It's raining in Austin right now. It's raining and it's my favorite weather. It's cooler, it gives me built in excuses to not do anything, it helps me align my chakras.
I don't have an umbrella. I did at one time but umbrellas are like prophylactics. You only realize you need one when you're practicing on a banana and, let's be honest, who regularly stocks bananas?
It's work time. The ground is slick and I laugh too myself as I speed-shuffle into the front door because there's a wet floor sign outside.
"Duh," I think to myself. "What kind of idiot complained about the outside sidewalk being we–"
Folks, I slipped and lost my balance, banging my head on the very wet sign whose necessity I questioned. It still wasn't necessary. In fact, had the piso mojado sign not been there, I wouldn't have hit my head. I wouldn't have a hardening bump on my left temple. I wouldn't have to take a few Advil right now.
It's true folks. Coke Zero was a false flag operation.
One of these is not like the other and I hate it for even attempting to fuck with my current reality timeline in which Coke Zero Sugar does not exist and Coke Zero is forever.
For years they lulled us into a sense of safety with a refreshing cola product that contained no sugar but all the headaches associated with aspartame.
Now the devilish black can is gone forever.
Replaced with a Manchurian soda called Coke Zero Sugar. The black can now accented with a red dot LIKE THE FLAG OF IMPERIAL JAPAN if you want to make such a leap.
Coke Pearl Harbored grocery stores everywhere and they must not be forgiven. Coke Zero was a sleeper cell, designed to fit in with all the rest of the sodas to trap well-meaning Americans with a more European version of a complacency bomb. Well, we won't take it. We're going to stand up during the goddamn pledge of allegiance and I am going to clean the shit out of my Old Glory boxer shorts. I'm an American, dammit and I'll be damned if some multinational corporation changes a formula for something I never even drank in the first place.
What a way to drive up sales, Coke. What a way to clear out stock. What a way to turn good American boys into Parisian Pussy Pants. I don't want Coke Zero Sugar. Let the Argentinians have it. They're obsessed with Europe anyways.
I want Coke Zero or I will have zero. But I will not have Coke Zero Sugar. No way, Joseph.
So much of life is stuffing words down cartoon characters' mouths and pretending anybody cares! Huzzah! Onward to the place where people who say 'huzzah' are dragged into the street and beaten!
"This place was great before the chef accidently tweeted his dick on a customer's pizza. Where the fuck is our pizza?"
"My son called me with an existential crisis that is somehow solved by me throwing money at him. This time I was just like, 'Nah, fuck it. I'm buying a workplace hammock.' "
"If you call me one more time I'm going to swing hard right and fuck both of us up."
"I like how the new furniture begs to be free."
"Hey, Nancy. The fucking dweebs you ordered are here."
There have already been two chapters of Deerman. Catch up before chapter 3 drops for patrons on Thursday and for the whole damned world next Thursday! Support Deerman at Patreon
When we were kids, we really liked Coolio. Who didn't in 1995/1996? Gangsta's Paradise was the shit. Naturally, my brothers and I wanted the Dangerous Minds soundtrack.
We begged my dad to allow us to buy a "Parental Advisory" CD. Fuck you, Tipper Gore. My dad made us write an essay on why we should own it.
We put our heads together and wrote the best bullshit I've probably ever written in my life.
"The Dangerous Minds soundtrack is an important piece of art. It provides a window into the lives of people who have different lives. It is a good complement to a movie I have never seen about education and crime and poverty. I think you should let us buy this CD."
My dad relented.
We went to the Sam Goody at the Cerritos Towne Center and I went straight for the Rap section. There it was. Michelle Pfieffer being a Breatharian on the cover in a leather jacket and red lipstick. My mind, friends, was getting into dangerous territory.
Dad escorted us to the cash register where some thirty something year old nerd looked at my purchase then back at my dad and said, "You let your kids listen to this filth? They should be listening to Hootie and the Blowfish." I don't think my dad was embarrassed or anything because he said something like, "They wrote a very thought out essay about why it was a necessary purchase." Or maybe he said, "Fuck you, chump. Just take their money."
The mustachioed music gestapo rolled his eyes and allowed us to pay $19.88 for the soundtrack. That's what CDs cost back then. What a scam.
It wasn't long until my brothers and I did something to merit losing our Dangerous Minds privileges. It was a good thing that we backed up the CD to cassette tape because as punishment for whatever sin we committed, he made us return Dangerous Minds in exchange for Hootie and the Blowfish. My dad was a Stalinist for creative and funny punishments.
Lo and behold, the same rules nerd checked us out on the exchange. When I gave him the Hootie and the Blowfish CD to exchange for it, he tapped on the jewel case and said to us, "You see? This is real music."
Hootie and the Blowfish is so irrelevant that it's not even a punchline anymore. We never got that Dangerous Minds soundtrack back but my folks also didn't make us write essays for the shit we wanted. If we had the money for it, we were welcome to take the bus to the record store to get it on our own.
