Textural and blazing

~griekspoor

~bartender, I want a bottle of rye whiskey. No, I don't need a glass or rocks, just the bottle. Let her swim naked. Doesn't anyone in this place understand?

You see that jackass over there? He was ruffled the other day and seems to be still, over this and that. What happens in the world, the idiots, and some sense that things aren't what they should be. I love him for it. But between drinks he said that he was disappointed because someone's textural guns were poised but not blazing, and damned if he wasn't talking about me. At least that's how it hit me. Maybe I'm just afraid that someone will think I don't care, that the passion doesn't burn inside me more than this whiskey. It does.

So what. I'll bite, even if your fists weren't swinging at me. No problems getting mixed in someone else's fight.

Remember watching the show M*A*S*H? Or weren't you born yet, maybe. Not you, guy, I'm talking to the whole bar now. I think YOU will understand me. I think YOU will agree. Not sure about the rest of the crowd in here. Maybe not you too. Doesn't matter though.

Where was I? Right, M*A*S*H. Television used to have more meaning, before someone punched a hole in the hull and let it descend into the trench. Not that the show was perfect. Hollywood was still Hollywood, self-absorbed bastards with a camera and too much money. I'm glad the real writers lived and died before they could see how badly some pathetic egoists could mess their work up.

Well, there was this one episode where Hawkeye (I'll drink to you Donald Sutherland, dead as you are, you were worth your salt at least!) went on a mission and came back broken. Not his body, his mind. Mostly that's what happens in war. He wasn't the same person. Tried to get help, but couldn't understand what had caused it. The Viet Cong attacked the village where he was giving medical aid, and he and the people had to take cover. One woman smothered a chicken to keep it quiet; can't give away the position and get them all killed. Everyone survived, where was the horror?

I have a friend who's grand daughter got a job as a nanny. Can't manage their own kid, so they farm it out so they can keep on making money I guess. Or whatever; just my judgment and probably not fair. Never said I was. But she got this job, only to show up and find that the kid thinks she's a dog. And worse, the parents agree too. Used to be an insult if your parents called you a bitch, now it's virtuous. Supportive, understanding, accepting. Love, progress, liberal. Definitions. Wrong and broken ones. Tell me again that definitions don't matter! Who was it last time? Who!

So here we are. Those parents won't get that girl the help she needs. They don't want to, the doctors don't care anyway. Get her a leash and some kibble. That's their answer. Be supportive, dammit! Used to think this was something the nightly news made up for ratings, now I've seen it for myself.

My friend's grand daughter refused to play pretend. Tried to treat the girl like a girl. Got fired for it and came home. Out of state job and she got fired because she wouldn't pretend the girl was a dog. Avant-garde deconstructionist trash treating a young lady like she's the problem with the world, sending her away for trying to do the right thing.

Hawkeye spends more time in the reclined chair. You find out that the chicken wasn't--it was a child. The woman smothered her own child, to save everyone from getting killed. Hawkeye's brain changed it, so he could go on living. Protected him, but broke him too.

Pretend away realities in the world, in humanity, and see where you land. See what your brain does to protect you. A little girl isn't a dog, can't be. Calling her one is a grave insult; don't do it in front of me. No one respects you for it. The people who claim to aren't capable of respect, they're too broken. God, I love them for how broken they are because I am too. I understand, I feel it. But I don't accept it. It isn't progress. You want to keep going down that road, you'll see how broken you will become. You'll see where it will lead. Won't be laughing at you then, I'll be crying.

Is that hate? All that, what I said. Is it? Because I don't agree with you, think you're insane? Because I speak? When I'm not glaring at whoever is talking, I'm glaring at the rules. Don't lecture me about them, I know what they are. I'm not stupid, and I know I agreed to them. Doesn't mean I can't begrudge them. I won't stop. I'm not asking them to change, so don't ask me to change. What's the definition of hate, anyway? Is there a lawyer in he--no, don't. No one will ever trust you again, just keep it to yourself.

Oh yeah, and that story from M*A*S*H? Based on a true one. Served in or have friends who went to Vietnam? Then you already know.

There. That's what you get for a bottle. Went through it fast, but saved the last swig for you.

> You see that jackass over there? He was ruffled the other
> day and seems to be still, over this and that. What happens
> in the world, the idiots, and some sense that things aren't
> what they should be. I love him for it. But between drinks
> he said that he was disappointed because someone's textural
> guns were poised but not blazing, and damned if he wasn't
> talking about me. At least that's how it hit me. Maybe
> I'm just afraid that someone will think I don't care,
> that the passion doesn't burn inside me more than
> this whiskey. It does.