Life reduced to a french fry box with a bad case of brain droppings

I wanted to see what the end result would look like when I allowed my conscious thoughts to come spilling out onto the page.  The first thing I realized is that my sentences would quickly fall to a topic, and often times I found myself writing something I didn’t want to continue writing about.  However, doing a minor amount of revision work, I read some of this as terribly amusing.  So I wondered, would anyone else?

I figure it’s time to take things a little less seriously here and open the mind and see where it flows.  I’ve been struck with a serious dose of block, and this is an attempt to break on through, and find a little more art inside me.

Wayne

I see more women holding cell phones to their melons while driving than I do guys.  Go figure.

I learned how to perform a pit maneuver on last nights news.  Hope I don’t have to use it, but in case I ever have to, I can thank the news networks for making that all possible.

Ever wake up in the morning, stumble around for about an hour doing everything you do before shlepping out the door, only to realize your brains fell out of your ass over-night, and they’re still in bed.  Where it’s warm and toasty.  Snuggly and soft, oooooooo.

Cruises are the shiznit.  Lido deck!

Nah, you can’t just write anything.  It has to have meaning.  Substance.  Depth.  All things elusive.

Brain droppings are nothing more than the ether thoughts that come spilling out of your head, and right onto the page.  Much like the fuzzy tailed wombat carcas loving feasty nerfherder of a placebo takes me on another joy ride.  But not so horrible like that last sentence. That’s all this post is, hope you like it.

It’s a sad state of affairs when the pen doesn’t do the writing.

I imagine that being scatter-brained is much like a game of 52 pick-up, only mental. The Lakers suck.  I like pork.  Nice to meet you!

The carrot mocks me.  It’s constantly pointing at the screen as if to say “Damn it man, look at that!”.  And I say “No, I can’t”, and it says “Yes, you will”.  And I do, ultimately.  I sometimes tap that carrot with an inappropriate left index finger, though.  So we have a mutually agreeable relationship.

I once imagined life was like the side of a McDonald’s french fry container.

Seriously.

If you take the shape of the side of the big red fry containers you’ll have what looks like the mix or cross of an upside down letter V and U combined.  That backbone tip is the thread of life.  Your birth to death, top to bottom on the side of a fry pod.

Yup, sorry ’bout that.

As you stroll through life traversing the french fry container, the natural curves of the french fry container allow you to slide down one side or the other, or completely fall off.  However, falling off means you died prematurely, and the side you fell on determines the nature of your death.

Fall off the right side of the french fry container, and we’ll call that a naturally premature death.  “We’re” awesome like that.  Fall off the left side, and that’s an unnatural death.

Oh, and if you must know, the french fry container can care less, it is completely unaware and uninvolved, so don’t bother asking it for any help.  You’re on your own as you trample along the fry box of life.

Again, sorry you had to hear this from me.

To illustrate, if I were to go skydiving and my chute refused to open no matter how hard I might plea, I would plummet to my death, and that would be a fall off the left side of fry container. An unnatural death.

However, if I were to be swallowed up by a huge tsunami, or something natural like that, I would have fallen off the right side of the grand, but still just a…french fry container.

Unnatural and natural.  Self inflicted vs. WTF?!?!  Left side, right side.

So as we traverse the great french fry container, we may dip from side to side.  Many times we’ll slowly cruise along the backbone of a fry pod in an easy swaying style.  Other times we might sometimes come really, really close to falling off.

I skydived and my chute opened, crisis averted.  I’m back on the fry pod. Yippie!

So to summarize with some extraordinarily shitty thoughts, death is all around us as we traverse the fry pod of life.  Fall too far to one side and it’s off to heaven, hell, nowhere or right back where you started from, depending upon your thoughts on the matter.

I am in no way endorsing the worshiping of or the idolizing of a McDonald’s french fry container.  Do so at your own peril, again, depending upon your thoughts on the matter.  But if you happen to see Jesus or Mary in a french fry, take a picture of the image, and establish a tiny shrine for it at home.  You could begin inviting guests over to see the wondrous results of combining hot oil and potatoes. The result can be the image of your favorite deity, god or angel.  Pick one.  Pick them all, it doesn’t matter.  If you can convince people that there’s a Jesus in a french fry, you certainly aren’t reading my blog.

A fanciful tale perhaps?  Maybe a good analogy for the walk of life?  In any case, if you enjoy your sanity, be very careful to not let your mind stray so far during a solo lunch in a strange McDonalds.   I still can’t help but look at my fries without offering a questioning gaze.

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