Monday, December 01, 2008

Heartland, ho!


Goin’ up to the country, got to get away. Man, it’s time to get back to basics. Be one with the land. The real stuff, the right stuff, the good stuff, man. Mother Earth. Gaia. Honesty and purity are the virtues of this realm. The country. And I’m almost there! Just take this exit off the interstate and it’s official – I’m in the country proper now. And what’s that ahead? A dirt road? Perfect. I’ll just make a hard right and take the ol’ Volvo XC-90 for some off-road action. Heck, off-roading is what this SUV was intended for, I think.


Open up those windows and turn off the climate control. Breathe deep, man. This is country-fresh air. Cleansing. Good for mind and body. I can feel my sinuses opening up already.


Screw it, I’m pulling over to stretch my legs and really get a sense of where I am. The country! The freaking country! I. Am. Here.


That’s more like it. Blue skies and fields for miles around. Even some good ol’ moo-cows in the distance. Man, just strolling here, at one with nature, makes a person –– huh? What’s this? Did I…? Did I just step in some shit? FUCK! I did. And in my new Berluti’s! Why the hell did I wear these to the fucking country? As if any of the pig-fuckers out here would even know these from a pair of DKNY’s. Great. So here I am in the middle of boonieville with some shit on my brand new Italian shoes. And what kind of shit? From those cows? Doubt it. They’re fenced in, and this crap is too creamy for cows, I’m guessing. It’s probably dog shit. Fucking crackers. Who lets their dog run around, unsupervised? Or wait, don’t tell me some inbred type was walking his dog and he just let him shit by the side of the road. And why not? It’s not like rules of the city, of civilizaton, carry any weight out here, “’round these parts.” Serves me right, for thinking anything of value was to be found in a place where people think a Volvo is part of the female anatomy.


Man, this shit is really worked into the nooks and crannies of the soles. I finally find the Berluti Empreinte du Loup’s, the ones with the wolf-paw treads, and now they’re crammed with shit. Maybe this stick will get some of the shit out. OH GODDAMN IT ALL TO HELL!!! Now I’m standing in B.F.E. like a fool, wearing limited-edition, imported Italian shoes, that probably cost more than any of these corn-feds make in a month, and they’re caked in shit AND I’ve just scratched the upper with a shit-coated stick.


And now, here comes some inbred case, wearing overalls, no less, waving at me. How precious. Well fuck him and fuck his dog, if he has one, and if it’s the one that laid the turd I stepped in. I’m Audi.


I’ll have the dealership detail the floor mats on Monday.

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