspired folds to date. Long car trips weren't altogether infrequent as a kid, and though I brought with me activities to occupy my time, my attention has always been to watching out the window as the world passed me by. Just like it has done metaphorically. These days, road maintenance has been proliferating at an alarming rate, and around these parts there no longer seems to be a day when some busy road somewhere is not at the Sisyphean mercy of the cyclical act of scoring and repaving. To mistake the context of signage declaring "End Road Work" was a small jump to make. The image of the lone toy wagon was one I'd witnessed with my own eyes while being driven upstate on some fool's errand (the fool being myself, of course), and roadkill is not an unlikely sight. I can't help but feel, in accordance with other evidence, that this is indicative of the self-indulgent apathy which consumes our busy society. Or perhaps we've already reached a stage of digestion.