The pulse-pounding conclusion.

Please read Part I and Part II first.

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Make sure and read Part I first.

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In honor of the holidays, I could post some sort of long, detailed rant about why Christmas is a load of nonsense- how it was Christianity trying to compete with the Pagan holiday season, how it has absolutely nothing to do with Jesus, and all the other fun stuff that religious folk try to ignore. Or I could do something that hasn’t already been done better (here), and write a three-part script about the holiday spirit as seen through the eyes of a young chitlin named Jake. I personally liked the latter idea more.

I’m postin’ this using Scrippets, so it reads down like the actual script. It might be foreign-looking for some, but I think the lot of you will get it.

Anyways, I give you Santa God. Part I.

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“Hairy beast!”
“You killed my cattle!”
“All Bigfoots are terrorists!”
“Lesser-evolved apelike thing!”

These are just a few of the things I hear people shoutin’ at Obama, and I’d like to take a moment to sit down and tell you all something very important:

Barack Obama isn’t Bigfoot.

It’s typical right-wing propaganda: Just one big ol’ pack of lies being sold to the masses- albeit the illiterate, borderline retarded and probably-sufferin’-from-ADD masses, but the masses nonetheless. And since I’ve never been one to stand by idly while people get all mixed up over simple things like this, I thought I’d take a moment to demonstrate just how, exactly, Mr. Obama is not Bigfoot.

First, there’s geography. Bigfoot typically roams the mountainous region of the Pacific Northwest, eatin’ berries and cattle, but also sometimes lurkin’ in random dells in Oklahoma (sorta like the Unibomber). He’s fond of snowy weather, deep forests, and the dark of night. Barack Obama, however, spent most of his childhood roaming the tropical-forests of Hawaii, eatin’ people food and genearlly hanging out with non-bigfoots. He’s fond of nice people an’ warm places, and tends to favor daylight.

Next there’s his upbringing. Bigfoots are usually reared to one father and half a dozen mothers, and are taught from birth how to avoid detection an’ make people- via telepathy- use digital zoom and no tripod when they’re on camera. They’re also, as a species, vehemently opposed to the consumption of alcohol, as it tends to send them into blind rages resulting in massacres only slightly more destructive than nuclear war (Bigfoots are a peaceful people and wish to avoid this). Obama, on the other hand, was reared by his birth mother and a monogamist father-figure. Barack Obama has also always encouraged crisp, clear video footage of himself, leaving little doubt that he actually exists.

And Finally, Mr. Obama’s stated beliefs. Bigfoots spends five times a day praying to the Badger, an omnipotent being that exists mostly in the fourth dimension (but who we occasionally see as a furry, angry little creature wandering the forest and decimating all opposition). If you wanna ask a Bigfoot how they feel about the whole God thing, you’ll hafta draw a diagram ’cause they don’t really understand English so well. And if you draw a diagram of a Badger, you’ll prolly get eaten. Bigfoots don’t like blasphemy. Barack Obama, however, won’t eat you if you show him a picture of a badger, or even one of a big scary man in the clouds. That’s right: Barack Obama has stated many a time that he prays to an invisible man living in the sky just like 77% of all Americans. Sillier than praying to a Badger? Maybe. But he’s definitely not Bigfoot.

But now I have to ask a question that demands an answer: What if- and I say this knowing full well that he’s not- but what if, Obama was indeed Bigfoot? I honestly don’t see the problem. Oooh maybe he doesn’t speak English, ooh maybe he’ll eat you if you go drawing badgers, oooh maybe the news media will have to stop using tripods. But so what? Just because he’s Bigfoot means he’s a less viable option for President?

That’s just elitist, ’cause the only people that I hear whining about it are zombie worshippers. And I’m sorry, but you’re no better Mr. “ooh I laugh at Bruce Campbell movies but still expect people to take my religion seriously” person. Zombie defense missions, hypocrisy against the Great Zombie’s Rules, and even disagreement on how to believe in zombies. Oh sure, Bigfoot has had his share of massacres and terrorist strikes in the name of the Badger, but that just means he’s on equal footing with you. No better, no worse.

And that’s what I’m really getting at here. Even if Mr. Obama were Bigfoot- and he most certainly is not- saying he is like it’s a character flaw is just silly. Just ’cause Bigfoot is typically found in the woods, prayin’ to a badger, doesn’t mean he doesn’t have spaceships and flying cities and digital watches just like everyone else.

And saying otherwise is plain ignorant.

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Cafeteria. Any given shift.

Whee, another day on the job. It’s nice to know there are still places that doll out two dollars above the minimum wage for physical labor Stephen Hawking could do, as opposed to Troy, where raises above $6.15/h for actual labor are about as likely as women on the internet.

And speakin’ of, the ones here aren’t too bad. In fact, I dare say most of them are cute. I mean judging by their conversations as a lot of them pass by they shouldn’t have graduated third grade, but hey. You can’t be picky.

Some of them could stand to eat more though. Maybe I’m just not into the whole skeletal-fucking thing. I dunno. Something about boning a holocaust survivor has never appealed to me.

Like this chick here. Obviously emo- you know, all you have to do is read the shirts anymore. It’s either some incredibly, incredibly (no seriously, fucking awful) shitty band or some vague and pretentious poetry in that one font that nobody uses because you can’t goddamned read it. Anyways, I mean this chick might be nice when she’s not cutting herself or crying along to the latest Paramore dump, but maybe if she went through the main serving line instead of just the salad line with a bowl, she wouldn’t look like one of Hitler’s “just-missed”. I mean, if she spent half the time she did putting on that eyeliner, dyeing and combing her hair so nicely, and buying those designer women’s…

…Pants. Wait.

