Friday, November 09, 2007

Cast Among the Idiots

First Let Us Try and Feed You Some "Farmyard Slurrey"
(from The Uncyclopedia of Idiots)

Idiots As A Food Source

An idiot does not have the right to vote Economists and nutritionists have long espoused the theory that Idiots could be farmed as a much-needed source of food. Let us first consider the benefits of a diet rich in Idiot flesh:

  • Idiots are rich in fat. OK, it's probably the bad sort of fat rather than the sort you get in fish and stuff, but 75% of the world's population are so hungry they don't care, they'll eat Idiot meat anyway. After all, there's a lot of people out there who are so hungry they'll eat Big Macs.
  • Idiots can be bred to be high in protein. Although most Idiots are overweight, it is easy to set them to manual tasks such as lifting heavy stuff all day - indeed, they will actually pay you for the pleasure of carrying out this kind of activity, as can be seen if you watch the meatheads pumping iron in your local gym.

There are also several economic benefits to farming Idiots over some higher forms of life, for example sheep:

  • Idiots can be fed just about anything and will thrive on it. Farmers thought this also applied to animals such as cows, and fed their cattle on farmyard slurrey. However, the cows developed the physical brain disease BSE (mad cow disease), a condition which causes crystalline structures known as prions to form within the brain tissue. This cannot happen in Idiots, who have such rudimentary brains that the formation of prions will have no noticeable effect. Idiots thrive on foodstuffs such as fried potatoes, Twinky Rolls and even instant noodles.
  • Idiots require virtually nothing other than food to survive. Most farm animals require woodshavings or straw to keep them warm at night and during winter, or they die. These materials are not reusable, since the animal will contaminate them with faeces. However, in place of straw, Idiots can be kept warm with clothing such as puffa jackets. These are available for just a few pounds each, and should the Idiot defaecate into them (as they will), they can be simply removed from the beasts, washed and reused. Otherwise, they need little more than 20-22 hours per day of cable television.
  • Idiots can be kept in battery conditions, a method of farming in which the maximum number of animals are packed into the smallest possible space. Most creatures, if raised in such a way, will become highly susceptible to disease and suffer higher mortality rates; hence the method is used only with the least-valuable farm animals such as chickens. However, Idiots can be kept in such a way with almost no ill-effect - proof of this can be found at soccer matches, where several thousand Idiots are packed into tiny wire enclosures and suffer no more disease than free-range idiots.
  • Battery farming of Idiots will not attract the attentions of animal rights activists. Some people, such as hippies and vegans, claim it is ethically wrong to farm animals using battery methods, and may organise protests or even employ direct action methods to free them. This is economically bad for the battery farmer who must install expensive security methods. However, nobody would protest about Idiots being kept under even the most inhumane conditions. In fact, any farmer found to be keeping Idiots in conditions that would be considered cruel were they applied to any other species can expect to enjoy the support of the 2% of the general population who are not Idiots.
  • Idiots breed quickly. In fact, with the exception of only a few types of bacteria and grues, Idiots are the fastest-reproducing form of life on the planet. Take a mating pair of Idiots (basically, any pair left alone for a few hours will mate) and let 'em get it on. Within a very short while, they will have produced a litter of between 12 and 18 Idiot cubs. Allow these to reach sexual maturity and continue the process - just one year down the road and you could have as many as 20,000 Idiots.

It can clearly be seen from the above facts that Idiots are suitable for farming. In addition to forming a very attractive option for any Western farmer looking to branch out from the traditional meats into the production of more unusual products for the luxury and delicatessen market (this would be premium idiot meat, ie; the high-protein strain), Idiots also offer a very viable solution to the problems of starvation in poorer areas.

