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The Boobus in the Lie
If you really want to hear about it …
Boobus Americanus wouldn’t know himself if he sat beside his doppelganger on a bus. Is this a problem, this chronic Zombie-ism?
Boobus Americanus woiks and woiks HARD. Whattya doin’ Boobus? Woikin hard? "Woikin hard! Woikin, woikin." Busy, Boobus? "Busy, busy, busy. Woikin’ hard, woikin’ hard!" Well how ’bout this: You can lead a horse to water, but if you do, at least have the guts, compassion and decency to drown him when you get there.
Boobus at the gym, on the treadmill — fitting metaphor — gaze-up at the one-eyed monster. CNN, Fox News, MTV, whatever. Hole in his head receives cathode blast of get-disease, get, get; spunk, smegma. Layers of scar-hardened cerebra Raw sores open to absorb, absorb; soak-in, soak-in. Sponge tissue. Quicker picker upper.
Ego Americanus is dead. Boobus individualus is dead. Boobus persona is dead. In their place? Boobus Americorpus, Incorporated, A Very Limited Liability Company (VLLC). Tax-free.
"Dead slugs leave no trails," sez Professor B. S. Americanus, Ph.D.
Boobus would be quite fortunate, both spiritually and materially — even now, Big Pharma greedily awaits his senescense — to get killed before he dies. But to live before he dies? That is too much.
Poor Boobus Americanus! His parents are perverts, derelicts, freaks. Papa Republican and Momma Democrat. Whenever Papa "gets his drink on," he thrashes Momma — and does unspeakable things to Boobus. Momma then both comforts Boobus and turns to him for succor. She confides in him, tells him "we’re not gonna take anymore abuse," and brings him hope. But once Papa sobers up, or there’s an "external threat" to the household, Momma stands by her man. Subsequently, they both beat on Boobus and send him to sleep in the woodshed. Without any health coverage or supper.
Boobus Americanus says, "Lot’s of people actually made money during the last Great Depression. Why not this one? This new depression all the experts are talking about is gonna be my GREAT OPPORTUNITY!" That’s the spirit, Boobus! Every man for himself. Unless it’s tax-time, or war-time, or corporate-cutback time, in which case it’s every man for THE MAN.
Perhaps the Greatest Icon in the Pantheon of Boobs is the late Evil Knieval. For he sacrificed his own flesh, blood, and just about every bone in his body, for the entertainment of his fellows. A true (RedWhiteAnd) Blue Celebrity. The only man born of woman who comes close to rivaling the Deus Americanus, Knieval, is the King Himself, Elvis, who couldn’t play guitar nearly as well as the black musicians who invented him, nor compose music at all, but did sacrifice his body for the entertainment of his fellows, and unlike the Great Kneival, or Bono (who’s a Boobus, though not Americanus) could somewhat carry a tune.
Boobus Americanus is renowned for his sympathy. Not empathy, which entails the possession of some imagination, but sympathy. "Those poor little bastards!" says Boobus of the Iraqis, Afghanis, Serbians etc. etc. etc. his Nation has blown to bits. "I know. This year, we’ll get the whole neighborhood together, and all the guys and gals at work, and use all our resources to put together an EXTREME Christmas Care Package. It’ll be the bestest, most spectacular Christmas those little critters ever had!" But, Boobus, my dear fellow, most of these people don’t even celebrate Christmas, one might point out. "That’s the whole point, silly," Boobus will, of course, reply. "That’s why WE’RE over there. To bring Democracy and Christmasize them!"
"Life and Death are REAL things. THIS is neither Life, nor Death. I want OUT," said Mrs. Americanus, before her lawyer filed the papers.
ADAM ENGEL can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org