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JWR 2.42 - Why; The Return of the Ramblings


Granted, by now I should be ankle deep in John’s Weekly Ramblings, Version 3.0, but I am still a ways from finishing Volume 2.  Why?  Now there’s a question that has numerous implications.  Some of you should appreciate the question more than others.  Maybe you recall the question “Why?” from The Prisoner television series or maybe “why” was just a larger part of a question directed at me that I would be unable to answer a year after coming to the conclusion that I did not know in the first place.


In my job I’m pretty lost at times simply because I often do not know what we can do.  I was taking about spreadsheets one day and how a WinTerm (hang with me) would benefit the accounting departments and my boss said, “Why don’t we just export what we need directly to the spreadsheet?”  And I said, “We can do that...?”


There are times when no matter what you know or what you think you know (especially since knowledge is subjective and ever changing based on  an infinite number of factors), your whole equation will change dramatically based on one more nugget of information.


For example:  5/1+4*3=17, but if you add a little something to it: 5/(1+4)*3=3, the equation completely changes.


My point is, how am I supposed to know.  It comes to a point where I have a hard enough time trying to figure something out that would appear to be simple, without having to now concentrate on seemingly insoluble questions.  It’s not like I don’t like a challenge or want to experience these things, but you gotta help me out here.  Cryptic and partial ramblings don’t do anything more that push me towards an aneurism.


I don’t know why I stopped writing.  Maybe I ran out of ideas or maybe I felt like nobody read them or that nobody liked them.  My close friends who I see often don’t miss them simply because they have the real thing right in front of them.  Why read about a dick stick when we can hear about if directly from the man?  I know that some people on the list don’t read them because they don’t have the time, whatever that means.  And some don’t read them because I write about dumb stuff like Star Trek.  Well, I’m sorry, but it wasn’t about Star Trek, it was about people on this planet and the symbolism, the SYMBOLISM reflected in pop culture.  Forgive me for attempting to do a little something that I know about and not just because it’s the kind of thing I studied in school.  Open your eyes, come out from the little shielded world in which you reside where clothes and Dave Matthews Band are the important things.  Because real life is not about those things.  And real life is not about saving the children in a foreign country.  Real life, depending upon who you talk to, naturally, is about the struggle to obtain something.  Some people struggle to obtain a relationship with God and some people struggle to obtain wealth.  Some strife to have lots of sex and some just try to fall in love.  But most simply try to obtain a direction.  Where should I go, what should I do... and WHY?


One night I went to McDonalds after work to buy some McNuggets with the wad on McBills from my McPocket.  I ordered twenty chicken McNuggets a large McFry and some sweet and sour McSauce.  When she handed my bag to me, I asked her if my sauce was in there because I did not see her put any in, although I must admit that I did not watch like a hawk.  She says yes, so I thank her and go to grab a couple McNapkins from the McCounter.  I open my bag and see a nine piece box.  Try as they might, no twenty McNuggets are fitting in that little box.  I also figured the sauce was under the box.  So, attempting to keep my cool, I go back up to the front, cutting ahead of three people (what are they gonna do?) and say to Brittany that there’s only a nine piece in the bag.  So she tells me, “No, they put two nine pieces in there.”  I immediately understand, but check anyway because, forgive me, just because.  As I check, the manager who is a snaggle toothed wench who has personally messed up an order of mine on more than one occasion pipes up, “Yeah, they put two nine pieces in there,” just as I visually confirm that there are indeed two nine pieces.  As I said earlier, I understand.  So I begin to ask for my sauce but the manager cuts me off begins to say “Nine and nine is twenty.”  I stood there as she began saying this, interrupting me in my quest for sauce which I specifically asked for and specifically asked if they were in the bag to hear nine and nine is twenty.  In about seventeen years of schooling, nine and nine has never equaled twenty.  The closest I have heard anything like that is from 1984 when it is insisted that two plus two is five.  I started looking around for Big Brother watching me because if that was the case, then I had a lot more to worry about than my sauce.  It may not sound like it from the way I relay it here, but, without missing a beat, I told her, “Well, nine and nine is eighteen, but that’s beside the point.”  As I have mentioned to you all earlier, I understand what they were doing.  As I tried to ask again for my sauce, she interrupted me again and said, “Sir, they put ten nuggets in each box.”  Again, yes, I understand what they were trying to do.  About this time, the fire within me began to stoke itself.  Although I kept calm on the outside, inside my brain was trying to convince my mouth to yell.  Ever seen Falling Down with Michael Douglas?  Yeah, he was too passive.  Meanwhile this burger monkey is trying to instill in me the faulty equation: 9+9=20; no, I get it, what it actually is: (9+1)+(9+1)=20, that little piece of the puzzle, the little part of “why” I was missing before, even though I would have let it go without those parenthesis.  I get the notion that two nine pieces is close enough to pass combined for a twenty piece.  I can get that, I can wrap my mind around that without a problem.  But why can’t I just get a word in edgewise and ask, for a third time, can I have my sauce?  The fire was telling me to slam my bag on the counter and relish the sight of the recycled paper ripping open and fries and twenty nuggets flying all over the place, hitting people who were innocent bystanders like anyone hurt by a car bomb in Palestine.  I am the suicide bomber of McDonalds.  They I would slam my fist on the counter several times until everyone shut up, because they would.  They I would yell, “I WANT MY FUCKING SAUCE!”  I did nothing like that.  After she stopped telling me about the ten nuggets in each box, I calmly said, “Good, but what I would like is the sauce that I asked for.”  She said to the girl, “Give him his sauce.”  Permission, orders, perhaps it really was 1984.  When I got home, you can be sure I counted those nuggets and I’ll be damned if there weren’t twenty in all.


Why can’t we communicate?  Why do we lose touch?


I don’t know, but I never wanted it to happen.


More to come for this is not the end.




Copyright © 2002 John Lemut