Late In Hamarama
A religious treatise can be a tiring thing to have to compose. With the television on, and a salacious inflow of ads on the perifery of my netbook, a rerun of Leave It To Beaver and some pop-up ads for condoms and lubricants are working in league to distract me, in spite of how well and thoroughly I considered a chubby wide matter of the spirit.
I've said it a bunch of times: Some Seth or Waldo invented all religious dogma and ritual. Unless I'm dead wrong. Unless everything known about the supernatural came from something other than crazy, fucked up people, as of this 21st of January 2014, dreamed up, drummed up or cooked up same as fairy tales. Or else one black-covered book or other is telling the stone cold truth, to the exclusion of all other accounts. If I'm packing good sausage this fucking cold Tuesday, my thesis is that anyone can fabricate their own cotton-picking rites and ceremonies. I dreamed up Hamarama because ham is cheap during the winter holiday seasons. It made sense to combine the abundance of meat with an elemental tendency to celebrate, and/or give thanks. Using Christmas as an example, this kind of shit might catch on, with publicity.
And then it gets even more abstruse.
Heaven help me, I'm worse than Catherine Deneuve, in Roman Polanski's too creepy fim, Repulsion. Worse because I can't take the luxury of being clinically insane. And what I did isn't really all that heinous. But it could seem so. Confusion is exacerbated because people are ever so more favorably responsive to Catherine than to my much abused poor self. Blonds have more fun, she's blond, I'm swarthy. She's a flesh statue. I'm one of many men you see waiting for the bus on freezing winter afternoons, blending in with the slumdwellers. I'm dysthymic. Thirsting for beauty. Applying the spirit of invention.
I got my third ham this period of Hamarama, in the last holiday trimester during the Feast of Cheap Ham, which starts before Christmas and goes on for as long as it lasts. It lasts for as long as the price of picnic hams stays at the reduced rate of 99 cents a pound. During Hamarama I cut the food bill by eating mostly ham. This orb of pink meat, with leg bone up center, was just over seventeen pounds, which has been typical of store brand pig portions this year.
I've chosen to eat ham, thin sliced, but otherwise as it came, pre-cooked, from the grocery store. Ham sushi. Seems more decadent then when fried. It's under consideration. Might or might not be included in the dogma. It's my dogma, and I'll be darned if it's going to have a life of its own. I need some control, in this life.
A religious treatise can be a tiring thing to have to compose. With the television on, and a salacious inflow of ads on the perifery of my netbook, a rerun of Leave It To Beaver and some pop-up ads for condoms and lubricants are working in league to distract me, in spite of how well and thoroughly I considered a chubby wide matter of the spirit.
I've said it a bunch of times: Some Seth or Waldo invented all religious dogma and ritual. Unless I'm dead wrong. Unless everything known about the supernatural came from something other than crazy, fucked up people, as of this 21st of January 2014, dreamed up, drummed up or cooked up same as fairy tales. Or else one black-covered book or other is telling the stone cold truth, to the exclusion of all other accounts. If I'm packing good sausage this fucking cold Tuesday, my thesis is that anyone can fabricate their own cotton-picking rites and ceremonies. I dreamed up Hamarama because ham is cheap during the winter holiday seasons. It made sense to combine the abundance of meat with an elemental tendency to celebrate, and/or give thanks. Using Christmas as an example, this kind of shit might catch on, with publicity.
And then it gets even more abstruse.
Heaven help me, I'm worse than Catherine Deneuve, in Roman Polanski's too creepy fim, Repulsion. Worse because I can't take the luxury of being clinically insane. And what I did isn't really all that heinous. But it could seem so. Confusion is exacerbated because people are ever so more favorably responsive to Catherine than to my much abused poor self. Blonds have more fun, she's blond, I'm swarthy. She's a flesh statue. I'm one of many men you see waiting for the bus on freezing winter afternoons, blending in with the slumdwellers. I'm dysthymic. Thirsting for beauty. Applying the spirit of invention.
I got my third ham this period of Hamarama, in the last holiday trimester during the Feast of Cheap Ham, which starts before Christmas and goes on for as long as it lasts. It lasts for as long as the price of picnic hams stays at the reduced rate of 99 cents a pound. During Hamarama I cut the food bill by eating mostly ham. This orb of pink meat, with leg bone up center, was just over seventeen pounds, which has been typical of store brand pig portions this year.
I've chosen to eat ham, thin sliced, but otherwise as it came, pre-cooked, from the grocery store. Ham sushi. Seems more decadent then when fried. It's under consideration. Might or might not be included in the dogma. It's my dogma, and I'll be darned if it's going to have a life of its own. I need some control, in this life.
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