The Cubic Cow

Well it's that time of year again, that time of year when Christmachanakwanza is so close you may as well write it off as having passed. The tree's up, the stockings are hung, that perverse act of risking ones life in the name of tacky lights is behind us, most of the presents are wrapped up, and all that stands before us and that Monday after Christmas is another awkwardly-rummy series of parties to celebrate the birth and life of Father Jesus Nicholas Santa Claus Christmas Christ.

Strange how we Americans recognize our semi-official religion with either baskets full of chocolate rabbits and eggs, or bright lights and over-sized socks full of candy and DVDs. I suppose it beats praying on a woven mat in the hot sun for half the day, but what are we truly celebrating?... A question for another blog maybe, for this blog is devoted to the much more positive tradition on the horizon; the New Years resolution(s).

Aside from the traditional line-up of reducing my stress levels, eating better, and making sure I juice the old car up with some fresh oil every 3000 miles, I have decided it will be this two-thousand and fifth year of our Lord that I start writing all the crazy thoughts and ideas of mine before I forget them. So here goes, crazy thought of the future number one!

On the other side of the planet - that very corner of civilization which Columbus was looking for a better route to when he happened upon this mass of land we call America - India regards the cow as a sacred icon. A fact that put to me to great shame the day I ate approximately 3 lbs of Indian food at a buffet and had to pull over on the way home to rid myself of at least a couple of pounds of the beef-less cuisine. I had decided as I stumbled out of the restaurant high on the aromas of curry, that I would feel better if I took the long ride home through the pastures of East Freeport. At the very moment in which my esophagus told me it had had enough, I was bent over in front of a half dozen grazing beauties. They watched the resulting pains of my gluttony, and made a point to make eye contact with me, almost to say "Look at what you've done you savage westerner you. Eating until you puke. If we were on the other side of this planet, we wouldn't be standing here waiting to be slaughtered." It was a spiritual moment, which I accredit to the absurd amount of curry in my blood stream, and the lack of oxygen that entered my brain during my 'episode'. Don't get me wrong, I love a juicy burger like the wildest of dogs, but I have always had a deep respect for cows. If Mother Nature crafted more than one species with a soul, which I believe she did, the cows would be right up there with the dogs and the dolphins.

Now that America has stunted its technological potential in genetics with the signature of one Texan, it is up to our friends in the East and in Europe to lead the new space-race of genetic engineering. If my self-proclaimed clairvoyance is correct, it won't be more than a dozen years before we are eating our juicy burgers and tender steaks from a faceless mammoth of cloned muscle fibers, raised side by side it's other perfectly cubical cousins in a laboratory in the east. Massive chunks of soulless flesh, designed to simply grow under a layer of tight skin, until it was large enough to slice into 100 lbs cubes for shipment to the hungry mouths of America. Before long we'll be feasting on the masterpieces of genetic artists, on meat with a natural garlic taste that took only moments to cook and has the texture of the finest filet minion.

The un-Happy Meal

Ronald McDonald you crooked bastard! Tia, Georgie, Olive and I decided after a brief trip to the grocery store this evening, to stop by the good ole' golden arches for a little McHeartburn for supper. The date had been arranged earlier in the evening, and after a rather smooth trip through the drive-thru we parked in our once-usual spot (just adjacent to the first window as to provide us an intimate angle of the nearly robotic actions of the employee). The meal was quite nice, I dining on a juicy Double 1/4 pounder w/Cheese, and Tia opting for delight of the cheeseburger Happy Meal. Things went well, and in what seemed like the blink of an eye we were off into the high-octane world of late Thursday evening America, just another passing vessel in a sea of passing vessels.

Upon arriving at home, we decided to put together the Jungle Book toy from Tia's Happy Meal while carelessly tossing out the Happy Meal bag (a once treasured item in younger years when it was actually a box with puzzles and happy characters). The toy, which was a little tree fort with stairs and a 2 inch Ballou, appeared pretty harmless and we disregarded the small visual instruction sheet. A few moments later the construction of this tree fort was well underway, as we sprinted to the finish line of this effortless achievement. Things were going quite well, and Ballou was just about ready to emerge from his plastic caccoon. Suddenly the entire construction of the tree fort was in question, the stairs simply wouldn't connect to where the instructions suggested they would. Without words, we mutually decided to start over with the construction project. Another attempt... same results. These stairs must be defective!! How the fuck is Ballou suppose to get into his tree fort? Don't panic, let's just take this mess over to the kitchen table and take a shameful glance at the visual instructions.

Frantic moments passed, as we tried to make sense of the seemingly-simple method of construction. Nothing worked! Again and again we tried connecting the stairs. It was at this moment, perhaps 5 minutes into our pathetic attempts, that I thought about the children. Those poor inner-city kids in East LA who were out there falling victim to the same defective merchandise we were. I saw unemployed parents with short tempers causing terrible scenes in McDonald's throughout the country, maybe even the world! Cursing the toy and tossing it in the trash, laying the foundation of a sour Christmas. How could Ronald have let this happen? Was he as heartless as he suddenly seemed?

Refusing to fail, we decided the only way we were going to attach these stairs was with traditional brute force. I began working one side of the duo-sided stair case, forcing plastic pegs into holes they weren't designed to fit in, while Tia studied the logic of the instructions more thoroughly. The red plastic of the staircase connectors was quickly turning white as I forced it into the shape I thought best. A split second before its absolute breaking point, Tia stopped me with a sudden revelation into the architecture of this terrible little fort. She pointed to the diagram and spoke engineering gibberish which in my exerted haze didn't seem to make any sense. She grabbed the entire fort from my clutches and in just a few seconds had connected both staircases!! Eureka! Success!! The marvelous little item will grace our hutch for some months, until we forget its significance and reunite it with its countless other siblings who met the trash bin before being fully constructed.