What would Ignacius P. Riley do? That IS the question, at least for me. And Ignacius, for all practical purposes, and even in his own narrative–never got shot in the back by the panoptically charged 70 plus % of the human race.
maybe he was a coward–I don’t know-the history books are so confusing, and the revisionists are always trying to re-write history; but I remember him this way:
MOst* modern Americans have no idea who Ignacius P. Riley was. But I can tell you, from my memories of him, that he was a true and real American Hero. He fought old ladies, and won; he fought his way out of his mothers basement(narrative stored elsewhere); he fought those in his precinct who preyed upon young boys; and he notoriously fought for the right of every man to chokes down a hot dog any and every time the desire to choke down a hot dog hit him.
He fought his own biological imperative, and sided with a good Jewish girl-and that, in and of itself, is a milestone of American thinking. Why? Because every good Jewish girl knows that men generally hate straw wigs. And, other things like wine, with low alcohol content, and so forth….
I cannot in human words describe to you what you should know in your own hearts as a piece of yourself-that you should be taught in school as quickly as you should know J.S. Mil, or Jeremy Bentham (lesser known, but far more impactful on todays society, if for only the human head at his feet for ‘all of time to cum’. Bastard.)
*MOst: you are trying to decipher the code, right? You are on to a big case, right? Well, here it is- I never, never, ever killed kids overseas the way that you and yours do. I NEVER, EVER water boarded any person-although, I admit, I have put a few coons through their paces with a hose–but only to guarantee they wouldn’t bite me after I released them! The key to catch and release is that you tame them a bit, before you free them–not like fish at all, wild trapped mammals are unpredictable.
The last raccoon-went by the name of Slayther13–was actually just a kit ( I like to call them pups, but officially, they are called ‘kits’, like Kit Carson. I am pretty sure that Kit Carson passed a law, using democracy, like a tool, that said that anyone who knows coons, who traps coons, or who even thinks about coons somewhat deleteriously, even while asleep, should call coon pups ‘kits’. That is what science is: a bunch of territorial white men and women deciding what language should sound like, once spoken out loud.)
Well, anyways–America: not JUST a confederacy of Dunces anymore, but a unified Greyish-Blue-occracy of mincing rascals, marauding around the world with guns and bombs, while directing non-lethal, soft force mental torture at hot dog vendors, and others who occasionally eat from the street vendors carts.
Where, oh where, was Myrna, when I needed her??!!
Yes. She is there, in my heart, Cecil and JUlie, and kids. Auntie lives in me, for her.
And Ignacius too, hot dogs, foul body habits, foot smell and all.