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Friday, September 19, 2008

on the moon

The world is fantastical. A torture-strained septuagenarian and the Governor of Grizzlies are rising to the pinnacle of power. The global economy is a pyramid scheme about to collapse. And the weather, once predictable, has become a dysfunctional family of poltergeists. This world makes even a Croat blush. Opportunism, cronyism, staged wars, backroom deals and fat oligarchs sheltering millions in pickled sharks and other installations, artistic or otherwise. I laugh at this world, HA HA HA HA, I sit on the moon in a crater and I laugh HA HA HA HA until reflux reminds me of the moonburger I ate at noon, and then I stop, but I’m lovin’ it, so I’m laughin’ anyway HA HA HA HA. This is giant. This is comedy of the greatest, grandest order! And then I think of the Dark Knight, what he would have done in this riddled, counter-riddled, convoluted story of spiritual doom, meteorological cataclysm and economic meltdown; would he have been honorable and hyper-complex, would he’ve died, then resurged with bigger guns, would he’ve struck at the core of this maze-of-a-plot, at the control centre where heads of state and financial shadow-men pull strings and sip on $100 espressos. And that’s when I remembered that the Dark Knight netted the equivalent of Kenya’s GDP, and that it kept whole nations in its moronic, bullet-strewn trance and I roll with laughter until moon-dust covers me head to toe.

But do you not grieve for the downtrodden, Lui? Do you not feel for them?

"The downtrodden”!!! HA HA HA HA. “The downtrodden” laugh and play cards on the curbs of Port-au-Prince, too poor to buy toxic baby milk from China, too busted up to worry about THE PLOT. And the one dollar they hold in their hand will be, as one guy said, “birdcage lining” sooner rather than later. So no, I don’t. They can trade chickens for bread. We can’t.
And no, Mrs. Palin, I will not write Lui is an impertinent little spoilsport a thousand times. You’ll have to come and make me, but since you only got your passport last year, the moon may be too exotic for a first destination. And to Barack I say, you are a well-spoken man, and intelligent beyond your years. But tell me, tell me really.. who do you love Barack?? And then he looks at me intelligently and he says, it's WHOM do you love, Lui, WHOM . And I laugh a big laugh from deep inside my gut until moon dust rises up all around me in a haze like the teleportation-halo that brought me here in the first place. And then I settle down again in my crater and take a big slurp from my gallon of Coke and look down to watch the advancing hurricane… Gustave, Ike, Jeronimo… tell me, I lost track.