|LIFE AS A LOSER #120: "WE ARE SEARCHING FOR BLISS."|
|By Will Leitch|
Give me some spirit. Give me some fire. Give me some soul, brother! Give me something that works me, that makes me want to jump around, live, breathe, laugh, dance, fuck, snort, inhale, walk around on my hands, upside-down jumping jacks, a-one-and-a-two, work it work it, make me feel it, make me want it, make it worth all the shit and piss and bile. I can spew alone no longer. Make it worth it. I donít want to fidget, sigh, fret, or sulk. I want to be! Can I be? Can somebody give me an amen?! AMEN!
I am waiting for something to inspire me. I want it to lurk behind the bushes and then leap out at me, injecting me with vigor and spice and mirth and fervor, jolt me out of my doldrums, hold me my by my feet and shake me, get that loose change out, strip away all the bullshit and make me go go go go GO! Is it out there? How about you? Can you provide it?
Iím tired of work. Iím tired of struggle. Iím tired of waiting around. Iím tired of cordial hellos and subway passes and long-term health benefits and proper business behavior and thatís-a-nice-haircut-whereíd-you-have-it-done and rising cigarette prices and matching outfits and two-car garages and rising interest rates and Anna Nicole Smith and quick download times and Halle Berryís abusive marriages and shoe polish and center parts and dead dotcoms and the West Nile virus and killer fish that walk on land and the controversial Ann Coulter. I want no part of debates on feminist theory, or pizza in 30 minutes or less, or taxicab confessions. I do not care about Diet Vanilla Coke; I donít care how I, too, could be a winner; I do not care if I can hear you now.
I want you to take all that shit and rip it out of me, stomp on it, dissolve it, let your saliva disintegrate it, like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly.
I want to run down the street naked covered in apple butter and chocolate sprinkles. I want to do a somersault into a newspaper stand. I want to stretch a Slip-N-Slide to Connecticut and douse it with Oil of Olay. I want to impersonate talcum powder. I want to play bikini checkers with these people. I want to irrigate my ears with iodine. I want to play in the WNBA. I want to surf cornfields. I want a tattoo of a butt on my butt.
I want to wrap my penis in pancake batter and have sex with Aunt Jemima. I want to make birds explode with Uncle Ben. I want to get Joey McIntyre, John Irving, Al Sharpton, and one of the Hilton sisters in a room and discuss intestinal gas. I want former Los Angeles Dodgers stars Orel Hershiser and Steve Sax to get married, so we can have Orel Sax-Hershiser. I want them to provide enemas at Starbucks.
I want to believe. I want to sit alone in my room and create something beautiful, something that makes your eyeballs roll back in your head, your testicles contract, your pubic hair fall out. I want you to renounce all your world possessions and follow me, in this new world, where plants grow goatees, where children are born with rainbow-colored nipples, where we boil soccer balls for Thanksgiving.
Letís burn the golf courses, and the all-night Kinkoís, and the cigar shops. Douse them with kerosene and light our own flatulence. Smoke the fuckers out of their caves, then gun Ďem down with slingshots discharging condoms filled with battery acid. If those goddamn Shriners with their miniature cars and tassled fez so much as make a peep, weíll do them too.
Letís go skeet shooting with protective cups. Play croquet wearing leather pants. Drill holes in our feet and smoke through them. Gargle with antifreeze. Tie cows to railroad tracks. Teach octopi to play the piano. Start a professional grocery cart-racing league. Fax sheets of acid to Conan OíBrien. Carbon freeze midgets and make them into bobblehead dolls. Make pudding from the ozone layer. Wrap up in bubble paper and mail ourselves to Mali. Start toenail-clipping collections. Win a million dollars and join 100 million record clubs for a penny. Make love to lifesize cutouts of Cody Gifford. Marry an albino black man. Make prank calls to the ghost of Secretariat. Dye our skin hot pink. Double down on 20. Splice our souls. Party softly. Slumber loudly. Molest penguins. Burn rubber. Peel out.
Do you get it? Do you?
Dammit, I just want to do something! Donít you? Before itís too late?