Stuart: The Story of Stu

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Once upon a time there was this dude named Stuart. Some folks called him Stu but it wasn’t something that he actively encouraged but he tolerated it because, well, what are you going to do? Yell at folks for abbreviating your name? It’s a blessing to be remembered at all these days what with all the television and junk food and stuff blowing out your head and mucking up your attitude so he let it slide and when someone would say, “Hey Stu!” He would say, “Harya?” And they would say, “I’m doing well. How are you, Stu?” And he would say, “Stuart is A-OK.” To make his point however subtly and subliminally and because Stuart was generally polite and only let his anger simmer beneath the surface where, well, to get ahead of ourselves here it eventually manifests itself in him as a series of brutal cancers of various kinds that, well–damn, that’s a whole different can of tragic beans that we’ll keep closed for the time being. But back to our initial tale here, right, so, Stuart also known as Stu was this dude that was doing alright by most metrics, maybe not the most active sex life, sure, but he had some money in the bank and his debts were minuscule and he had a decent head of hair and not a bad singing voice when it came to karaoke or in the shower or at church which served him well with folks because I don’t know about you but when I hear some toneless citizen sawboning some famous jingle to death, well, what can I tell you that you don’t already know? So let’s all agree that we all agree that it’s agreed that it should be a crime and plug our ears and carry on. Anyways, our man Stuart here would not be found guilty of that crime because he could carry a tune and that is one of the check marks in the pro’s column on the sheet of his life. He has a bunch of check marks in that column actually, like no b.o., an aversion to using curse words, generally polite, pretty fair, large cock, and a few other minor things that still chalk up to a net positive. His con’s column still has check marks, sure, but whose doesn’t? Mine has its share sure, and so does yours so don’t @ me because it wouldn’t do any good anyway. #IToldYouSo. But Stuart’s cons are generally pretty tame like how he drinks diet soda and listens to new country and maybe there’s a check in the addicted to Cobra blood column. I don’t know about you but I did not see that one coming. Where does one score Cobra blood anyway? I mean outside the black market stalls and stands and kiosks of the darkest back alleys in the wildest cities of Southeast Asia. I suppose these days you can order pretty much anything online so perhaps that’s how he gets his Cobra blood but I’m still curious. Because I know he has never been to Saigon. If any of you might know feel free to @ me. So Stuart has a Cobra blood problem. Who really cares? What are you going to do? Sue him? For shooting up with Cobra blood? I don’t think there’s a law against it except in the court of public opinion or in one of those mystical kingdoms ruled by some kind of Snake Queen or Reptilian Council but as far as actual Normaltown legalities go I don’t think so. In fact I know so. And so should you. Unless you’re ignorant. Which you may be. But I don’t judge. So whatever. Think or don’t or kind of or maybe. It does a bit matter because Stuart is going to Stu regardless of what you or I or them think and while we’re all checking those boxes in the columns on our own sheets of life, you know, I don’t think he gives a damn. Well, not so much of a damn. Well, just enough that it will eventually give him cancer. But that’s a story for another day. God bless and sweet dreams.

Observation Report!

Christopher Nolan’s “Inception” is about how it’s alright for corporations to literally and figuratively play God as long as it is all in the name of helping out the shareholders and otherwise keeps world peace as intact as you’d ever find it outside the boardroom.

Also, don’t be afraid to dream a little bigger.

So that’s a cool one.

Beware of half-ass mystical stations of magical desire.

What the hell does that mean? Well, it’s a little complicated but still rather simple. You see, the soul craves what the spirit seeks, am I right? So it just makes sense that there are your usual gainful opportunists out there in the ether with their carts or wagons or whatever ready and willing and irritatingly able to deal you the mystical goods. It’s like when you walk up the path to see The Great Wall and every two feet someone is trying to sell you a poorly made doodad. I think that happens too at The Alamo so you see what I mean. But instead of brick and mortar history I’m talking about essence and aura here. So you’re strutting through your spiritual life looking for one of those big important sources of immaculate supply and you’ve got all these dungaree wearing ding dongs hawking two-bit gewgaws that they assure you are just as good as the real thing. Which they aren’t. You might as well ram a quarter in your ear for all the good these pieces of detritus will do for you. You see it in the tavern too when you have some handsome lady or well swabbed dude sitting at the bar just so ready and willing and annoyingly able to bend your ear and get you to sign on the dotted line for some emotional time share in imaginary magical Cabo. Disclaimer: I dig the beach. And I dig my soulful elegance. And if I could marry the two into some kind of cosmic inside out vacation I would. But some buckaroo with a nice watch and plastic teeth who buys me a Manhattan and lays a brochure or a pamphlet or a whatever down in front of me and says I can get just that for only $999 down, well, what can I tell you? Actually, let me tell you, I get sick up and out the wazoo. Of course you’ll say there should be a law and I’ll say yes there should and various representatives and legislators will pretend to agree and they’ll form a committee and bring in experts and do some polls and draft some pedantically bloated thing and we’ll all get so excited and ready to finally receive our souls most nourishing gifts and graces without any fucking fine print and here we go and now we’re on and okay alright have at it and…

Radio silence.

And the bullshit keeps raining on down.

Like it was London in the Fall of ‘40.

I don’t have any answers for you here at the end of this grand essay except to say that knowledge is power especially when it comes to you knowing you and believing just what it is you learn about said you and most probably the truth or the serenity or the whatever it is you’re seeking is highly most likely available to you gratis via and according and available inside you somewhere and small wins add up and some of those W’s that get chalked up and posted on the big board are most definitely for absolute real when you don’t do something like give your hard earned spiritual cash to some soul stealing huckster in a stained and wrinkled cheap suit.

Keep your money.

Smile on.

Live.