23 November 2008
09 November 2008
"Well, I Do Have that Hammer . . ."
Okay, so I have a problem. Yeah, you keep your smart mouth shut, Dear Reader, for I know you piped up with an Obviously or sarcasm-soaked Really?. Here I am pouring out my heart juice and being greeted with ill-timed cynicism. The problem, though, now that we have had our little grievance, is the stickiness of my brain. Think of the most asinine stories or ideas you have been subjected to and rest assured that they have entered my head, tried to pass on through as if it were a normal functioning mental zone, and been caught in my brain’s unrelenting tractor beam, which sucks up all things useless and dwells upon them like guys with mustaches study art at the Louvre or children’s soccer practices. These tidbits cannot be shaken and cause me to spend nights seizuring rather than sleeping in my bed. And true to form, the other night a friend of mine introduced a topic that is morbid, and if taken with the right grain of salt—a jagged one—darkly comical.
So apparently in a small Southeast Missouri town lived a man and his wife. I don’t know much about the couple, though a flock of theories have replaced sheep in my nightly practice. What is known for sure, however, is that this particular sir and madam were pretty hard up. Again, anything more than this must be conjectured upon. The situation had ditched bad in a dumpster and swapped it out for a solid dose of macabre. Life had smacked them around and they were looking to counter.
Well, what happened? What did they do? To answer your concerned plea I could tell how they got shift work, worked long hours as hard as they could, scraped and saved, and eventually turned their meager pay into golden investments and are now contently becoming overweight whilst counting their money and sipping Cristal in the Caymans. That would be nice and allow me a restful eve.
Or this story doesn’t have to follow a Dickensian plot line and instead take a beat from the hip hop world. Our desperate tandem felt caged by society’s bureaucratic boundaries and used their scant government assistance monies to front a fledgling drug running ring. They were being grinded down by the sandpaper world and only their elemental and animalistic selves were left; like empty eggshells with pockets full of cocaine and happy trigger fingers to boot. It would be sad as the pair is gunned down when encroaching Big Eddie’s turf with a watered down product and wire tap, but at least it would have all the merits of normalcy, albeit a somber medium, and would afford one the luxury of discarding it when met with the comfort of a tender pillow.
Hundreds of other possibilities have clambered about the well-trod paths of my mind and I’m sure more will follow; they have left me without choice . . . .
So without two dimes to rub together, our hero and heroine sit down at the ironing board, with which I am replacing the dinner table for dramatic effect, and I can only imagine they had quite a discourse. During the discussion, I’m sure a logical, insightful affair, an unhealthy portion of alcohol was consumed. They passed the iron (they sold their cups in a sidewalk sale—it was a sidewalk sale because they had rented out their lawn to dog trainers and had sold their garage in a previous garage sale . . . this is a speculative digression, however)—back and forth and swigged their formidable liquor through the little sprayer typically reserved for the most finicky of wrinkles, then refilled it and guzzled until Reason had had enough and silently doffed his cap and went on his way.
This is the point in the perplexing tale at which they came up with a plan. It was a simple scheme, and one that has unfortunately been plotted before, but hey, I suppose they figured they would get original when it came to detailing the endeavor. Basically, they decided Death was the best way to avenge a Life that had soured.
The tragedians were to kill themselves, but Romeo and Juliet had nothing on these lovebirds. No, they decided poison and a lurid embrace were clichéd and instead opted for the elegant and underrated use of a hammer. The woman volunteered first and enlisted her husband the task of hammering the life out of her with it. I do not know if he used the flat or spiky end, nor have I a clue if it was steel or rubber. All I know is that something fishy was going on because after trying to kill a woman who was volunteering and likely leaning into the blows with a rather solid construction tool, Prince Charming was unable put the nail in the coffin.
Matrimony had prepared the couple for this, though. They apparently realized—after who knows how many thuds—that things weren’t working and a change had to come. So they regrouped, filled the iron, and went back to the black drawing board. This suicide never looked so tremulous on Lifetime: Television for Women. But determination defeats failure and a hammered in head any night, so the couple decided on a new path: one which was driven on by their automobile and ended at a largish utility pole. My friend was retelling this epic from a newspaper article which didn’t recall how fast they were going at impact, where they ended up, if they had slipped up and buckled in, but it did give the good, or in this case heartrending results, that the only causality involved was the 1993 Ford.
