Toys & Games, Games & Toys

In the end you always think about the beginning. It’s funny how that works. You get all nostalgic and remember all the great times, how it used to be. You were so hopeful then. So inspired. So stupid. 

Had I known what would happen between then and now I’m not so sure I would’ve marched on with the same enthusiasm. Or maybe I would have. I just wouldn’t have been so ignorantly full of glee about my plate. Mash potatoes to the left. Sometimes we like to walk into the fire, hoping it’ll be different this time. 

But it never is.

And we always are.

With the gun in my hand and the moonlight serenading me like some italian guitarist in Venice, I didn’t know what to expect. And looking back on it now, nothing good ever comes with a gun in your hand. Ever. At least it’s not to your head. Maybe that would’ve been easier.

Easier than this.

Easier than holding that weighty .45 in your left hand, waiting to pull the trigger while blood races from your knees and you’re trying to keep your shit together. You’re armpits are sweaty. Like your crotch. That useless waste of a human muscle. Look where that got you.

Drunk in an alleyway behind The Rio on the other end of that gun. Karma. I can’t say that I was surprised. Shocked. Afraid. I knew what I was doing. Sort of. This all goes back to that Hope thing. Wishing for the best. That star you wished upon died a long time ago. Like your dreams. What a waste. Empty dreams like empty boxes. It all looks nice on the outside. But on the inside it’s all just hollow. Like my heart. In a world of paper bags and plastic smiles, how are you sure what’s real?

I want to say I care if he pulls the trigger. I want to say my funeral will be colorful with dozes of weeping friends in black. But that’s a lie. I don’t even think She will be there. So what’s the point?

Surely, someone, somewhere will say I made an “impact on this earth.” That’s a lie too. But they probably won’t mean that in a good way. It’s that sort of thing they’ll say to avoid the obvious.

But let’s be straight here. I’m no hater. I’ve always preferred to Love. But we live in a hateful world, and I just played the game as it was. I was just a little too good at it to stay around for long. That’s how it works. The better you are at the game, the shorter you play. Which brings us back to the gun pressing on my forehead in this dirty back alleyway. Funny how the wind changes direction that quickly.

One second the gun is in your hands, the next second it’s not.

Products

Carl died from a teenager sexting while driving. Carl was drunk on a bike.

Jerrod lost 200 pounds walking to Subway to eat. Jerrod lived behind a Subway parking lot.

That little kid in those McDonalds commercials is overjoyed with happiness over his Happy Meal. That little kid died of a clogged artery four years later. 

He was obese too.

We’re just products of our stories. Our good stories. The ones that make us feel hope. The ones that makes us feel fear. Whatever changes your mind. Or not. Whatever makes you feel warm and cozy. Or cold and lonely. Whatever makes you feel the need to purchase a gun and lock your doors. Start building the doomsday shelter beneath your backyard. The neighbors will understand. We’re just products. Like Abercrombie models or Winners of American Idol.

Besides the fact that I’ve never been robbed, maybe I should get that wallet with the chain attached to it, and lock it to my belt. Just in case. 

Besides the fact that I’ve never won the lottery, maybe I should scan through Sky Mall magazine on my next flight and plan what useless garden toys I should buy next. Perhaps the miniature stone Big Foot. Or the fake rock to hide my air conditioner. 

Or the Elder Wand. 

Besides the fact that I’ve never been in an accident that flung me through my front window, maybe I should wear my seat-belt. Maybe.

Or maybe I should try Not Giving A Fuck. I hear side effects include less stress, a more calm behavior, the ability to chill-ax, the ability to live a care-free life, and, less stress.

Ingredients include watching mind-numbing television shows for hours.‘Merica. Enjoying a nice warm beer while cars drive in circles for hours and hours in the heat of southern summer. ‘Merica. Spending the majority of your paycheck at GAP on cargo shorts or t-shirts that say “GAP” on them. ‘Merica. Getting lost in cheese dip with salsa dripping down your chin at a Sunday afternoon game of football. ‘Merica. Waking up Monday morning with a mind-splitting headache in a dry sweat on your bathroom floor from too many tequila shots after the win. ‘Merica.

You get the idea. 

We’re all just standing at the bottom of the stairs in the physical way. And where’s your mind gone?

Lost. Lost in the television. Lost around the race track, those colorful isles at GAP, the cheese dip and salsa. Lost down the porcelain whirlpool that goes, somewhere. 

We’re not just exporting jobs overseas anymore, we’re exporting our waste. Screws and bolts. Like an oiled machine.

Maybe we can export the Chicken Dance too.

Line dances, pump-up sneakers, and step aerobics. How about 1993? 

If there’s any point in all of this, it’s that maybe someone has to be the one to donate old, shit-stained whitie-tighties to Goodwill. And someone has to be the one to buy those very same old, shit stained whitie-tighties from Goodwill. We’re just passing products along like an assembly line of little children in some east-asian sweatshop factory. Was there ever any doubt?

Originality doesn’t exist anymore. We’re just copies of copies of copies. Shaped copies like Playdo or mash potatoes. Some are saltier than others, some are softer or stained more intensely. Racing Stripes are here forever. 

Racing Stripes are God’s birthmark on a pair of whitie tighties. 

Maybe you’ll be the next Alisha Keys, but then again, you’re the next Alisha Keys. Maybe you’re the next Jodie Foster, wait, nevermind, no one wants to be her...

