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2000-02-08 00:00:00 - Manifesto - June 1998 - I wanna be an Airborne Ranger - (Matthew Good <matthewgood@my-deja.com>)


I WANNA BE AN AIRBORNE RANGER Freedom costs. It's kind of a hypocritical philosophy, really. We fight for the right to be free. We fight for the right to have a free market system so you can buy anything you want, when ever you want, from whoever you want. We fight for the freedom of religious belief, though mostly we just fight amongst ourselves about that. Sometimes we even travel to the other side of the world to make sure that those less fortunate than ourselves can enjoy our special brand of freedom. Video Games, Coke, Pepsi, Jesus, and Taco Time. You have the right to eat Taco's we'll say, and they'll smile and scream 'FINALLY!' Some people even have the right to bare arms. Sometimes their kids get in on that right. Sometimes people die for freedom and don't even know it. Funny how freedom works. In the most perfect of dreams I will be sitting in a kick ass lawn chair on a high plateau, watching the decline of Western Civilization. I'd buy a super powerful pair of binoculars, so as not to miss anything. I'd have a big cooler full of drinks and sexy chicks lounging around, rubbing my feet and shoulders. And I'd get new glasses, cause the ones I've got now are all scratched up. Better than a super summer blockbuster. No giant lizards, no aliens, no natural disasters. Just us, swirling towards the bottom of the bowl. I'll have some tacos and put on a t-shirt that says finally. Come to think of it, I'll probably need some really good sunglasses and some super high powered sun block. It'll get hot, I'm sure. Maybe I'd have one of those kiddie pools to sit in instead of a lawn chair. That way I could beat the heat. The chemical wind will blow through my hair as I monitor the major news networks for further details and endless updates. Oh, the humanity those sly news rogues will be spewing from their control centers. Their field correspondents broadcasting from within the flaming debris, conditioned to remain impervious to the dangers and drama unfolding around them. Earth spontaneously bursting into flame and ice, oceans boiling over and freezing all at the same time. Little ships slipping picturesquely beneath the foaming waves. Hell hath no fury like a man sitting in a kiddie pool watching the end of the world who's run out of tacos. I'll have to remind myself to bring extra. The girls don't eat, you see, they're too worried about their weight. And then come the missiles. What the hell. Launch them. They've been sitting around for so long I'm curious to see what all the fuss is about. We can fire them all at India, France, and Pakistan. I'm open to suggestions. Maybe Greenland. Why not. I'll play Pac Man and Frogger while ICBM's plummet to the earth all around me like so many seagulls fed Wonder Bread mixed with Draino. I'll do the Safety Dance, the Electric Slide, the Marcarena, maybe me and the girls will even line dance. Why not. I'll put on a little Nina Simone and pour some bourbon. And I'll laugh, maniacally. Cause what the hell else are you gonna do. There'll be umbrellas in all the drinks, fireworks without warning labels, hundreds of rare t-bones, a million cigarettes, and plenty of pornography. Cause if you're gonna go, for the love of christ, go big. Like Stew used to say: 'Big time, or no time at all'. That's freedom. Not some word in a dictionary. Not some corrupted thing bent to suit a purpose. Limitless freedom. Endless slow poison. No 'tomorrow I'll go to the gym after work'. Just sought after cancerous treats and spy-like glow in the dark party favors. Naked riders, outrageous costumes, dangerous words blasted though megaphones, outlawed tunes played on outlawed guitars. A silence after a great noise. A thunder that's like so many violins and cellos. And then the ringing tones of a last, great chord. Life's so fun when you get to make up the rules. Playing by them is the shitty part. That's freedom. I should have kept my mouth shut. I've ruined everything. I guess I'll have to get my tickets at Ticket Master like everyone else. Sorry. Your Questions, My Answers. Dial 1-900-Idiot-Savant. 1] Erin Purdy and Bonnie Seidel are nutso-boingo maybe. 2] Dray, very flattering, thanks. 3] What is a Middle Class Gangster? you ask. That's someone who comes from a middle class background but walks around like their from Compton or something. You know, take daddy's car out and play loud music while you're rolling with the homies. Don't forget to be home by eleven! 4] Yes, I do dream in colour. 5] Gillian, death is like a vacation. It's all about losing your luggage and spending forever in a foreign place with only one pair of underwear. A Note On Requests & Getting Mentioned In The Bible: No unsalted meat please. No vegetables without butter. No sandwiches without miracle whip. No sea food without tartar sauce. No ice cream without cones. No chocolate without peanut butter. No burgers without fries. No tops without bottoms. No JD without ice. No movies without Nibbs. No cigarettes without filters. No picnics without ants. No marriage proposals without pictures and bio's. You get my point. ---------------------------- VICTORY THROUGH SHEER VOLUME ---------------------------- Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy.