Diary of a Madman
Ooooooooooh! I am so mad. Angry mad, not crazy mad, just to be clear. You know as well as I that I'm as sane as the next man—unless the next man happens to be cluck loonie, in which case I'm incalculably saner. Buckauwk?
Sorry, Diary. I'm filling you with pointless tripe and wasting a perfectly good pen. You deserve better. Forgive me.
But getting back to the reason I'm mad:
Every day on the bus ride to work I disembark at Metcalfe Station, where every day fat, unshaven men try to make me read their free newspapers. I don't like free newspapers. They are, by definition, worthless. It's a universal truth that things with value cost money, while things without value are free—particularly where fat, unshaven men are concerned.
If it weren't, then Richard M. Stallman would be the Editor of the Boston Globe, instead of the author of licenses no-one reads, and software that no-one uses. Also, Paul Prudhomme would probably be making edible steak and potato dinners, Dom DeLuise's surviving relatives would be dusting the mantelpiece around his collection of Oscars, and Meat Loaf would be gyrating suggestively on MTV. Crimony!
The more I think about it, the more I realize that fat, unshaven men are boils—gelatinous, silent menaces, ceaselessly irritating the hindquarters of the modern world.
But getting back to those hosebags at Metcalfe Station, what I dislike most is the way that they place their stacks of newspapers up on the benches that are intended for commuters. The message is clear: human comfort and common courtesy is less valuable than a free newspaper. Buckauwk!
I have decided to lie in wait for these men, and follow them home. I have created my own free newspaper, and will be offering them to passers-by in front of the mens' houses. Moreover, I will be distributing them from lawnchairs I have stolen from the mens' own yards.
I think this will make a valuable point: valuable enough to compensate me for the hard work I am putting into creating my free newspaper. I only hope people will take the time to read it. Flit?
I seem to get a lot of undue attention from strangers, and nearly always in the form of requests for money. There are the occasional requests from the local animal shelter or the Children's Hospital, but never more than once or twice a year. Same goes with the teletransporter box, where a variety of well-dressed people appear in my living room, give me that earnest look in the eye, then ask me to pledge a donation. Those times are also rare, thankfully, and if I whistle and pretend not to hear them they'll usually stop asking without making a scene. But it's the constant letters and phone calls that annoy me the most.
Even they were polite at first: inquiries about seemingly nonsensical things—monthly payment arrears, taxes and utilities or some such—who knows? But lately the tone has become more sinister... I'd go as far as describing it as 'extortion' because they've threatened to take my house, take me to court, and even imprison me. It's like they don't understand the meaning of freedom in this country. I do. This house is mine, and has been since the day I beat Daddy fair and square with the shovel. And I intend to keep living the freedom that so many soldiers in the war fought and died to protect for ordinary citizens like me.
My Darling Diary,
Sometimes I miss not having a car, but then something inevitably happens to remind me that things are no better as a pedestrian. For example, just today I was walking along the transit platform on my way into the shopping mall, when a woman passed me at high speed, then slowed down to a dead halt right in front of me. Awahbubbagah! No other word to describe my frustration.
I was immediately struck by the urge to lean on my horn, roll down my window, and yell obscenities while extending a raised finger at her rear-view mirror.
But it was then that I remembered that I wasn't in a car, and neither was she. It was a sick, vulnerable feeling, like nakedness, and suddenly my urge to curse and gesture had recoiled deep within my body. My testicles followed suit. My voice was gone. Everything seemed to have frozen... except for my feet. Yes, my feet were definitely quite perturbed by the affair. Pissed as they were, they immediately whizzed off.
My head was thrown back by their mighty acceleration as I found my body hurtling around her side, then coming to a full stop in front of my would-be challenger. Nothing was said, but I got the distinct impression that my unexpected defiance had angered her. The back of my neck tingled with the sensation of fervent, steaming breath, like what you'd imagine it would be like standing in front of a horse after an unexpected visit from Paul Revere.
My horse-breath-tickled ear soon heard the distinct "whoosh" of hooves—to be fair, Nine West pumps—as I was again passed and blocked by a menacing rump. Then, all heck came unglued.
Neck-and-neck we hurtled along the platform, shoulders colliding like sad, pointed sticks in a childhood swordfight. I could feel her piercing gaze yearning to meet mine, but I dared not look. Instead, my eyes were fixed on the Transit Officer who greeted our impending approach with curious interest.
She must have seen too, because at the last moment our bodies spontaneously peeled apart, with my trajectory altering toward a Sport Chek, while she dove headlong into Bed, Bath, and Beyond.
Quite satisfied, I treated my feet to the most stylish sneakers I could find, then popped into W H Smith's for a new fountain pen for you, Diary.
You are always on my mind.
Now, let us venture forth and sit awhile under sunlit skies, to admire the flitter and skiffing of yonder urban poultry.
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