I'll be an illegal alien before long...
In case there was any question as to what could possibly be so important
as to write about it at 3 o'clock in the morning, let's recap the keywords
from both subject headings. 1) "I would walk 500 miles": This just might
have something to do with the bubble-gum pop classic, straight out of the
all consuming black hole of good music known as the 80's. 2) "Illegal
Alien": If you were thinking Sting, you were thinking right.
(Police maybe? Let me go quickly browse my LPs, and I'll let you
all know for sure.)
So what, if anything, do these songs have in common? Well, the thing is,
they have both vibrated my shoebox of a room, therefore also my bed,
and more importantly, bowels, in the last ten minutes. How could this be?
Sounds like it's time for another lesson in the wonderful country in
which I am currently a resident.
Once upon a time, there was a land in which the people really liked to
drink beer. The real problem being, the people didn't like to have to go
anywhere to do this beer drinking. Furthermore, drinking and motion were
proven, beyond a shadow of a doubt, dangerous. Then, along came one of
the most brilliant men to ever live. (For lack of a desire to do any
research, I'll call him Smitty.) Smitty had the great idea of turning
university dormitory basements into full scale drinking establishments.
I'm talking music, taps, bottles, darts, the works. With this idea, a man
no longer had to walk farther than the distance to his own staircase to
find the joys of kinship, laughing, and the heartwarming aroma of hops at
sundown. With all of this in mind, Smitty is certainly not my
problem.
My problem happened in more recent times. With the advent of the
Digital to Analogue converter, people completely lacking in musical
tastes were mistakenly put into positions of great power behind arrays of
complicated switches and dials. Those people, also consequently having no
concept of the fact that people are sleeping one friggin floor above
them, deserve to be beaten within 2.54 centimeters of their lives,
before being pushed through a slightly rusted, unsharpened meat grinder.
Sorry, that was a tangent, but while I'm here, I'll just go with it.
I mean, seriously... Is it so hard to believe that people might be trying
to sleep, or at least CONCENTRATE in a place that is primarily designed
for HOUSING at 3:30 (now) in the morning? I'm more than just
steaming here. I'm seriously nearing the point of being willing to chop
off my left arm, just to have the satisfaction of watching the jackass DJ
downstairs scream in agony as I beat him with the severed limb while
spraying him in the face with my boiling, battery acid like blood. Ok,
maybe a little graphic, but I think my point has been made.
Note: I've been told that this sounded a little contrived, and in
retrospect, that's probably true. But you try doing better under the
circumstances! :]
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