Our merry tandem is now recovering in a local hospital. I’m not sure how their spirits are about the disappointing events and the failures of the big night. I want so badly to question them, though. I don’t know what I would ask first. Somewhere along the line I would definitely inquire why they didn’t rob a bank. Get caught and prison is free, get shot and YOU win, get away with it and the financial woes vanish faster than your will to live did. I would also ask if they had ever seen a bridge or train track or interstate. I would ask them what was next and if their will to live had been renewed. I would see if they needed a nurse and if they still loved each other. I would babble and babble and then when my questions began to slow or they grew tired, I would give them $10 for a new hammer with which to build a new, less calamitous life, leave the room, and go take a nap.
So apparently in a small Southeast Missouri town lived a man and his wife. I don’t know much about the couple, though a flock of theories have replaced sheep in my nightly practice. What is known for sure, however, is that this particular sir and madam were pretty hard up. Again, anything more than this must be conjectured upon. The situation had ditched bad in a dumpster and swapped it out for a solid dose of macabre. Life had smacked them around and they were looking to counter.
Well, what happened? What did they do? To answer your concerned plea I could tell how they got shift work, worked long hours as hard as they could, scraped and saved, and eventually turned their meager pay into golden investments and are now contently becoming overweight whilst counting their money and sipping Cristal in the Caymans. That would be nice and allow me a restful eve.
Or this story doesn’t have to follow a Dickensian plot line and instead take a beat from the hip hop world. Our desperate tandem felt caged by society’s bureaucratic boundaries and used their scant government assistance monies to front a fledgling drug running ring. They were being grinded down by the sandpaper world and only their elemental and animalistic selves were left; like empty eggshells with pockets full of cocaine and happy trigger fingers to boot. It would be sad as the pair is gunned down when encroaching Big Eddie’s turf with a watered down product and wire tap, but at least it would have all the merits of normalcy, albeit a somber medium, and would afford one the luxury of discarding it when met with the comfort of a tender pillow.
Hundreds of other possibilities have clambered about the well-trod paths of my mind and I’m sure more will follow; they have left me without choice . . . .
So without two dimes to rub together, our hero and heroine sit down at the ironing board, with which I am replacing the dinner table for dramatic effect, and I can only imagine they had quite a discourse. During the discussion, I’m sure a logical, insightful affair, an unhealthy portion of alcohol was consumed. They passed the iron (they sold their cups in a sidewalk sale—it was a sidewalk sale because they had rented out their lawn to dog trainers and had sold their garage in a previous garage sale . . . this is a speculative digression, however)—back and forth and swigged their formidable liquor through the little sprayer typically reserved for the most finicky of wrinkles, then refilled it and guzzled until Reason had had enough and silently doffed his cap and went on his way.
This is the point in the perplexing tale at which they came up with a plan. It was a simple scheme, and one that has unfortunately been plotted before, but hey, I suppose they figured they would get original when it came to detailing the endeavor. Basically, they decided Death was the best way to avenge a Life that had soured.
The tragedians were to kill themselves, but Romeo and Juliet had nothing on these lovebirds. No, they decided poison and a lurid embrace were clichéd and instead opted for the elegant and underrated use of a hammer. The woman volunteered first and enlisted her husband the task of hammering the life out of her with it. I do not know if he used the flat or spiky end, nor have I a clue if it was steel or rubber. All I know is that something fishy was going on because after trying to kill a woman who was volunteering and likely leaning into the blows with a rather solid construction tool, Prince Charming was unable put the nail in the coffin.
Matrimony had prepared the couple for this, though. They apparently realized—after who knows how many thuds—that things weren’t working and a change had to come. So they regrouped, filled the iron, and went back to the black drawing board. This suicide never looked so tremulous on Lifetime: Television for Women. But determination defeats failure and a hammered in head any night, so the couple decided on a new path: one which was driven on by their automobile and ended at a largish utility pole. My friend was retelling this epic from a newspaper article which didn’t recall how fast they were going at impact, where they ended up, if they had slipped up and buckled in, but it did give the good, or in this case heartrending results, that the only causality involved was the 1993 Ford.
Our merry tandem is now recovering in a local hospital. I’m not sure how their spirits are about the disappointing events and the failures of the big night. I want so badly to question them, though. I don’t know what I would ask first. Somewhere along the line I would definitely inquire why they didn’t rob a bank. Get caught and prison is free, get shot and YOU win, get away with it and the financial woes vanish faster than your will to live did. I would also ask if they had ever seen a bridge or train track or interstate. I would ask them what was next and if their will to live had been renewed. I would see if they needed a nurse and if they still loved each other. I would babble and babble and then when my questions began to slow or they grew tired, I would give them $10 for a new hammer with which to build a new, less calamitous life, leave the room, and go take a nap.
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