Everyone's a Freak

And now for something different. Every once in a while I like to write fiction. Sometimes I mix fiction with exaggerated truths - or lies. It depends on your relativist position. Anyhow, when I first started this, this thing, I used to write a lot more fiction (mediocre or not). I have slowed that down and funneled and channeled all that to either my Kooky archives on this blog or The Warehouse. Not today.

Freakin’ freaks. Can’t we just bury them into the ground or send them off to an unforgiving island? Banish, excommunicate - anything. Now of course, there is a practical problem preventing one from converting this wish into a reality. Who gets to determine which people are freaks?

According to my wife, if I were doing the selection, it would be just about anyone within a two-meter distance from me. A more balanced and objective person may be suggested.

Then there’s the issue of the revenge factor. Think about it. What if we do manage to send freaks abroad to start a new life? The realpolitik in me suggests that they would automatically become potential competitors. What if they build a military and one day decide to attack? What if they are sitting on a bed of minerals and resources I need? What if they eschew secularism and ally themselves with Al-Queda? Oh the humanity!

So I’ll have to grudgingly settle and grapple with the fact that they are entitled to live with us graciously. Ah, but one day…

A freak’s simpleton brain comes in all sorts of different skull shapes, sizes and colours. But I am not concerned with this race and its traits, origin and plight. They are of little concern to me.

Although, one has to wonder if a freak would come in handy when you want to entertain guests or impress your friends. I don’t know about you but after a scrumptious Schezwan meal I like to kick back with a glass of Porto and be entertained by dancing monkeys in diapers and frolicking freaks feeding me cumquats.

I digress.

I picked up the paper today and headed straight for the sports pages as I have always meticulously done in my mediocre and middling life. Lately, I no longer read the tired and lame pieces. There is so much “Hockey is our game” navel-gazing tripe one can take. The box scores and standings are sufficient in this light. Free of senseless words. Meaningless numbers bother me less.

Like I said, freaks meet me in the morning in print.

My wife, thankfully, broke the silence at the table. “Can you head to the grocery store, honey, and pick up some provisions?” Yes, we use the word provisions in my house. It gives a sense of being suburban roughnecks. I put away the razors used for, um, shaving and reply, “Sure thing, baby, I’m on it. Get me my suspenders.”

My local grocery store was recently bought out. This new, bigger and better grocery store has the same amount of shelf space but with far more Italian and ethnic foods. This is a good thing, right? Riiight.

Not for everyone. “Maudits ethniques!” as one person put it in the cereal aisle. I looked around to see what product could possibly offend a local so. Nothing. Wait. I saw it. There it was - Italian cereal daring to sit next to the Strawberry Mini-Wheats.

The couple that was appalled by the glory of Italian food invading their lives called over one of the stock boys. He was obviously of Italian extract - I smelled the basil and garlic cologne. They asked him, in French - and with a straight face - if the new administration would be taking away the marshmallows.

Round these folks up….

Hop into the car and drive as far away as you can from this people. Unfortunately, my house is only 1.3 kilometres away. Then again, with the wireless revolution in full gear the evil insurance companies already know this. Bastards.

Proximity notwithstanding, the needle on my dashboard is telling me, in a very thick German accent – sometimes it’s also Italian or British - that I am in dire need of some petrol and oil.

Economics is one of those disciplines that is more philosophy than science; more artistic and abstract than concrete. Now, I’m no math genius but I do comprehend basic economics. Stuff like the law of supply and demand, the non-accelerating inflation rate of unemployment, predatory pricing and tax avoidance are pretty easy to grasp. The jury will disregard the last two. One thing I have learned is that politics and economics during a political debate are about as healthy as drinking water from a swamp.

“Pleins ordinaire,” I told the freak. He also checked my oil. I got out of my car. It was a glorious day outside. Perfect to overhear drivel compliments of the citizenry. “Bloody Americans. They deserve another 9/11 for driving the price of oil up.”

I looked over my shoulder, I should have known. A freak stood next to an angry gnome. They went on and on. I paid the attendant and managed to catch this final gem, “So, are we heading to Vermont this week-end?”

And so my cumbersome day progresses. Loud mouth activists blocking my street, wise-cracking pundits telling me what to think and beware of, people passing me on the right and slowing down on the passing lane, old ladies searching for the exact change at the local convenient store holding back the line and modern alchemists telling me that they know the secret to life.

Freaks. All of them. I pass by a travel agency. Maybe it’s time to treat my wife and myself to a self-imposed banishment.