Before i flic a flame i take one last long look at the pile of crumpled paper beneath the little teepee of splintered pine in the wood stove. Torn shreds of recent posts howl out all the angst/passion of this strep-stricken brain. The fever's down to 100 now.The full-on delusions are gone -but like slowly dying ghosts, the torn sentences sing a ghastly wailing chorus, reminding me of canned TV laughter, accusing, cold, mocking..."forest defense can be such a goddam punishment...,RIP 'EM A NEW ASSHOLE!...and in a raging moment of torrid frenzy...lockstep with der Fuhrer Bush..." The little swinging iron door of the wood stove becomes a TV screen and for a moment i'm re-watching a particularly memorable episode of The Andy Griffith Show......................
Hollywood comes to Mayberry. All the good townsfolk go into double and triple over-time to spiff-up the collective image, getting hair-do's, make-overs, dressing up, speaking grammatically correct-sluttin' themselves for Hollywood. Goober's the only one of the bunch with sense enough to ignore it. He's too busy fixing cars. Hollywood perceives his authenticity, gobbles him up then spews him forth as America's Hometown Boy. Now Goober's the swingin' dick of Mayberry, wearing 3-piece suits, diamond rings, driving a fancy new car- sluttin' himself for all it's worth and guess who doesn't hate Goober? Nobody. Everybody wants a piece of the Hate Goober action, finally even Goober himself, when he suddenly realizes (after wading, trudging through a quagmire of shit) that he belongs beneath the hood of a car (or up a tree), not making an ass of himself in front of the cameras, the world (or imc).
Flame hits paper. "Ouch! That hurt!....." Thanks. I needed that.