Oh God.

That’s not a girl at all.

No.
NO.

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I said I was actually going to post. Hah.

The “about” page has been updated with more relevant details, so now it reads like a mini-biography of this place. Self-indulgence- and how.

More posts are comin’.

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McCain supporters:

Scientology supporters:

Xenu would totally vote McCain.

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Trampolines are a subtle way for parents to try and kill their children. “He accidentally launched off the side and compressed his spine” is easier to deal with than “I accidentally threw the little shit off the roof” I guess. But somehow, almost invariably, the kids with trampolines were the ones you wanted to hang out with as a wee tot.

Before living in Troy, one of my best friends in New Meadows had an enormous rectangular one (in addition to a SNES and an RV that we used as a fort- fuck, that kid was awesome), and it was always a matter of begging my mom to be able to play on it. As long as somebody was watching. Not that we needed supervision- Christ, I was five, maybe six years old. Practically an adult. So we’d bounce up and down, getting ridiculously high (stop giggling), and accidentally steal each others’ bounces. On a side note, I always found that damned terrifying- here you are, being innocently thrown up and down on this rubbery material, you land, and then fucking LAUNCH high enough to see your mom in your house five miles away yelling “you’ll break your legs on the way down!”. Here I am, 21 years old, and I still don’t understand the physics of that. Probably why I’m a film major.

Anyways, despite the fact that I loved hanging out with that kid, that trampoline was a big deal in itself when ever I went over to his house. So when we moved to Troy, I gravitated towards a neighbor who had all of the same cool shit.

I remember the first time I saw the Ramondellis- 250 Hummingbird Lane was a freshly tree-decapitated plot of dirt with a massive hole in the center. They (I’m not sure who “they” were, only that in later years it became obvious that “they” suck at building basements) were just starting to do the concrete for the basement, and I was standing in the backyard (though it was still just a bunch of entertainingly malleable dirt/clay). It was cloudy I think. Anyways, from up the back hill come these two unfamiliar big kids that my brother apparently knew, but I didn’t. Jeni and Griffin. They had left Shan below (typical game of “let’s see if we can get rid of the little one”), and a few minutes later he appeared.

Shan was a douche. I like him fine now, but not everybody is a little ball of sunshine as a child (myself obviously included). But we were neighbors and I was new, so a friendship was “encouraged” (after all, the only other person my age in the neighborhood was Jordan, and wimmins were gross). And it was ok, because he had cool stuff like a console and, yep, a motherfucking trampoline.

So we hung out occasionally. That’s how I came to know Rich, as “Shan’s dad”. A large man (at least when you’re seven years old), a scary man (when he yelled at Shan), and a man with a hammock.

Trampolines. One summer day we were bouncing- typical day really (if only fucking around on a trampoline were a common activity for adults). Something happened that caused me to swear. Like most kids by the age of six, I had a full vocabulary of swear words (as much as parents will try to pretend it’s not possible, sorry, we were all swearing at recess by kindergarten) so it wasn’t a huge shock to Shan or myself. But just to be a dick, as his dad walked by, this happened:

“Oh and Dad, Chris is swearing.”
Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no, he’s gonna tell my mom.
There’s a fretted brow and look of dismay.
Rich: “How old are you Chris?”
“…10”.
He shook head, then went back inside.
No parents were informed.

I figured he was an alright dad at this point.

Flash forward to Junior High: One of those bullshit days where we don’t get P.E. and are forced into Health stuff in the library (Health: where, prior to broadband, all adolescents got exposed to childbirth, successfully killing masturbatory needs for a week). We walked out of the doors by the library- you know, the ones that take you through the last little vestiges of Jr. High lockers, the half lockers stacked on top of each other where those unfortunate souls with last names at the end of the alphabet are relegated to. Nowhere near as cool as a locker in the hallway.

Anyways, it’s myself and Matt Etienne. He’s on about something, I forget what, and I probably wasn’t paying attention anyways. Mr. Ramondelli was though:

“You talking to yourself Matt?”
I snicker.
Matt sputters.
“Hey you know what Matt, that’s ok. You know, some of the best conversations you’ll ever have in life will be with yourself.”

That quote has stuck with me as clearly as the day he said it (at least six years ago). It was just… True. Even before he said it and certainly to this day, I’ve always been able to figure things out better (or just amuse myself) via self-discussion. I guess it was just refreshing to hear an adult say that.

So what’s the point of all these trampolines and swearing and schizophrenia-in-denial anecdotes? Childhood. Growing up. Troy, MT. These are the things that Mr. Ramondelli has been and always will be inextricably linked to for me and, I believe, for most of the kids that grew up with me.

Living in a town of one thousand people means that you see the same faces almost daily for the duration of your stay there. For me, Mr. Ramondelli was “there” for 13 years of my life. Around the neighborhood, at school, at the store where I worked- and the fact that he no longer is, well, it could be sad and I’m sure it is for a lot of people. But for me… It serves as a catalyst to all sorts of great memories I hadn’t thought about in years: Line-driving a softball at him in P.E. and getting that “holy shit” look in return, busting out the scoreboard with a kickball and wondering if he was gonna flog me, watching him try to deal with Kenny (“my dog eats popcorn”, “…That’s great Kenny”), having to do those hilariously-bad plays in World History (solely for his amusement, I’m convinced), his curiously wandering into Mr. Jones’s class when he was bored across the hall, and just that enthusiastic voice that no one who ever hears it will be able to forget.

Mr. Ramondelli.
Yeah.
The next generation of Troy kids will be missing out.

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