Caltrops - Site Comments





	[quote name="Ray of Light"][<i>posted Wiki-style, without care for forum layout or precedent. Ray innovates again!</i>] <i>This</i> is the land of the free? I've been to dark places inside my own head <i>and</i> New Jersey, but this (waves hand) is the most depressing place on Earth. It <i>could</i> be the opposite of Disneyland, if not for the high prices, poor driving, omnipresent security cameras and rigid views on deviant sexuality. It's four days ago. I'm in front of a customs agent, he's in front of a computer, while the three of us ponder my suitability to walk among His People. He wants to know what I do. I hate this question: I'm a man for our time, we live in complicated times, ergo my job is complicated. I give him the ten-word version, just like the loan officers hear. He squints to show he sees right through my cover, then presses for details. (Looking past his shoulder, I see that the next agent over is a really fat white chick that grasps the mannerisms of sexy better than most models. She wrinkles her nose and brushes stray hairs and rolls her eyes at all the right times, vibing <i>hey let's have sex! Or go drink or smoke a joint or whatever! I'm up for anything as long as you're nice! But especially sex!</i>. Anyway, those girls are awesome.) I launch into the Extended Job Description, which is what girls hear once I stop pretending I work at a car wash. "OK, you have a computer there, right? It connects to a larger computer, somewhere, and that ..." His eyes have defocused. Jesus! Even the cokehead stripper with a BFA hung on longer than this tool. Irritated, I realize he's unworthy of a comprehensible lecture. I start over, slowly at first, and soon build to a singsong tempo of buzzwords and gibberish, delivered as smoothly and evenly as a marthoner's strides. I visualize my own bullshit as a tube sock full of verbal pennies, forcefully swung at the stupid goddamn look on his face. I feel like I could talk forever. I wish I had a whiteboard, or ten. Minutes pass. I'm talking, still, and tapping my foot in time with the words, when he raises his palms. "OK, OK. I'll need you to step in there." <i>There</i> is a room with a counter, a clock and three rows of seating. It looks like someone has tucked the world's smallest airport inside a real airport. The tool behind the counter asks me to have a seat and wait. We're alone. I sit and stare while he asserts dominance. He looks up with a litany of questions: when was I last here? when did I last fly? how much money do I make? how much room is on my credit cards? can he see my wallet? When his shadowy masters finish tallying the risks and rewards of letting me in, the news is good and he sends me on my way. As I turn to leave, I ask him when last he walked barefoot outside his own property. He smirks. "You're all set, sir, thank-you for your patience.<small>!</small>" There's no punctuation mark for the tone that ends his sentence: it's the sound of ordinary speech twisted into a command. "Move Your Car, Please.<small>!</small>"   "What time is it.<small>!</small>"   "I'll have the Happy Meal.<small>!</small>"   "That feels good now lick my balls.<small>!</small>" How does a man like that get dates? Maybe they're assigned by his supervisor. So that was the first hour. Since then, it's endless bunker-like offices; unironic tuning of public televisions to Fox News; miilitary-style, space-free license plates; gay sign in my hotel room, "if you smoke, a charge of $75 will be applied to your account." Passive voice, of course, like it's the charge's fault, like you'll smile ruefully and exclaim, "those darn Charges of $75! Up to no good <i>again</i>!" . After nearly a week here, I can understand the DC Sniper: this is occupied territory. He wasn't sniping, he was <i>resisting</i>. Virginia, that's the girl that pretends to like you so you'll join her prayer group. The one who tells her teachers, in passing, on everyone who's badmouthed them. Who smells like disinfectant and turns up her nose at your ratty Chuck Taylors and touts her virginity before going home to masturbate atop a Union-made appliance. They say Virginia is for Lovers, implying that even lovers should be Virginal. No, no, NO, Virginia, fuck <i>you</i>, lovers have no business in your pre-apocalyptic wastelands. Virginia is for <b>Fuckers</b>. I want to go home. Ray! [/quote]