City Life (Longing For Something More)
Last night, Tom and I were talking (rather drunkenly it may be recalled) about buying a little piece of property here in the city (a backyard as some would say). Nothing to big. Something in our price range-which means not big at all. We wouldn't need a whole lot anyway. Just enough to plant some hay seed and remind us of our country upbringing. Every year during harvest time, we could hire a couple of inner city kids and give them a taste of farm life (albeit, a very small taste). Together, we'd cut the hay and rake it into a pile so that we could hook up the baler, run it over our yard, and produce a single bale of hay. Midway through our bale, we'd wipe the sweat from our brows and take a break. The lemonade would already be waiting in a glass pitcher filled with perfect, aesthetically-pleasing ice cubes. We'd sip the lemonades, smell the air now spiked with bits of hayseed, and get ready to get back on the baler and finish that bale. When the bale was finished and the long day's work finally done, we'd carry it out front and sell it to some family down the street with a guinea pig. We'd pocket the three dollars and smile, knowing that the promise of another bale would be there next year and every year after.
posted by Mrs. Myrtle Standich at 12:48 PM
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Actually, Thunderbelly and I were whispering (so quietly it may not be recalled) about stealing a little piece of property from the rich white kids on our block (historical reclamation as some would say). Nothing too small. Something well out of our price range, which means the renovated home of a lawyer or a physician. We wouldn't need more than 4-5 stories of a building anyway. Just enough to start a small crack cocaine operation and set up a small distribution center. Every winter during the coldest time of year, we could kidnap a couple of rich white kids and give them a taste of our drugs (albeit, a very small taste). Together, we'd cut the baking powder into the drug so that we maximize our profits, maybe add a little rat poison to a few rocks for the suburban addicts, and produce maybe 500-600 small crack rocks. Halfway through producing this moderate stash, we'd buy some forties of Old English and break the bottles across the rib carriages of the rich white kids. We'd pour salt and vinegar on their wounds while smoking crack through aesthetically-pleasing glass pipes. We'd get high, listen to the tortured screams of our captives now slowly bleeding to death on the living room floor, and get ready to distribute the crack rocks downtown. When all the precious little gems were packaged in cute plastic zip-lock bags and the pathetic rich white kids were dead, we'd carry their corposes out front and let the rabid dogs in the neighborhoods feeds on their flesh. We'd take their nice watches and I-pods and smile, knowing that the promise of more gentrification would bring more fun next year.
That is frightening and bizarre.
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