Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’m guessing we all know people like this: for every calorie we expend in creative or industrious endeavors, they will burn two or three to undo it –and by “undo” I mean subvert, undermine, damage, twist or otherwise contradict your work, irregardless of what it is.
To set the table I’ll use Rush Limbaugh as an example. I’m not a regular listener, but I’ll bet I disagree with a solid and safe 80% of what he says. The net result is I, in full possession of my own personality already, don’t waste my breath. But just
look at all the talking heads that have made careers going after him. Shouldn’t they owe him a royalty?
Do we create these people or are they just born like this, flitting around like flies randomly seeking out a pile of cow dung to sit on? If it’s the latter we have every right to be annoyed: these people take all the fun out of our hard-earned right to be a hassle-free pile of cow dung.
Our outrage is
warranted.
Were this a more practical skill, I, a
master at drawing these people out, would be a very wealthy man. I could walk into a group and slap a single typed word on the table –let’s say “banana.” And then, leaving without a word, my hidden microphones would tell the tale.
“Banana?”
“Ugh. Just
look at that hideous font.”
“He only wrote ‘banana’ because it’s so phallic.”
“Yeah. But it’s not as phallic as a cucumber. If that guy had any balls, he would have wrote cucumber.”
“Fucking coward.”
“That’s why he picked a yellow fruit. It represents his spinelessness.”
“What’s his problem with fruit anyway?”
“I don’t know, but I’m not taking this sitting down. This guy has been trashing bananas long enough, and I’m not taking his crap anymore.”
“Those bananas don’t deserve this kind of treatment.”
“Let’s kill him.”
“Yes! Let’s kill him!”
And so it goes.
Worse -if I
really want to get depressed- I'll consider the fact that these people have vast, boundless reservoirs to draw their energies from,
mine, and are more apt to forget me than quit; the best hope I have is once my fusion engines cool and gravity begins to take it’s toll they will have moved on to some other issue.
Then one day a hundred years in the future I'll receive and invitation to receive an award for some long forgotten effort. As I approach the podium, people politely applaud me despite not having any idea who I am; most have only seen bananas in history books, and the younger of which are already doubting the veracity of those reports.
And pulling the microphone down to accommodate the shrunken vestiges of my time-worn, arthritis-gnarled body, I’ll hold that heavy trophy high and croak weakly, “Thanks!”
And suddenly a guy in the back row will point and cry, “Hey! It’s the Banana Guy!”
“Kill him!” cries another ...
“But I don’t like chicken and ducklings,” insists my youngest son.
