Not That You Asked: The world has gone to hell in a handbasket

“The fool foldeth his hands together, and eateth his own flesh.” -Ecclesiastes 4:5

I’ve said it before, but now I mean it. I’m moving to Greenland.

It’s been a cockeyed and mischievous newsweek, and I want nothing of it. A couple of twisted years have finally engulfed America, and I don’t hesitate to tell you: I want out. There’s only so much yelling I can do before it’ll become overwhelmingly obvious that the world, as a twisted whole, will continue to be oblivious to my demands for a long time to come. Hell, it may never change.

I sit out most nights in my fortified Beacon Street apartment, watching the rain fall outside and I quietly wait for the Revolution. It hasn’t come yet. I search through the Internet, roving my way through hundreds of articles and definitions and newspaper clippings, looking for word of it, looking for the sign of something to come, but my hands always turn up empty. Occasionally I venture to P.J. Kilroy’s for a quick beer in the soothing darkness, hunched over the bar like some frenzied cow riding the slaughterhouse conveyor belt, grim acceptance on my face.

Back in my apartment, the floor is leaking. I yell for Johna but she can’t explain to me precisely why my floor is leaking, or even what. Whatever it is, it keeps gurgling up at night, feeding an already treacherous bog that threatens to ruin my dancing shoes.

But my dancing shoes aren’t the problem, at least not yet. And, take note, I’m slowly recovering from my failed campaign to introduce antipersonnel mines to the NFL for the sake of excitement. What’s really been bagging my goat involves a Republican president, a GOP-controlled Senate and House, a fake moon, and a singing gorilla.

“We haven’t had a Republican House and Senate and president since 1902,” this kid Brennon said, unwrapping a package of suet. “It doesn’t look good for the country, nevermind what Mitt Romney’s gonna do to our state.”

I agreed quickly with him, but wondered about his information. Brennon has that notorious mean streak that accompanies drunkards and news junkies, and he often relies upon hysterical lies to deliver him from tight situations.

“What the hell is this?” he asked, peering down at the suet.

“It’s the collected fatty tissue from the loins and kidneys of farm animals,” I told him. “We’re going to hang it off the fire escape to attract pigeons.”

Even aside from my ongoing feuds with neighbors, a general sort of discontent has permeated modern life. Everybody’s fighting. Did you hear about NASA? They’ve been kept busy lately with skeptics who refuse to believe we landed on the moon. Apparently the situation has become so desperate that NASA itself is intent on releasing a special book which’ll prove that on July 20, 1969, astronauts truly did walk upon the moon’s surface.

Indeed. What bothers me about this, of course, isn’t that NASA is spending my tax dollars to publish a book (which will be sold back to me) affirming a historical event that everybody takes for granted. Oh, no. What bothers me is the incompetence of so many conspiracy theorists. They miss the big picture. Of course the moon-landing wasn’t fake. It didn’t have to be. The moon itself is fake, a big ball of matter that NASA constructed in early 1960s to create a need for further funding. After all, how else could they get the money to build Mars?

We should send Justin Timberlake, or whatever Backstreet Boy it was that wanted to see space, up to check on the moon.

I remember reading articles back in the early 90s about the exploration of commercial satellites by wealthy corporations. There was a graphic of a huge Nike logo floating about the night horizon, a bright red Swoosh orbiting in outer space. Although plenty of people had problems with it, like Reebok, the general consensus was that it could be done. What kind of panic would that create? I can picture all my friends back home, many of whom own more guns than spoons and meet in abandoned prisons to fight grown bears, cowering in fear of the apocalypse. Or else missing it completely, because now that I think about it, there’s no horizon at home. Just a lot of trees.

Which brings us to the singing gorilla. Koko, the famous talking gorilla of California, has made a career out of slowly learning more than 1,000 terms in sign language. She’s been an unprecedented success for the scientific community, has inspired us to deeply consider our underestimation of the lower animal mind, and is now on the verge of releasing a CD. She wrote the lyrics, humans sang the songs, and it’s gonna be released soon in a neat little package for somewhere around $14.

At first I was happy for her, but now I don’t know what I feel. Mainly concern, I guess. Look at what happens to all our star musicians. And lest we forget, gorillas aren’t so far down the line that they don’t share our penchants. You know, love, empathy, insight.

And violence, hate, alcoholism and death. That’s not what I want for poor Koko, but I fear she’ll fall like all the rest, doomed to a controversial career cut short by allegations of criminal behavior, conflict with other rising gorillas, marred by the abuse of hard drugs. The warning signs are here: her first album is entitled “Fine Animal Gorilla,” which goes to show that she already operates on a dangerous level of self-confidence. Before we know it, a drunk and debauched Koko will be testifying before some Senate subcommittee, slurring her hand signs in a futile defense of her own lyrics.

And so it’s come to this. Remember the good old days, when we sent monkeys to space and listened to pop-stars belt out the hits? Everything’s reversed now. And I don’t like it.

That’s where Greenland comes into the story. I’m taking Koko with me. I fancy we’ll find ourselves somewhere cozy and live a life of ease. We’ll shop at the fish markets and gamble with the natives. I’ll make her sing to me as I perch atop the cold and rocky coastline, drinking up local moonshine and watching the fake moon rise above the sparkling North Atlantic. “Fine animal gorilla,” I’ll say. “Get Neil animal more alcohol drink.”