In about a week's time I went from wishing spring would hurry up and get here to being already sick of it. Wasps and pollen. Vampire mosquitoes with some kind of personal grudge. The obligatory rabbit-egg dorkery. Foredoomed yard sales.
Uppages at the pump. Pisspoor basketball. New roots in the sewer pipes. Woodpeckers trying to drill through vinyl siding just outside the bedroom window at 6 a.m. Same old spring excreta as last year, deja vued all over again.
Still winter by the calendar and already sick of spring and all that it symbolizes and entails. Another fine mess. And vernal disgust isn't the half of it. I know about Joe Btfsplk and his little cloud, and what an old sorehead is, but what am I supposed to do? So I've got a sick list here, a grievance list sort of like the one that George Kellerman kept in “The Out-of-Towners.”
Itemizing at random:
I'm sick of the politics and it only just got started. I'm sick of every single public issue that's reared a head since 1994. I'm sick of rain. I'm sick of robins. I'm sick already of daylight saving. I'm sick of the skunk that comes up out of the cutover every night. I'm sick of Farmville and all the losers who inhabit it. I'm sick of TV commercial personifications of mucus.
I'm sick of the dignifying of ignoramuses by calling them populists.
I'm sick of rogue crazies lumping me into some hallucinatory “elite” presumably as the preliminary to a big roundup.
I'm sick of this lurid zombie sideshow that used to be a news media with a purpose and standards and brass nads.
I'm sick of the romance with guns that allows wackos all over the country to run out and kill a bunch of people every time they take the notion.
I'm sick of the crack-showing appliance-installers' rear view that the long-waisted apparel catalogues are calling “plumber's butt.”
I'm sick of the ten lords a'leaping that were my main Christmas present last year. It's the leaping part I'm sickest of. They can't go two minutes without a'leaping. I'm sick of yodeling veterinarians from the Alps.
I'm sick of watching and waiting for that tsunami to wipe out Hawaii. I'm beginning to wonder if maybe the alert was cancelled finally, but not before the nothing-happening beach scene had permanently burned itself into my TV screen. If so,
I'm going to feel really duped. And I'm sick of being duped.
I'm sick of crows giving me the business. I'm sick of Warren Buffet trying to lowball the other bidders for the privilege of having lunch with me. I'm sick of Tiger and Dave calling up looking for stumpbroke livestock that might hire out for quickies.
I'm sick of having to sleep at the foot of the bed every time company comes.
I'm sick of being hissed at by possums that look like (and hiss like) Dick Cheney.
I'm sick of the obvious insincerity in the WWBD movement. I'm sick of the ever-more-glaring annual injustice of People Magazine naming somebody else the Sexiest Man Alive. I'm sick of pencil-neck geeks. And ceramic roosters.
I'm sick of Google wanting all of my content for free. I'm sick of the manzeer. I'm sick of getting less take-home from my Powerball jackpots than I have to pay in taxes. I'm sick of Tubbo glomming all my Oxycontin. I'm sick of Grisham always wanting a new and pithier cover blurb. I'm sick of the shameless ejaculations of the torture weasels. I'm sick of bats in the twilight ignoring all the well-established territorial imperatives.
I'm equally sick of blowhards and blowback. I'm sick of those who say don't speak ill of recently expired, even if they were a mess of trash. I'm sick of tilapia. I'm sick of dog-peter gnats. I'm sick of dust mite hordes. I'm sick of Mississippi wild child.
I'm sick of Trig Palin and the “debate” over who can call who a retard. I'm sick of always being inescapably in the presence of myself, and of pretending that I have ever once successfully demonstrated prowess of any kind whatsoever.
I'm sick of being ever at the mercy of glandular secretions. I'm sick of the continued existence of vital democratic institutions being at the whim of hateful driven old moguls. I'm sick of the 1955 Ryman broadcasts of the Grand Ole Opry wafting eerily if vaguely into my sleeping quarters in the wee hours under certain atmospheric conditions. I'm sick of a popery that had its germ in the slapping around of choirboys. I'm sick of all the preening around in the greasy mantle of righteousness in the abortion “debate.”
I'm sick of nut Texas textbook meddling and nut Texas just about everything else. I'm sick of cliches and of those who suppose that a good big pile of them is what is meant by “thought.” I'm sick of those who hog the Sunday School class discussion and haven't even read the lesson. I'm sick of everything that's epic that used to be only awesome.
And exceptionalism in all its tacky wraps.
Etc. The list will be different tomorrow, but no less crabby. If you're looking to tiptoe through the jonquils with some upbeat and positive whorehopper you might want to tootle on over to Sync.