Truesdays: Ouroboros
*The views expressed in Truesday are those of the author and do not represent Austinist as a whole. Thank heavens.* -The Editors
There once was a man. A potentially great man. A man of such potential greatitude that anyone of even remotely Castro-esque proportion would bow to the very urinal he most recently pissed in. And this man, with his supreme impressivivitousness and overarching reach into those crushing, yearning hearts which break daily in the chests of every slaving human during every dismal day of ever-record-breaking bleakitude whilst they pray for a real hero (preferably with a badass haircut, cleft chin and white, straight teeth) to swoop in and save them from a continued existence of droningly fueling the grand self-pestilence machine, because he is expected to save them from…
But, then, well, the hero-deal is hard to, ah, well.
Difficult, see?
And the thing is, see, it’s compleximicated and shit. What with NO Gatorade on the planes anymore, but don’t cry because you’re now allowed to carry lipstick, so please let that make some sense when fighting off the vipers in coach, and whatnot. And, you have to understand how the real world works, like a, uh, like it’s a big ol’ cycle or whatever.
Like what Simba’s dad, Darth Vader blathered about in that cartoon movie about the importance of faith-based monarchies and shit.
So the hero, when he’s up there ready to lead the herd and do what’s right for his suffering, downtrodden fellow man… Well, he chooses to watch Sammy J slaughter snakes in orbit all day, and then save the future Cobra Commander instead.
Confusing as it may sound, THAT’S what’s happening. For serious.
And I have to ask myself: well what the fuck, man? Do the snakes REALLY need any help? Are any other equally creepy-yet-pretty-goddamn-lazy animals getting as good a fanning of their press fire right now as them? Turtles too nice to be famous, eh? What, just ‘cause Harry Potter can talk to the goddamn things doesn’t excuse their manipulative (yet clever!) behavior on page three of The Good Book.
As a quick side note: I figured god would hold a better fucking grudge than that, but I was wrong. Then again, I was wrong about the career of Mel Gibson too. I totally figured he’d have put out the obvious sequel, Back Up In That Ass: The Resurrection by now. But he got all Loki-ed up and went the drunken Hebrew-hater route instead. That’s an overplayed spiral into booze and pills right there. Trite and pedestrian. Now the Road Warrior’s got the proverbial Pig Killer label for the rest of his life.
But at least he didn’t fuck with the snakes.
And that’s nowhere close to the point I’m trying to make here, and that’s okay.
Point is, I shouldn’t be one to judge the individuals involved. I really shouldn’t. After all, regardless of my intent, I’m no Saint Patrick. I certainly don’t do a whole lot to save African babies or Arctic seals. I barely recycle. I’d probably eat a spotted owl with a spork if it were flash-baked and thoroughly marinated with the right lime-garlic-butter mixture. On my less impressive days, I can be caught slashing-and-burning my own front lawn, fueled by hundreds of gallons of high-octane gasoline and the collective, broken dreams of the entire third world. And I do it to get rid of that pesky top soil everyone keeps crying about.
In fact, I think it fair to say that I have very few truly socially redeemable qualities. Certainly few from which to sound off against others. Few to none. However, what I can claim to have is the ability to notice the difference between a real cause, and one that seriously needs some work.
1. Amnesty International? Overrated. No one is positively, actively supporting the application of intentional death in a general sense. Unless American voting or black-helicopter type, behind-super-secret-door agreements are involved. But no one outright and public with a bullhorn or anything. Except for Oscar The Grouch. But he was a dirty goddamn puppet. So those bored lawyers and C-List actors have no real enemy.
2. Unicef? Totally between gears on the upshift. Let’s face facts: The Children Are Alright, and there’s a shitload more on the way. Perhaps they should focus on some real solutions for the world’s physics-violating future finger-painters. Like, maybe look into the creation of more underground mining or loom-related operations. You know, “idle hands…” or whatever.
3. The Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Contest? Brilliant. Here’s a contest where the point is to show the world that not only can a single human eat and vomit a whole gallon of material within fifteen minutes, but that the “material” need not even be food, let alone nutritious. It helps the entire Sub-Saharan region to understand that what might currently be seen as inedible or even deadly to ingest, is actually perfectly fine to eat if done in a highly competitive format and dipped in a cup of tepid water first. Anything can be seen as food if you’d just stop nay-saying. Stuff like sand, your own hand, or an overwhelming sense of disappointment in your fellow man. Mmmmm, delicious too!
So I know the deal-e-o with contests and “purpose-driven” (or “themed” as I like to refer) causes. I see their reasoning, no matter how buried. And by the same token, I can sniff out the bullshit-themed causes too, even if their marketing slicks are far above par.
That’s how I can safely say that there is no better way to counteract what will obviously be a national (if not international) backlash against snakes (or any reptiles with small-ish or stubby legs/feet for that matter) once The Big Summer Blockbuster drags those serpents to the skies for some gruesome CGI murderin’ action. Fuckin’ badly shadowed snakes. Die motherfuckers! DIE!
See, I’m already overexcited just typing about it. I might need to burn my lawn later. To calm the nerves.
So the funds from the watch-a-thon will go directly to an organization which promotes the understanding of venomous creatures. That’s cool. You know, so we don't eliminate snakes from everywhere like we were planning.
Because if we all go out and follow our Hollywood-induced fear of snakes on planes by killing every slither-fanged creature out there, and this is what I believe our heroes are trying to help us understand here, then we will have nothing to carry on the plane with us. Because probability is high that everything else will be deemed illegal. Things like hair gel, your trusty flask of "patience", and your unpatriotic opinions will be confiscated and auctioned off on ebay. (Like you haven't already tried to sell that crap on ebay. Suckers!)
Seriously, I don’t know this Shannon McCormick dude or why he would intentionally involve himself in watching Snakes On A Plane for an entire day (that movie will UNDOUBTEDLY SUCK DONKEY DICKS AND YOU KNOW IT), but the guy has his heart in the right place. The heart of a hero. Our hero. These animals must be protected against the inevitable backlash. Education will be key to helping preserve their continued safety.
If for no other reason than the fact that in the very near future: everything but live, venomous snakes will have to be checked with the rest of your apparently-terrorist-friendly luggage. There will be nothing but motherfuckin’ Skymall and motherfuckin’ snakes allowed on motherfuckin’ planes.
And Skymall is only entertaining the first fifty times you thumb through it. Unlike poisonous snakes, which are entertaining forever. Just like motherfuckin’ acid rain on a motherfuckin’ cryin’ eyeball.
Sometimes I wonder whether the beginning of time really was the simultaneous end.
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