We’re just adding parts to pre-made objects and saying, “It’s New!” Not that you really noticed. Despite the fact that it’s all been done before, we’ll just keep living like it hasn’t. And that this time, This Time, it’s real, it’s original, and it’s New. 

Whatever flips your turkey burger.

Or maybe, just maybe, we just like clinging to whatever story makes us feel better (or worse), warm (or cold), happy (or sad). Like tinkered products, made to serve a purpose.

What purpose?

Made to pass the old, shit stained whitie tighties along the assembly line. ‘Merica!

Chester Copperpot

This will probably be the best thing you’ll read today, maybe even the week. You’ll think back on this piece, and think of all the clever lines. The funny jokes. The things you wish you wrote yourself. You’ll quote them in your mind since you censor most of your great ideas and thoughts. Nobody really wants to offend anyone publicly, just privately. You like that last line too. You’re not quite sure why you liked it, but you just do. The same way you’re not sure why like sunny days or snowy days. You just do. 

But I know why you like it. It’s different. Different like hot sauce over extra mild. It’s just enough ting that it burns your mouth a little, but it’s bearable. It’s what Puerto Rico is to America. Not too far away to be entirely foreign, but far away. It’s different enough. There’s still some comfortable flavor in it to make you feel ok with the depth of this pool, but it’s not too deep, or too foreign a flavor. So you like it.

Now, the question remains, what the hell are we talking about? Or does it even matter? Probably not. Like with most of my posts, you’re probably wasting your time here with useful information that you can apply in your daily life. And yes, you read “useful” in that last line. It is useful. And you are wasting your time. Because you should be on your couch trying to Keep Up With the Kardashians or following Basketball Wives. You liked the last line. If you continue on here, you might learn something and those cobwebs in that brain of yours could start to melt away. So what was my point?

You’re liking this, so far. 

Sort of.

You’re liking this and you’re still reading because I’m telling you you’re liking this. Again, you’re not sure why you like it, but maybe if there’s something we can both agree on, it’s that you like being told what to do. Perhaps you’re a Whips and Chains sort of person in the bedroom. You like those shiny leather knee-high boots and the bass of the techno music when things are starting to get really hot and heavy.

The Safe Word is Chester Copperpot. 

So moving forward, if you come along a few lines that maybe you don’t like, or maybe like too intensely, use the Safe Word.

Now that we’ve come to the agreement that you’re just following these words like a lost puppy, searching for meaning or for more treats, we can finally move forward with today’s lesson. 

The Art of Selling Bullshit. 

Lesson #1: I’m #1. 

Lesson #2: You’re #2. 

You’re #2 because you’re a piece of Shit. Literally. That’s what a #2 is, correct? Here’s where things get graphic. Shit can be molded. It can be shaped and reshaped like Playdo. Like your mind to a Bullshit Seller. Sure, it’s not the best smelling substance, and that has everything to do with the fact that it can be molded. If you can be molded very easily, then you probably smell worse. Every little reshaping segment opens up those crevasses allowing the stench of moldable shit to crop-dust around your home. Don’t be a crop duster. Or, don’t be a piece of shit. But let’s face it, if you can be molded and shaped into whatever anyone wants you to be, you’re shit. Moldable Shit. So in order to sell Bullshit, don’t be a #2.

The Safe Word is Chester Copperpot.

The Bullshit seller has their feet on the ground. Whatever it is they believe, they believe in it fully, even if it’s their own bullshit. The good Sellers have their feet so far into the roots and their ass so deep they can convince you the sky isn’t blue, and that they’re the best at whatever it is they’re claiming to spend their days doing. Perhaps the Top Fry Maker at McDonalds could be considered the Manager of Fry Cooking. And perhaps it comes with a snazzy name card or a golden hat that signifies “Status”. Everyone loves imaginary titles.

And everybody loves glorifying the tiny little insignificant things they do. It’s what makes the toilet cleaner feel like they have a special place in this world. Without my skills, this toilet would be dirty. I’m the best dishwasher in my entire house. Fact. I could probably win some dishwashing contests. Make some big money on some small chore. (Delusion). Buy a big house and some spinners for my truck. (More Delusion). I could add it to my resume as a skill. Master of the Dishwashing Arts.

The Safe Word is Chester Copperpot.

You’re liking where I’m going with this. You’re liking how you can apply it to your daily life. Everybody knows a Manager of Fry Cooking. Everybody knows a Master of the Dishwashing Arts. Perhaps it’s you. Perhaps it’s not. But that’s not the point. The point is we’re not in McDonalds. I’m not cooking you fries, and I’m not washing your dishes. You’re still here, reading. Like a Champ. I would again go into “Why” you’re still here reading, but we already covered that. So let’s continue. 

The Key, is Delusion. The Key, is temporarily believing the bullshit you’re selling for whatever reason. The Dark Side Bullshit Sellers are selling for personal gain. Each sale adds an inch to the “areas” they’re lacking in life. I’ll leave that one to your imagination. People used to just buy guns or big loud trucks, now the Art of Bullshitting is the new challenge, the new territory to be claimed. Emotional Terrorism. The battle ensues. 

You like this.

The Key, is just verbally telling someone what they think, or what they should believe. 

You like this. 

And,

You feel good about reading this, it’s the best thing you’ve read today, and will read all week. 

Chester Copperpot.