State of the Union

While I have become a Colorado boy at heart, there are still aspects of my Missouri upbringing that are impossible for me to overcome. One of these is after our state motto: The Show Me State. As a kid, I did not understand what this meant, and even when people tried to explain it, I couldn’t grasp the concept. It has only been in the past few years that I have begun to comprehend, once I started to see it within myself. Basically, for me to believe something I need to see it. From what I understand, this was almost used as an insult to Missourians, historically. For instance back in the days of whenever whoever it was discovered gravity, some newly informed scholar from a more high profile location, say Nebraska, came sauntering over to Missouri and told some old man about the new theory of gravity. No matter how many times the Nebraskan got an apple to conk the old Missourian on the head, he still would say, “No, I don’t see nothin’ that looks like gravity to me. What else you got…” Well, I am that man. I’ll blame it on my Missoura roots, when really it is due to me being a bitter, cynical old man myself.
We live in a culture based on drama, crisis, and angst. (And here you though gays had the monopoly on that.) There is always a new danger to be on the look out for. Last year it was sick chickens that were going to swarm over and kill us all by molesting us until we caught flu. Last fall it was Spinach danger. This year is dog food and I just heard a report about a killer Squirrel disease that is sweeping through Denver (not kidding). When I was a kid I was terrified of the Killer Bees that were swarming up from South America. They would track there progress on the news, much like the weather. They predicted the killer bees would reach Middle America by the time I was finished with Jr. High. The Russians were also a great concern, as well as the Atomic (or nuclear, don't remember) Bomb. I was constantly waiting for a sweeping flash that would cause my skin to melt before my eyes, quickly followed by the melting of my eyes, of course. Oh, and of course, the quintessential: God is coming back any day. There was not a day that went by that the news didn’t proclaimed to my parents and the surrounding community that Jesus was on His way back promptly. Even today, it is comment that I frequently hear from my father, as the state of the world worsens everyday. (Endearing, really.) There were multiple times that I tore through the house and the yard screaming and crying because I couldn’t find mom, certain that Jesus had come and left his sinning, masturbating, gay eight year old behind. There have been few moments of relief that rival that of your mother coming around the corner and sweeping you in her arms assuring that Jesus hasn’t left you anywhere. I am sure He is still coming back, but really, can we hold the party till he does? The cake is stale from waiting so long. I’ll make a new one when He shows up. Trust me, I’m gay, I can do fabulous icing roses!
We have enough to worry about without trying to decide if butter or margarine is better for us. Every five years there is a new report negating what they said in the last one. And do we really think no one had ever died from infested spinach before? We must make everything the biggest calamity in the world and blow it up to impending apocalypse in order to take any pleasure in life, so it seems. Well, there is reason to fear and the apocalypse is near. However, it cometh not in the form of bees, spinach, melting Ice Caps (Ice melts people!), or the rapidly depleting Ozone layer (God is just rolling back his sun roof, He’s coming back in about three seconds anyway, chill out). The end is coming in the form of stupidity. People are such a beautiful creation, are they not? I had to go down to the Social Security Office today to apply for a replacement Social Security card so that I can sign papers on my new job offer. I was there for over an hour. I began to understand the appeal of ‘taking everyone out with you’ (this is said in jest for all you fuckers looking for a reason to start a witch hunt). It was very clearly posted that each person had to have some form of official picture ID to receive a card. Makes sense, as they’re not lotto tickets. I had my passport and driver’s license. There were about ten people in front of me. It took me less than two minutes for the lady to approve my paper work, since I had all the forms it stated we needed—this tells you how long each of the others took. Over seventy five percent of the people in there were yelling (literally) at the ladies behind the desk because they ‘forgot’ their ID’s at home—but they had brought a piece of mail or a doctor’s signature to prove who they were. They could not comprehend why these were not sufficient. Hold on, let me scribble down that my doctor says that I am Ricky Martin. Damn, that worked, I look good. One man was escorted out screaming how he will bring in a judge to verify who he was. Then it went to the police, and ended with the National Guard. Yeah, you can’t find your ID, but you have the National Guard on speed dial. He wasn’t even drunk. One lady brought in her son’s ID to get him a card. He wasn’t there and she had forgotten her own ID. This was, obviously, due to some intentionally racist decision of the lady behind the desk, of course. My favorite, however, was this fat woman in sweats (which may or may not have had poop stains on them). She leaned against the wall, incessantly scratching her crotch. She simply watched and occasionally yelled, without moving, at her four filthy children as they fought, pushed chairs around the room, harassed other people waiting, and tossed the two month old youngest around with the care offered to bags of potatoes (don’t twice baked potatoes sound glorious right now, btw?). Later, when questioned around some discrepancies in her paper work, she tried to clarify the situation by explaining that the children had different fathers. Well, duh. That is definitely not a place a man goes for second helpings.
Not to be outdone, shortly after, I was having lunch with my boyfriend at Chili’s during his noon break; I relayed my frustrations of society with him. I had a salad (it came with a quesadilla cut up in it, yum). As I was talking to him, I absent mindedly wiped my fingers on my napkin. I looked down and I was not wiping them on my napkin. I was wiping them on a piece of my lettuce! Proving that I have an amazing boyfriend, he simply smiled at me. Comeuppance, anyone?
Sorry, time to go. I think I hear killer bees knocking on my front door. I should get that. They are only seventeen years late.