PULL MY FINGER

The other day I was sitting around the kitchen table with Slick and GNJohn, divying up a bag of eye medicine, when I began to moan about a week long depression. "It's bad enough having my eyes slowly dim." I bitched. "But then to have to listen to nothing but bad news...." GNJohn nodded in sympathy and added "I know. Poor Britney." Now I was talking about genocide and a global food shortage, but GNJohn was right. It's the individuals of the world, the "poor Britneys" who are suffering. In an overwhelming climate of seemingly unmanageable issues like the melting of the polar ice cap and institutionalized rape in Darfur, maybe it is time to take a microcosmic look at how our neighbors are doing.
The poor Britneys in the former Miller's Settlement,(Glen Wild) are doing quite well, thank you. Even the trailer dwellers off on the extention roads drive shiny SUVs. The richest of the bunch, directly across the road, spends thousands on fireworks and turns the music up to 11. The sphincter loosening bass lines thump into the night as if to announce to the world- LIFE IS SO FUCKING GOOD....MUTHAFUCKER....DANCE, DANCE, DANCE....you poor fucks. Over on Paradise Pond all the PBs are drinking and eating steak and throwing knives 'til the wee hours. Me? I have money in the bank, gas in the car and venison in the freezer. BUT...and this is a big one- I can see the storm coming. I have no work, nor any expected soon. The art thing only drains my bank account and if things don't change I'll be dead broke again come first snow. Am I worried? Not really. Been there. Done that.
This past weekend, as Nidal beat Federer, my 8 year old fishing buddy Ace sat on my lap, sqirming and asking questions about firearms and playing his DS. He's the future. Decisions that are made today, in the world at large, will affect him. This is what worries me more than the fortunes of all the Poor Britneys in the world. When I'm 75 he'll be 28. What will his world be like? Then I felt a slight bit of air pressure on my leg, as he shifted his weight. "Did you fart?" I asked. I no sooner got the words out of my mouth, before he ripped one loose that shook the entire house. A pregnant pause followed......and then he and his father laughed so loud, and hard (at my expense) that I knew everything would be OK. Somewhere Poor Britney is passing gas. Now if we can just harness that energy.