There's more idiotic thought here:

Blooming Idiots
One of my brother's kids was born being choked to death by his mother's umbilical cord that had somehow got wrapped around his neck. By the time he was delivered, the blood had been shut off from his brain sufficiently long enough to cause him to be labelled as "brain impaired." Evidence of my nephew's brain impairment wasn't right-off-the-bat evident. He was a jolly and rather bright-looking baby and then infant. It wasn't until he was going on 2 that my brother and his wife got to noticing odd things like he was clumsy, unable to grasp meanings when talked to, got a confused look on his face when confronted with a puzzle, like how to stand up without falling down, or keeping crawling as a way of transportation a little longer than normal--those sorts of unravelings alarmed them--it was then they realized his brain truly had been impaired at birth; yes, that umbilical cord wrapped around his neck had been the culprit, and no, it hadn't choked the lad only a few seconds but more like minutes--and it only takes 3 or 4 minutes of cutting off the blood to the brain to render it impaired.

The normally used word for my nephew in those early years of his life was "retard." Other kids would see my nephew as, "Hey, dude, what are you, a RETARD? Do you catch the little short schoolbus every morning? Do you know when morning is?" And, yes, retards to these folks were the same as idiots, guar-ron-teed--and before the word "retard" became the denigrating word as we know it today it was the politically correct replacement for "idiot" or "moron." "Why'd the little moron fail at his job at the pharmacy?" "Why?" "Because he could never figure out how to get those little plastic pill containers into the typewriter to type the presecription info on them." "That's dumber than 'Why'd the little moron eat farmyard slurrey?'" "Why?" "Because it was against his religion to eat Idiot meat."

My brain-impaired nephew as he advanced in age began to live in his own imaginative world, a world in which was his interpretation of his reality, and it was an interpretation of reality full of terror--authentic terror, too, when you think about how subject to being frightened out of his gourd he got say when he was dreaming or say when he was awakened from an "idiot" nightmare he saw huge black shadows on his bedroom walls--"ARGGGGG!" he'd start bellowing in his high-pitched voice, "It's the zombies! Everybody, call the cops, it's the zombies! They're coming for us all." "Where's his Prozac?" his caretaker calls out--and yes my nephew had to live in an assisted living situation with others of his class and ilk, a service provided by the states that keeps brain-impaired kids (or adults--when was he an adult, when he was 50?) in villages--he grew up in the Texas system then later was transferred to the California system where he had a great place to live up near Pasadena and was living like an art-world keiko-muckity-muck until one morning he awoke from a brain-impaired wild-night schizo-dream-world and had troubled breathing and swallowing. They took him to an L.A. hospital for a simple opertion to remove a nodule from his throat and he ended up in a coma after the surgery and he never came out of this one; this time the blood was cut off to this poor lost soul's brain again, except this time the cut off was over 6 minutes--"Oops!" said his doctor and "Opps!" led to him drifting off into what could have been an imaginary coma--who knows how it went down inside his choked-off brain--the imagery!

Though a "retard" in life--his parents were told he'd never amount to much more than a vegetable; yet, this brave-new-world nephew of mine picked his way through his tortured brain-stinging to evolve into an ardent reader--I don't know really if he knew what he was reading though he talked a good game, able to repeat whole passages of a book he was reading to you, almost word-for-word. Then one day, my brain-impaired nephew's artist brother gave him a huge sketch pad and a box of about 40 different-colored Magic Markers, more curious about his reaction to them rather than having any hope anything would develop from his having this material and knowing what to do with it. But talk about Jung and archetypes and how instincts are our legends and how they control us and this kid's instinct popped out onto the first sheet of paper in the sketch pad, a wicked rendition of a troop of strange parachuting monkey-tiger-hybrids, hundreds of them raining from out of the on-high, raining down on a deserted circus area with 3 empty rings and animals like elephants and camels and leopards, but stuff animals, not live animals, even a circus bandstand with only the instruments lying around but no humans or animals to play them.

Soon, my artist nephew said his brain-impaired brother had finished 40 such sheets of art from that old sketch pad.

