Wednesday, October 1, 2008

The Freefall Solution and Why It Is Merciful

It started in the Summer. Gas prices, gas prices, gas prices: it's all I ever friggin' heard about from you people. "But we started a war with the Cloaked Jedi who have oil," you said, "so why isn't this exploitation working out in my favor? As a white American I am the center of the universe and demand everything be cheap for my frivolous needs." Well, wake up and smell the frankincense: you are behind this. You voted That Guy in, then you kept Him in, then you voted for Those Other Guys who kissed his ass, then they gave major corporations massive duffle bags of cash, and now you are the ones suffering. And while those duffle bags of cash were changing hands, you were busy staring at some YouTube video about a cat peeing in its own mouth to actually keep up with the news and find out what's really going on outside your house. "But the Lord wanted me to vote that way," you insist, "and so did those precious unborn fetuses! I voted to defend the fetuses of the whores!" Well now that your dollar is worth less than Brawny paper towels, liquefy it and shove it in your gas tank along with some kitchen grease. Let's see if that gets you to Wal-Mart for more Tupperware and socks.

Along with rising gas prices, this past Summer affected virtually everyone in another way: it magically - and I mean this in a Jungian sense - made everyone horrible drivers. Drivers so atrocious that Chinese women in Cadillacs suddenly seem like Junior Johnson. The speed limit became something to divide by three. If it reads forty, you now struggle to keep it under fifteen. Touching the gas pedal has become the equivalent of putting your boot on the throat of a crying newborn. Police officers are now given less work to do and more time to arrest minorities for playing music too loud. Even high school kids have gotten into the slow-motion game, emulating senior citizens in their parents' cars and slowly, slowly, slowly driving to that Saturday night party for a few cans of Natty Lite, some Guitar Hero and maybe a little fingering. In the Collective Dreams of the Masses, everyone got it into their thick, fat, profoundly ignorant and factually challenged animal brains that going a third of the speed limit will somehow help save hundreds if not thousands of dollars. The logic is that the more you coast, the less fuel you use up. This means that driving two miles to work now takes me approximately twenty minutes. Kids on bicycles whiz past, thinking the Creatine they stirred into their morning latte is making their legs stronger. No one realizes that it's basically a wash, as the slower you go, the more time you spend on the road. The problem with any form of Logic is that it isn't taught in the New Testament or Bible Camp so many people don't recognize its necessity.

But it gets better. As if the bulbous and moronic didn't know how to save and spend before, the banks made it easier for them to be frivolous with money. "You mean to tell me," John Q. Public mused, sometime ago, "that even though I have a part-time job at Fuddruckers and maxed out three credit cards and my wife is in jail for armed robbery I can get a loan for a mini-mansion for me and my four illegitimate kids, two dogs, a cat, a pot-bellied pig and four pick-up trucks? Hot diggity!" Predictably, this did not turn out well, and all those John Q. Publics did not get that long-deserved promotion they've been praying for (oooh, Assistant Manager!) and their classy counterparts, Jane Q. Publics, are still in the pen knitting quilts and hating men. Did I mention that John Q. Public's credit cards are still maxed out and now he can't afford the monthly payments for his Hemi-powered pickup trucks? And that John Q. Public is technically unemployable because he has a drinking problem? And that those banks that gave out the loans don't have their money and the credit card companies don't have their money and the auto dealerships don't have their money? At least Pete Coors has his money.

Now, how do we fix this? There are two schools of thought: some government people voted to "bail out" these criminals and make every single one of us citizens - just trying to get by, to watch some football, to go to the beach - pay for it. The other school of thought is what a teenager told me would totally fix "all this stupid shit": "They should just print more bills, son." Both suggestions are equally worthless, with the teenager being slightly more intelligent. And yet there is a third plan I came up with that I think should be given some consideration: The Freefall Solution.

The Freefall Solution is easy. Anyone that had anything to do with this must take the elevator to the top of the highest building in Manhattan and jump. That's about it. White collar guy who could care less about a hard working citizen's pension? Jump. Number cruncher crunching numbers for that half-a-mil beach house in the Maldives? Jump. Middle-aged mother of three who drives her burgundy mini-van like it's an M-1 Abrams tank? Eh, you jump too. Onto the street, the pavement, face first, doing a back flip, go for style points. If you complain about the gas all day and work for pennies and then vote against your own interests, the sky really is the limit my friends. It's the merciful thing to do, and maybe with all this jumping and not so much hot air oozing out of your gaping maws we can also get rid of global warming and Al Gore can finally stop sweating.

And don't worry about the corpse clean-up on the ground level: I've got plenty of Brawny.