Rain, the Eraser of Memories

Rain. Just when life seems like one big joke with a punchline no one can remember, along comes rain. Rain, with its murky gray clouds that obscure the sun, blot out the blue sky and fills human hearts with a pervading sense of gloom.

But rain blesses us with more than a fuliginous sky and human misery. As a great man once said, it washes memories off the sidewalk of life. And what is life if not a concrete slab, a lifeless mass of rock that is constantly trampled upon but rarely pondered? A dull gray path that cracks and crumbles until it is reset with a wet mixture, prompting self-absorbed children to place their handprints in it. Ha! Such self-glorification, such nostalgic masturbation in those so young. As if future generations care to look at their handprints and remember the lives of a few insignificant munchkins.

Future generations will be no different than ours: They will do nothing more than scurry over the sidewalk of life, ignoring what it really is and thinking only of arriving at their next meal, meeting or movie. Do we pause and marvel at these handprints? Never. We walk over them, we spit upon them and let our housepets shit on them.

Life is nothing but a cold concrete slab people hustle and bustle over until their end. The only relief is the rain which washes over it, erasing our past and allowing us to fade into oblivion. Leave no record of your life behind. It is an affront to reality.

Subway to Insanity

What is more satisfying than a sandwich from Subway? I can think of numerous things, not least among them having dysentery while being strapped to the electric chair. Oh, Subway, bane of my life and a scourge upon chain restaurants! Why must the most ubiquitous healthy-alternative restaurant in our nation remind my taste buds of maggots and pubic hair sandwiched between pieces of soggy cardboard?

My mouth pleads for mercy when I find myself lunching with one of its brainwashed converts, who shuns burgers and insists that the Cold Cut Trio "ain't half bad." Indeed, it "ain't" half bad, my Philistine friend: It is three quarters bad, rounded out with a solid one quarter of mediocrity.

Oh, why does not our society tear its hair and beat its breasts at this plague on our souls and children? To think of Subway's detestable insistence upon using iceberg lettuce. Iceberg is aptly named, for it is lettuce that will prove to sink the Titanic that is our culture. America, a lumbering, over-decorated behemoth that feels nothing could sink it. Little do we know we are already at the bottom of the sea, freezing in the waters of our own indifference!

Not to mention the Neanderthals that Subway employs to serve us a heaping helping of blandness. Some unfortunate souls can only type at a ratio of 30 words per minute. Subway goes out of its way to find those special someones who process speech at 30 words per minute.

And the few employees who can operate normally are stricken by the assumption that they deserve to be in Mensa because they can correctly pronounce the words Asiago and jalapeño.
They scorn you if you hesitate in deciding what accoutrements to compliment your sandwich with. They glow with smug superiority after asking what kind of bread you want your sandwich on for the third time.

You think you're smart because you can't hear what I'm saying? You think you're smart because you require me to shout my bread preferences as if the building were on fire?
For the last time, parmesan oregano you deaf tart! My mouth is hoarse with shouting and the look of satisfaction on your face keeps growing as my heart keeps sinking.

Eating the Caged Bird

Last night as I bemoaned the meaninglessness of existence over a succulent chicken burrito, I realized I cared not why the caged bird sang - if it tasted as good as chicken, I would rather just eat it.

Guilt racked my mind. How could I think such a thing? Is not all life precious? Did not the once-living fowl before me - now shredded, marinated and wrapped in a soft tortilla - have the same right to life as I? Truly it did: There was no justice in its death and my consumption of its being. But as those sweet juices of animal flesh drizzled down my throat, I knew I cared not. It died so I could forget the pain of my life by indulging in the remains of its thighs covered in sour cream and salsa. And I was glad! Yes, dear reader, I rejoiced to suck its remains into my stomach. I laugh now thinking about it. A cold, joyless laugh that resounds throughout my head. I laugh at my tacit participation in this sham of worldly justice and order.

I pretend to care about a fair and just world, one where everyone has equal opportunity to love, laugh and play POGs, but deep down I simply close my eyes. If caging someone means making my life easier, I can turn my head, flutter my eyelids - as if flirting with Divine Retribution to distract it - and ignore the painful realities of life. Just so I can dive face-first into a world of consumeristic satiation - or dare I say, consumeristic Satanism!

Do you hear that caged bird singing? Smells like dinner to me.