Wearing a Dead Man's Clothes

I've been pulling back into my own little world lately. It made me think of Temple Grandin. She's autistic, but incredibly successful at designing animal enclosures. Temple entered this field because she realized the stimuli that bother cattle , while unnoticeable to most folks, also set her off. For instance, Ranchers have difficulty wioth their herds getting incredibly restless at a particular part of their enclosure. Temple walks in and says "get rid of that jangling chain on that far wall, or I'm going to freak out." Autism, from what little I understand, consists of a wide variety of difficulties, not least of which is an inability to experience physical intimacy without extreme discomfort and difficulty. It's impossible to eliminate this need for contact. It's innate to Human Nature. Mengele proved it by supplying babies with all the nutrients necessary for survival, but depriving them of Human Contact. All of them died in short order. To solve this quandary I've found myself in recently, I've decided to start sleeping in a coffin.


Not really, but I could use a hug. This tiring sense of impersonal distance is tying me to the other lost souls that I can hear through the walls. I think the only way to help them is to make hug chairs. It'd be simple; just a chair with two arms to hold you. I imagine it could be operated through a series of simple levers.


Then we could all be cute and blonde, along with everything right in the world. I'm not as upset as I sound. I just get a little lonely going to work and going home with nothing in between. Speaking of work, if one more person walks away talking shit, then I'm going to hop on their back and break that bronco like the natural-born Cowboy Thug I was born to be.



Which remind me of this Mumblemouth Motherfucker I used to work with at Pizza Hut back when I was a pup. he was one of those folks who refused to acknowledge repeated attempts at walking away from a conversation/monologue. He was always talking at me from across a pizza oven, and sometimes even through it. Nothing but s& incomprehensible Old West Hogwash would come out of his mouth. He drove a $150 Hatchback with a Competition Bass System. It was Obnoxious loud. Funny part is, he would play Warrant & Whitesnake and shit like that with the Bass turned ALL the way up. She's my Cherry Pie came out sounding like Boom-Boom-Boombum-Boom with the glass all rattling. He did his own tint on the windows, and it was half bubbles. On his back window, he had written, with the most generic WalMart white stencil letters, "Bitchs aint' shit." I kid you not. At least he spelled shit right.



Oh well... I've been doing twice as much work lately, but it's tolerable because the Good Ol' Boy who used to run the warehouse quit. Now I rock the warehouse with the fresh beats instead of some contemporary I-wish-Iwas-a-hillbilly/cowboy-but-I'm-actually-just-dim Muzak. That shit makes me want to fuck a tractor.