(Stephen Colbert sticker poem IV*)
Worldwide, fervent belief in conspiracy
theories is at an all-time high, both
in the magnitude of the population who
adhere firmly to the veracity of one
or more, but most radically in the number
of such theories assumed 100% true on an
individual level. I just made this fact up,
to be honest, but it’s only a rhetorical
question. And because duh. Back at camp,
we’d always know when it was time for the
party to start when the rebel forces were
approaching. Their transportation apparati
were always in stark contrast with those of
ours. There’s a rhyme and a reason for
everything, as Shakespeare incessantly did
not attempt to convince his contemporaries.
The announcement was barked over the loud-
speakers: “The rebel forces are approaching.
The rebel forces are approaching.” We’d all
quickly slipped into battle gear, donned our epic
battle-appropriate make-up and then we would
dance for days on end. I really miss those days.
Sure, there was slavery. But dancing through
days and nights that moved as slowly and as
deliciously as syrup slowly seeping down through
the middle of a whopping stack of flapjacks
(not to mention the otherworldly plunge
into each disc of butter, one on top, one on
bottom, and ones smashed between the center
of each cake, along with the thousand flak
jackets seen pulsating through a hallucinatory
mist in contortions that could only have been
locked within mirrors one normally only en-
counters at the county fair (remember those?),
yet were actually dozens of not variations of
the ecstatic raver slipping slowly through the
party’s glorious goo but several dozen meat-
heads from my own platoon; the rest of
the seemingly endless ultra-hedonistic wide-
eyed party crew. They were the shit, those
parties. Certainly enough to give anyone
familiar pause when hearing the variations
on hyperbolic adjectives used years hence
to describe a night (or two) at Studio 54,
(for example). Those men swathed in camo
and dripping with bayonets put today’s
attempts at weekends full of fireworks
and sweat and the so-called slaves of the
circuit to shame. Circuit parties? Lugubrious
imitations of impossible to render minutia of
a memory of a sliver of time spent slathered
and body-slamming at those war-gatherings
of yore. Hmmph! Today’s bodies puffily
jiggling with shame. No pounding here. And
those bayonets, which by the bottom of the
cake had found a thousand new meanings,
each one a vast epistimological distance
from any war zone or deep governmental
basement. Those good old days.
They say it’s interplanetary progeny, a
proliferation of these disproportioned kids,
something the spiritual journals call the
“homogenization” of human-centric and
other human-like species. Human-like. Ha.
Many of these carry not an ounce of blood,
no watery substance. And hearts? We’re
becoming a vein-free galaxy, they say.
And this is a good thing?! A culture devoid
not only of the heroism of hedonism and
the inevitable and completely impossible
to describe intertwining of the knives and
the long barrels of the era of bayonets;
devoid of culture itself. Talking tubes
incapable of speaking but one language
or of uttering a phrase that is neither
selfish nor utterly empty.
But this I can say without conviction. You
can mark my words, as much as one or
two even matter in a moment of time
such as this: this dearth, these point-
less talking tubes, the homogenization,
despite its funny-looking kids…I tell you
it is but a cover-up for the real story; a
diversion from the plan already being
implemented. The truth is out there,
all right. For whatever it’s worth. And
we’ll all come to know this plan. Intim-
ately. And unless there’s anyone in here
who gets everything I’m trying to tell you,
we’ll all, each and every one of us, know
all too late what atrocities this heinous
plan entails. We’ll know way too late,
I tell you. Meaning we will never know.
But, men, you should all stand with me
on one thing for certain. Those were
some damn fine parties back then. So
fine that our wars always brought the
enemies together. You remember, John.
Surely I’m not alone here. You and I, we’d
be royalty. Royalty, I tell you. It was war.
It was life. We were the shit. You remember
now? I know you do. Man, do I ever miss the
war. Those visions, a camaraderie only the
jungle could ever offer and by far the purest
love any living member of the tribe has ever
experienced dancing. Dancing. The buzz of
war, I tell you. [He clutches his heart like no
tomorrow]. I seriously miss the camo, the slow-
motion camo, the war and its men. I miss them
all something fierce. Like rear view windows,
like all of those ancient pyramids’ objets d’art,
like soft-boiled eggs, like birds, and, oh, eggs,
but more than all of those things combined,
what I miss the most is those good old days.
*the title of this poem is from a page from Stephen Colbert’s
I Am America And So Can You which has a set of “STICKERS,”
each with a phrase which he recommends using to show that
you are the “man in charge” or that “you’ve got it all under
control” – I assume to be used especially when the man-reader
actually has no clue, or simply isn’t interested or even paying
attention.
I Am America And So Can You which has a set of “STICKERS,”
each with a phrase which he recommends using to show that
you are the “man in charge” or that “you’ve got it all under
control” – I assume to be used especially when the man-reader
actually has no clue, or simply isn’t interested or even paying
attention.
