NO-PLANNING COMMISSION MEETS TONIGHT; CITY COUNCIL MEETS TOMORROW NIGHT (LINK)Because of the two City meetings this week, there is excitement in The Lonely Old Man's rented room above the bus station as the Lonely Old Man gets ready to crank up his black and white TV to watch what others do.
The Lonely Old Man furiously looks around the room to find his favorite pair of dirty boxer shorts--he always dresses for City meetings on TV--and, for a moment, fears that
THEY have
snuck into his room and stolen them.
Then, to his relief, he spots them over in the corner under his pile of empty tuna fish cans. He had missed them at first glance because they were covered with cockroaches. He quickly grabs them and puts them on and admires his soft puffy maggot looking flesh in the mirror. This is the way a man should look, he thinks to himself: No whiskers, no angular lines, no muscle tone. Why, a man should look soft and paunchy like a eunuch.
It's not that the Lonely Old Man actually set out to have a weak mind in a weak body, but it just happened. And, human psychology being what it is, the Lonely Old Man now tries to justify, at least in his own mind, his
untermensch presence as the norm.
Then, looking more like a shrill old hag than a man, he shoos some of his pet cockroaches off his Commodore 64 and hunts and pecks out his criticism of others who actually do something. "It's the end of Costa Mesa if
THEY get elected," he writes. "There will be concentration camps and jack-booted soldiers strutting up and down Harbor Blvd. demanding the papers of all who pass by."
"And," he continues, "I think the City Council should ban Christmas trees from the city this year. Do you know how many fires are caused by Christmas trees? Why, er, a lot. And, a lot is, well, a lot. Do you want the City of Costa Mesa to burn to the ground? Well, do you? And, besides, not everyone celebrates Christmas and we are a diverse city. You haters who put up Christmas trees...sputter...sputter...sputter. And, what about that cattle drive down Harbor Blvd? Don't you realize a cow tipped over a lantern and burned down Chicago?"
"And, what about the lactose intolerant? How do you think they feel when they see the City paying to send all those milk producing cattle down the street? This is hatred of the lactose intolerant, pure and simple. And, here's the dirty little secret about this: most lactose intolerant people are non-whites!
(Link) This cattle drive is racist! You're trying to kick all non-whites out of the city and this is just one more way you're telling them they're not welcome!"
The Lonely Old Man learned long ago that if you never do anything in life, no one can ever criticize you. And, he's lived his lifeless life that way ever since. Now, he just sits in his rented room and criticizes others all day long and never fears being criticized himself because he never does anything. It's life as a sterile sessile lump of protoplasm.
The Lonely Old Man has always been a loser. He was never a doer. Maybe it was because he was born with a paucity of testosterone (Does he even have to shave?). He never had children. Couldn't. Never had a real life. Wouldn't. He was born as an empty husk and that never changed. He was born with spark plugs that just weren't
gapped properly.
He worked dead end jobs and never accomplished anything. Life just passed him by. Spring never existed within the Lonely Old Man. The sap didn't rise. He was born winter. He wasted the minutes of his life, perhaps thinking that tomorrow he'd do something, but tomorrow was always tomorrow for him and it was always one day ahead of him and he never reached tomorrow.
Tomorrow, for the Lonely Old Man, was like the hat on the ground that the sad sack in the old movies was trying to pick up with his hand while always kicking it just out of reach with his foot.
Now, the Lonely Old Man is bitter. Lacking life himself, he hates life. In his few cogent and lucid moments he realizes that he is old and that he never lived. He was always afraid of something or someone. He never reached for the stars because he was afraid he'd fail. The life-force was always weak in the Lonely Old Man.
He suddenly hears kids laughing and having fun outside his room. "How dare they?!" He peeks out through the blinds and shrieks in his
girly voice: "Hey, you kids get off my lawn!" "Hey, don't light off fireworks!" "Hey don't ride those skateboards!" "You over there, your bicycle is making too much noise!" "Stop dripping ice cream on my sidewalk!"
John
Greenleaf Whittier could have been writing about the Lonely Old man when he penned these words: "For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: 'It might have been!'"
Now, dear friends, the above is obviously fiction, and the Lonely Old Man bears no resemblance to any living person in Costa Mesa, but watch as someone thinks the above is written about them.
Such is the neurotic pathology and aberrant psychology of the Lonely Old Man--an archetype that is best avoided.
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