And this nephew before he died in that California hospital two years ago at this time of year--in his 49th year--just short of his fiftieth birthday on Xmas eve--over a period of 20 years turned out 100s of drawings and then advanced on to produce several dozen oil paintings near the end of his life. His first art show happened while he was still under Texas laws--his first show saw him sell 4 of his paintings--he received 1600 bucks for the 4 but he couldn't keep the money because under Texas state "mentally-impaired" care rules if these kids make too much money, they kick 'em out of the program. Soon my nephew became semi-USA renowned. He was the bright star among the up and coming outsider artists of his generation and he counted among his friends several of the most famous Texas outsider artists ever. Then after he moved to Los Angeles and was placed in the California state program, he was given a great place to live in Woodland Hills up high overlooking the Pasadena Mountains and they gave him studio space in a neighborhood art gallery where he would sit all day making his drawings and paintings. His first Los Angeles show was a big success and his star was rising higher and higher everyday until that day he woke up and had trouble swallowing--hawking like a madman trying to raise up the oversized loogie seemingly stuck in his esophagus and expectorate it out--but he couldn't; he hawked away until he was dizzy and finally his brother took him to the hospital. One week later he lay in a coma. After that one week, his brother and sister pulled the plug on him and off he went to some imaginary unknown he'd imprinted on his brain as an afterlife.

When this nephew was a teenager he fell in love with a spaz girl who was so brittle she was confined to a wheelchair. Everyday faithfully he went to her home in a fine area of Dallas and sat with her and put up with her whining and bitching and moaning, acting more like her psychotherapist than her lover. One afternoon my nephew and this girl were sitting together and babbling merrily away in their other-world language when they heard the true love's father come home and he was vocally very pissed, cursing a blue streak, yowling like a madman, threatening, meanly threatening--and then there was a lull in the yowling--and the wife-mother stopped screeching in the next bedroom--and then it was too still--and then these lost-in-their-own-whacking-imaginations kids heard the silence blown apart by two huge explosions--it was the sound of the mad father emptying a double-barrel shotgun's double loads into the mother's head, blowing it neatly off and spinning it bloodily over into a corner, it cocked up with its tongue lolling out and its eyes blow wide-open and almost hanging out of their sockets. Then the father, reloading the shotgun, appeared in the daughter's bedroom doorway--and after he'd inserted the two new rounds in the shotgun and snapped the barrels up and then locked the barrels into firing position, he aimed the shotgun at his daughter. My nephew watched frozen-stunned as his girlfriend's face was blown away, erased from her head, and he then watched as the rest of her skull shattered into a thousand pieces, several pieces splattering all over my nephew's teeshirt and jeans. As the father was reloading, my nephew suddenly realized somehow that the father was reloading with the intention of making him the next victim of this mad father's insane rage--he knew from instincts that it was essential he bust a move and exit the premises. My nephew quickly hurled himself through a glass paneled doorway, shattering the glass and his left shoulder as the glass gave way and he tumbled out into the house's patio area, which he hit on his feet and running. He arrived home covered from head to toe with blood and bone fragments and slimy pieces of flesh.

It was later learned the father had turned the shotgun on himself after my nephew escaped and they found the father with his head blown to bits and his body then having fallen over to nestle bloodily in his daughter's lap.

I once literarily (like a crafty Paris Review interviewer) tried to get him to give me a narration of what he thought happened that day but he wouldn't talk about it. He looked seriously at me and said nothing. I got the message.

My nephew got to live as a child of 7 or 8 all of his long life--50 years--though at fifty years of age, he had gotten very serious and furrowed brow like and his art had started taking on mossy and Dali-like-melting-clock-type abstractions; he was a modern-Cubist-like-allegorist at the time of his untimely death.

C'est la vie, my bold and brave family member--and that's how I remember him, as a part of me, as a part of my bloodline, or is that a matter of horse breeding these days and not humanly linked anymore?

One year, ironically, this nephew earned more money from his art than his famous-author father and his artist brother and his teevee-mama sister (she was a television producer in NYC) and his worthless wolfish uncle earned from their talents.

for The Daily Growler

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