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  It’s no secret, the economy blows. I don’t need to keep up on the latest word from the Wall Street Journal to figure it out. I simply look in my back pocket.
My wallet – a male symbol of maturity, of post-adolescent togetherness – was at one time filled, often to capacity, with crisp, green bills and an abundance of condoms. No longer is that the case. I look inside, searching for remnants of the past, a better time, but sorely I am greeted only by loneliness and the fleeting thought of what once was. The crappiest part about it is that, concerning money or sex, you can be happy with one or the other. When you have money, if you aren’t shackin’ up with a gold-digging beauty, you can still be happy with your money. If you don’t have money, you can say, “Well, at least I’m getting my hump on,” all the while retaining some sense of dignity.
Then there is the possibility that you have neither. Like when there are no green bills and no rubber penis plugger caps in the wallet. Looking into that leather void I begin to realize how important shapes are. Rectangles of money. Squares of foil wrappers with noticeable circles inside. And all these things. I miss them… So I’ve adopted one, what one book called, trait of highly successful people in times of economic instability: I am developing five-year plan. But not for success. When people talk about the economy, they always end a depressing statement with, “Well, it’s bound to get better. It will even out.” They say it definitively, like they puppeteer the instability of the free market. But they don’t. They don’t do shit, which is reassuring, I guess. But what if it doesn’t get better? What if the USA, once a beacon of wealth, freedom and binge drinking, doesn’t bounce back? Well, that’s a possibility I’m willing to prepare for. Enter: Operation Redneck.  Bobbi Sue Jones with June But there's a problem. It’s also known that rednecks don’t have a lot of money. Problem solved. Instead of subscribing to the notion of the more money one has, the hotter the girl/guy he/she will bone, go the inverse. The less money, the less attractive. It’s science. Because we all know it is way easier to bone an ugly person. Trust me, I’ve tried. So, the first move is to pick up your (marginally) better half in a drinking establishment; preferably one not current with any moral standards or hygienic regulations, where the jukebox ranges from AC/DC to Metallica to ZZ Top. Spot somebody at the bar, preferably wearing a leather biking jacket and/or wearing too much perfume. Maybe the two of you hit it off, get drunk on some well gin and go back to her place (the trailer park) and copulate. But pay no mind to your senses. It’s likely you won’t want to look at your partner, all the while trying your best to ignore the stenches from the cumulative nether-regions. It’s probably advisable to wear headphones, because instead of the sexy, sultry voice you’ve dreamed of, the emphysema-induced hack will surely disappoint. The taste of well drinks and cheap lipstick lingering on her lips doesn’t need to be further described. So then you realize that it’s gosh darn easy to call up the barfly, whose nickname may as well be VD, and sow your wild oats. So eventually you become addicted to sexing her and you lose your job, so you do the only logical thing; you move in to her double-wide. Since you just started unemployment and she has food stamps, you figure it all the easier to just get hitched to swamp thing. So you do. After all, the rest of the jobs are getting cut, you're just beating the crowd to the hand-me-outs. You sly dog, you. During your honeymoon at the State Fair, you initiate baby-making sessions, because you figure the more hands around the trailer means more work that’ll get done on all those rusted out frames of cars out on the “lawn.” So she starts poppin’ those things out like firecrackers at the “Fourf er’ Jeeeuuwlii.” Remember, at this point you haven’t “brushed your teeth,” one might say. You figure it easier to ward off bad breath by drinking more Keystone or Natural Ice, whichever is on sale. So your annunciation suffers, and your teeeeff fall out. But neither of you mind because what you lack in chompers you make up in the length of your unwashed mullet. But you don’t want to show it off all the time, so you invest in a used trucker hat. Because it just makes sense. So there you have it. Within a couple years you’ll know all the Walmart and liquor store staff by name, and they, you. Those unemployment checks just keep rolling in. Even the weeds in the yard got tired of looking at you, so they died. And you like your life. Because its simple. It just make sense. You get your children – Junior, Jr. and June (she’s a girl) – slingshots for Christmas and teach them how to hunt squirrel. When it comes down to it, you evolved to survive the economy, but the economy bounced back. You didn’t. Then you unemployment stops, so you sell your kids. Just ride that pony 'til the next depression hits. You'll be ready. This is my five-year plan. Won't you join me? |
The Josh
