I have been beaten down with bureaucracy and I have barely begun the struggle. There is much paperwork to fill out for every single thing, much of it only a ruse to defeat me, to defeat us all. We know this, but we do it anyway... we are but living papier-machines, lost on the seas of procedure.
But, where would we be without paperwork? Right?
So, out of boredom and a dull desire to also get through some of this drudgery I decided to go buy a ream of paper, and a cold beer. The paper to print upon, the beer to help me through the many arcane processes; the hoops through which we must ascend and then be hung, suspended among the cathedrals of capital.
I do not normally go to the Rite-Aid drug store to buy beer. I would ordinarily just go to the corner bodega and buy a single tall bottle or can, which equates to about an Imperial Pint glass of delicious golden brew. But as I was already there at the pharmacy to shop for paper I thought that I would walk by the beer cooler and have an innocent look. The same way that an 18th century Christian missionary might have once done through the many jungles of Africa, purely innocent gospeling...
If anything, I was there to help, the deliverer of the good news to all creation.
And there... almost alone... almost already forever connected to me, stacked there uniformly with all of the other beers, sold in both collections of bottles and in what many might consider various "bulk" containers, I saw it.... I saw... The Golden Box.... bathed in light from an unseen source above.... The Banquet Beer, Coors.... Oh Mercies, It was gingerly wrapped in what they advertised as an "afternoon friendly" cardboard container of 18. A holy number if there ever was one, +6. What luck, I thought, what fate, what grace flows from the cold mountain streams.....
When I calculated the cost of the beer as compared to the corner bodega I quickly realized that this economic coup that I had quite accidentally stumbled upon was beyond a 50% discount to the indulgences through which I penitently purge my profits.
I stood in divinely glowing financial amazement, beer blessed.
I glanced around to make quick and sure that no one was witness to my private, semi-spiritual, waterfall of luck. I looked directly up into the security cameras and then very gently and slowly reminded myself to never do that again, never ever do that again. I glanced up and acted as if my neck was sore, rubbing my neck with vague medical inquiry towards the pharmacy area. A palpable pro, am I....
Then, in accordance with prophecy, I dutifully pulled the rectangular cuboid from its resting place and into my willing and free hand, where it swung freely and balanced accordingly, naturally... ah, as if it were meant to be only there.
I questioned the further need for the ream of paper, but also thought better of abandoning it there. There was still much paperwork to be completed in this uber-rational world of ours, a place of specialized function, where completion is only admission. At home I was currently engaged in the efficient undertaking of a very complex task, one that demands results, and sums, solutions, sequels, and then returns. Any slight deviance in this undertaking could render me to further self-administration, or in layman's terms: freedom.
Never mind all of that, the beneficial machine of bureaucracy is neither the subject nor the consequent of this historic internet piece. The glorious weight of the beer in my hand had heavenly swing to it, it was already drawing me onwards, christmas solder...
Jesus paid, I wept.
I scurried home. The interior visions of frigid refrigerators danced and bit at my mind. Chilled glasses, the sound of carbonated gases, fermented juices, being released to fulfill their lovely purpose... the feel of the cold aluminum against my palm, lifting it at first from below, increasing my grip as I move upwards, towards the top, always towards the top, and then... the moments of release, the sound before and the sound during, the sound after.... then the calm afterwards of simple pleasure, contentment... a knowing that knows no words.
My calm was disrupted.
I could almost hear the excitement in my wife's voice when I thought of her arrival at home. The rising celebratory sounds of realization as she opened the refrigerator door and discovered the remains of my fiscal genius. The sounds of excitement filling the moment. Our shared climax of confused agreements.
But the triumph, the glory, all mine..... and now almost all gone.
In truth I am never one to boast. I was merely being guided by an unseen hand.
A servant to the universal will.
An, ohhm-ost karmic reflection
of lives lived well, and often.
... and soften this once humble servant of god.
a mere guru, of brew, through
and threw, of you.
i, an impecunious disciple of the cosmic coors impulse, true.
.
