Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Mellow fuckin' yellow.

Whoa there Ringo.  Lower your voice and take your hands off the horn, pal.  You're causing a scene and turning purple into the bargain - and nobody should hit that particular shade of puse over something so trivial.  It's not life or death, it's a parking space.  Repeat after me :  Fucking.  Parking.  Space.  It's not like I've not just drugged and boned your daughter, burgled your house or run over your wittle doggie.  All I've done is reach a parking space before you - I don't think you need to be calling the United Nations or Amnesty International just yet.

Seriously, chillax already.  Take it easy with Cadbury's Caramel.  Take stock, take deep breaths, take yourself on vacation if you need to but for the love of all things holy, get a grip.  Get a sense of fucking perspective and get it now.  Then when you've done that, you may want to contemplate sticking your monstah-monstah truck in reverse and jamming yourself into one of those fifty other spaces that are over the other side and beckoning you seductively.  Go on... you know you want to, you supermarket carpark little man-whore-tart.  You know it makes sense.  Now, fuck off already.

There was a time I was just like you, Ringo.  Caffeinated to the eyeballs, smoke hanging from my lips I walked fast, talked faster and twitched like an electrified corpse from the moment I woke to the moment I passed out again.  Life was stress stress stress, deadline deadline deadline.  What if I don't get there in time?  What if I get a bad reaction when I do get there?  What if I'm not prepared or unable to answer a question?  What if I look stupid?  What if a meteor hits the earth and disrupts my internet service?  What if Bo Bice doesn't win American Idol?  How will I cope?  What's that churning, rising inferno in my stomach?  Am I going to vomit over myself or shit myself and why the hell can't I find a fucking parking space in this fucking car park?  Does acid indigestion count as a disability?  It's gonna have to - time's a-pressin' and that disabled space aint gonna fill itself....

These days it's not that I care less, I just stress less.  If you'd caught me back then, sure I'd have had a good old stand-up argument with you Ringo.  I'd have sworn, called you a fucker and given as good as I got, but you're a few years too late my friend.  You lucked out and got the new and improved calm version - the guy who's smiling because he thinks you're acting like a major dick over something minor.  The guy who knows that life just happens and that shit just happens.  Deadlines come and deadlines go and sometime the world does bad things to good people.  Sometimes the world does good things to bad people and sometimes it seems unfair.  Sometimes the only thing you have real control over is how you react when you have no control.  Too zen for you here Ringo?  Doesn't matter - the fact is that no matter what, life goes on around it all and that's the pool we're all swimming in pal.  You get angry, you splash around here and those ripples will travel all the way to the other side.  Long after you've stopped thrashing around like Angry Angus the Incandescent Octopus, those ripples will still be there to disrupt the stillness.  You want that life?  You happy being one of those guys who screams at people in car parks?  You want a life where you get red faced and apoplectic all because someone brought their car to a halt in a place you'd planned to do the same?  If that's what you want then you go for it.  You knock yourself out - just don't expect me to give a shit these days.  Go do your bombs in someone else's pool because these days I know when to hang on and and when to let go, when to care and when to care not.  Where your indignation here is concerned, I don't care and I'm gonna have to let you go.  On your way, go with god, all the best and other such platitudes.  I'll see you inside once you've managed to find a park, yeah?

1 comments:

Indigo Roth said...

I'm with you. I'm 45, and the idiocy of my youth has given way to a gentler middle-aged idiocy and bad knees. I drive slower, even. He wants that space more than me? He's welcome to it. Look, there's another, a few yards further from the door. No problem. But if he interferes with my pizza, I may still have some feisty left in me, that's all I'm saying. Indigo