They don't exist this year
A crooked smile. A wise crack aimed at your teacher. An errant nicety tossed towards your enemy. These are the ways that the world turns.
Benny Crackerweis knew the drill: get up at 6 am, wash your skin off good, eat a jelly croissant, and walk out to the fields. He crossed paths with nobody and therefore nobody got under his skin. His skin was thin, scaly, and sensitive and so it was good luck to him that his path was not crossed. He once stabbed a man over a game of Yahtzee!. This was carnage and chalked up at the time to adolescent ignorance. Benny, however, once had an older woman paying most of his way to live in exchange for poorly manufactured (at home) medicines and cheap whiskey. She later died of irresponsibly combining the two forces in the quiet of her home. Her dog, Sweater Caps, died simultaneously due to starvation. This type of social misfortune didn't break Benny they said, but it did contribute to his aversion to geriatrics. He doesn't regret anything, but still takes Mormonism for granted, for example. It may sound strange, but he actually pursues these feelings. Not of Mormonism but of resentment towards large generalized groups of people. He stays away from most of them and pursues nominally disgusting feelings in order to feel good.
Every morning, the field could be viewed, half mile away, immediately after Benny opened the door. Bright sun hit it in the summer, and darkness enclosed it in the winter months. He quickly changed tenses from past to the present upon exiting his cabana and began to plan his work. He worked stealthily and without hesitation even though hesitation was the only legitimate thing for Benny. But that would be no way to help his Vietnamese stepmother with the rent. That bitch would go crazy in two days without the economic insurance that Benny could provide. His dad had left her to Benny in his will. C'est la vie. He mailed the money each week in a bag of Reeses Pieces.
The field provided not only an economic means, but also a collected and organized means to manage life. Sometimes the mechanical function of the hands, viewed directly in real time by the eyes and working in conjunction with the mind (what great complexity!), can provide the supportive cure for any of life's complex mental ailments or disabilities. Everything about the manual labor is fresh, current, dynamic, and progressive, unlike many mental states. There is always an immediate end, if not soon, then by the end of the day's work. More work may exist for tomorrow, but progress, somehow, is always made. It never really mattered to Benny that he had tasked himself with sowing human flesh into the rotten soil, to grow the means of survival for the living by processing freshly chopped down immigrant laborers facing "deportation." No, he didn't concern himself with that at this time. The field bled a rust brown and scarlet through the sandy topsoil, cracking in the dry sun. Two large brick buildings, smokestacks billowing noxious human cargo in the near distance, loomed at all times, reminding Benny always of dangerous human initiative and what they called ingenuity. He thought of neither usually. The program did in fact limit world population, he learned, such that the growing field could stay sustainable in size and design. The depth and breadth of his knowledge thus stayed limited as well.
This was the best for him and a lesson he knew could be beneficial to anybody seeking automatic humanoid status in the "real" world. Simple. Effective. Tolerable. Life. Ironic: he never told a soul. Iron soil was the only messenger, but due to constraints already discussed, the informational language that it spoke was not able to be translated.
Benny Crackerweis knew the drill: get up at 6 am, wash your skin off good, eat a jelly croissant, and walk out to the fields. He crossed paths with nobody and therefore nobody got under his skin. His skin was thin, scaly, and sensitive and so it was good luck to him that his path was not crossed. He once stabbed a man over a game of Yahtzee!. This was carnage and chalked up at the time to adolescent ignorance. Benny, however, once had an older woman paying most of his way to live in exchange for poorly manufactured (at home) medicines and cheap whiskey. She later died of irresponsibly combining the two forces in the quiet of her home. Her dog, Sweater Caps, died simultaneously due to starvation. This type of social misfortune didn't break Benny they said, but it did contribute to his aversion to geriatrics. He doesn't regret anything, but still takes Mormonism for granted, for example. It may sound strange, but he actually pursues these feelings. Not of Mormonism but of resentment towards large generalized groups of people. He stays away from most of them and pursues nominally disgusting feelings in order to feel good.
Every morning, the field could be viewed, half mile away, immediately after Benny opened the door. Bright sun hit it in the summer, and darkness enclosed it in the winter months. He quickly changed tenses from past to the present upon exiting his cabana and began to plan his work. He worked stealthily and without hesitation even though hesitation was the only legitimate thing for Benny. But that would be no way to help his Vietnamese stepmother with the rent. That bitch would go crazy in two days without the economic insurance that Benny could provide. His dad had left her to Benny in his will. C'est la vie. He mailed the money each week in a bag of Reeses Pieces.
The field provided not only an economic means, but also a collected and organized means to manage life. Sometimes the mechanical function of the hands, viewed directly in real time by the eyes and working in conjunction with the mind (what great complexity!), can provide the supportive cure for any of life's complex mental ailments or disabilities. Everything about the manual labor is fresh, current, dynamic, and progressive, unlike many mental states. There is always an immediate end, if not soon, then by the end of the day's work. More work may exist for tomorrow, but progress, somehow, is always made. It never really mattered to Benny that he had tasked himself with sowing human flesh into the rotten soil, to grow the means of survival for the living by processing freshly chopped down immigrant laborers facing "deportation." No, he didn't concern himself with that at this time. The field bled a rust brown and scarlet through the sandy topsoil, cracking in the dry sun. Two large brick buildings, smokestacks billowing noxious human cargo in the near distance, loomed at all times, reminding Benny always of dangerous human initiative and what they called ingenuity. He thought of neither usually. The program did in fact limit world population, he learned, such that the growing field could stay sustainable in size and design. The depth and breadth of his knowledge thus stayed limited as well.
This was the best for him and a lesson he knew could be beneficial to anybody seeking automatic humanoid status in the "real" world. Simple. Effective. Tolerable. Life. Ironic: he never told a soul. Iron soil was the only messenger, but due to constraints already discussed, the informational language that it spoke was not able to be translated.
posted by fiestawizard at 8:58 PM
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