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The Onion's Defense Mechanism
Not continued from last week at all. Sorry.
Look.
Like, all I'm saying is that I don't want you judging me, with your... you know, your beady eyes that sort of just judge, you know.
Or maybe you don't. Anyway, knock it off.
I know, I know, okay, it's some sort of cliché, isn't it? You know, the whole, it was a tough life. A dog eat dog world.
Personally, I never saw any dogs eating each other. That would have been pretty harsh, man. But I once saw a seagull smash a mussel off some rocks. And I might have been walking a dog.
And it was hot. So hot your eyes felt like they were melting into the rest of your body as the sweat rolled down off your brow, down your eyes, and then down the rest of your face.
So I'll start off by saying it was tough, but with a caveat: it wasn't so tough.
It's always difficult to follow that sort of statement up, I find.
Okay, how about this: you know how some kids like chocolate ice cream? Wait, nevermind the kids. I mean, like if you get a group of people, put them in front of a tub of Neapolitan ice cream, some of them will choose chocolate, some will choose vanilla, and some will choose strawberry?
I'm one of those people that'll choose chocolate, but when the person whose tub it is isn't looking I'll try sneaking just a little bit of strawberry. Which is hard, because usually the strawberry and chocolate are separated by this great gulf of vanilla. So to sneak a bit of either, when choosing your portion, is no easy task.
Some guys specialised in just that, claimed they had cure-alls for the very occasion. They could guarantee you a bit of any flavour you liked; chocolate and vanilla, strawberry and vanilla, and even the deadly gutter split we're talking about. I didn't believe that, there was only one guy I knew that could pull it off, and he was three feet under, doing some time as a deep sea diver, but hampered due to his lack of fitness. He was stuck in a bubble out in the middle of the Atlantic, just over that big rift in the middle, I forget what it's called. And there was no way he was gettin' ice cream of any flavour out where he was.
It was approaching that stage where my eyes were bugging out slightly, with anticipation of getting my metaphorical cake and eating it, too. I felt weird. So weird I was using food metaphors to describe how I felt about food.
And I wasn't even really about to get some ice cream (of any flavour), I just remembered I'd only used that to illustrate a point. The point of relative toughness. Which made me sad. You know how it is when you start thinking about something and then you go and get a massive craving for it. Well, there was me.
Standing there, down by the docks, which were dirty, but just because a flock of seagulls had just been perched nearby, and not because of any degree of laziness on the part of the dock cleaning staff. They were pretty good, I found, most of the time. They rarely left spare fish guts around on the docks, and I only once found leftover clam or crab shells underfoot. Sure, I happened to be barefoot at the time, because I'd never previously seen shell bits around before, but hey, live and learn, right? These things happen for a reason. Or they happen because shoe marketing people scattered shells out after the dock guys had finished cleaning up in the hopes that it might stir sales of shoes amongst non-shoe-wearing people who visit the docks. One way or another they happen, though, and we're left to bear the consequences.
I liked that: consquences and actions. And ice cream. All of those I liked, a lot.
Man. Maybe I needed to get out and get some air.
At least I could. And I, ehm, was. At the docks.
And who was I? Who was me? (Damn that grammar! Am I an object or a subject for crying out loud?)
Me, well, man, call me Ishmael.
To be continued...
disclaimer:
So this was it, something else. How 'bout that?
If you enjoyed the series (which was concluded last week), please feel free to email likedTheRasselasSeries@sanemagazine.com with your comments.
If, it turns out, for some reason, you like this sort of thing, we might even look into doing similar things in the future.
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Hell, look at what happened with the stupid horoscopes. Toss a few horoscopes downa a few weeks in a row and then look what happens, three hundred and two episodes later, and the damn things have stuck, like some sort of rash or mould or something.
Listen, here's the deal. Even if you hated the series that just ended last week, mail likedTheRasselasSeries@sanemagazine.com and tell us. We're perfectly willing and able to ignore anything too hurtful, and more than happy to pretend we don't understand any other criticisms you may throw our way. It's just another chance for us to test out our junk mail filters and stuff.
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For those of you that are incredibly concerned for our welfare, we're planning on doing the upgrade sometime Wednesday evening, PST. So, you know, watch your toes.
Thank you, and good night.
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