The Cheshire Cat With a Side of Pork and Beans

I've always felt that the world is more mad than broken. Although, I suppose there is probably a fair amount of brokenness required to achieve madness. So, it may just be that one cannot exist without the other. That is a matter way beyond my slightly irregular, shouldn't have made it past quality control, intellect to comprehend. As a result of having an IQ that is P-U, I tend to lean on the simplest definition of madness or insanity which is, "Doing the same thing over and over again while expecting to a achieve a different result." Of course, depending on the circumstances, this futility can definitely invite insanity's bedfellow, brokenness to the party. Though simplistic, I think this simple definition of insanity pretty much describes humanity from day one. Wars rarely solve anything, but we still fight them. Kindness is always more fruitful than cruelty, but there's still plenty of cruelty in humanity. Political systems continue to fail or outright abuse those they're supposed to protect, yet we still use the same systems, contenting ourselves with minor cosmetic modifications. It's like chosing a purple shaft today over the same tried and true green shaft our leaders have been shoving up our collective asses for centuries. Sure, it's different, but it doesn't change that fact that we're still getting a shaft. So, the difference is pretty irrelevant. In short, I think that the great sage of insanity, the Cheshire Cat put it best when he said, "We're all mad here." I guess the real question is, can a mad person navigate a mad world without being swallowed by the world's mass, twisted, often dangerous, cruel, and narcissistic madness? Consequently, are we doomed to share society's collective delusion of grandeur that allows each of us to somehow assume that we're modern day Napolean Bonaparts while simultaneously believing that we're also genius artists who work solely in the medium of feces using the walls of our padded cells as our canvas? Can we have our own madness that is unique to us, an insanity that separates the individual from the rest of the rabid lunatics in the world at large? I'd like to think so.

Personally, I try to mold my delusions into something benign or if not benign, then only harmful to myself. For example, I write. My writing is unrefined, often without purpose, and is more manic than a tweaker with a set of tools and a broken lawnmower. Plus, there's a good chance that the Oscar Myer hotdog jingle will show up at random times somewhere within the pork and beans of my prose, but it's my writing and it harmlessly gives my delusions a little playtime. However, for the more timid reader who possesses a little dignity and sense of decorum, reading anything I write provides a mild psychological shock similar to what one experiences when pissing on a live electric fence. The lesson is learned immediately after the electricity climbs the conductive arc of urine and lights up the individual's mommy or daddy parts. So, after a good zap of my writing and a couple of melted fillings, odds are, the timid reader won't be doing that again. With this newfound wisdom born of a very negative experience, the timid reader knows better and the next time they'll take a pass on readng an post by Shallowgenepool.

Professionally, I have sculpted the dry humping a fire hydrant level of crazyness that is a regular part of my job into a bit of cathartic delusion. For example, when the office is intolerably quiet, the voices in my head become bored which leads to psychotic naughtiness. This isn't a good thing because engaging in my brand of psychotic naughtiness will likely lead to unemployment and a criminal court date. Seeking to alleviate this very dangerous boredom, it's not unusual for my coworkers in the neighboring cubicles to hear me suddenly break out in, "YOU MAKE ME FEEL...YES, YOU MAKE ME FEEL, YOU...MAKE...ME...FEEL...LIKE...A...NATURAL.......WOOOOOMAAAAN" in my singing voice that can best be described as a tone-deaf, pubescent, prone to cracking, and dolphin with hemorrhoids-like, falsetto. I don't care that I'm an almost 50 year old man. It's my delusion and Aretha Franklin was a goddess, I really don't care what my coworkers think. They can either move to a different floor or they can sing backup, I'm good with both choices. Singing spontaneous Motown melodies at the top of my nails on a chalkboard voice allows me to get through the fucking day without trying to silence the voices in my head by cracking my own skull wide open with a three hole punch!

At home, my lunacy is diffused by reading. My reading is as manic as my writing. One week I'll read Steinbeck, Twain, Orwell, or Shakespeare, the next week I'll read a totally predictable zombie, werewolf, or vampire novel (and no, the Twilight Series doesn't qualify, even at my worst I have better standards than that). There's no reason to my choice. It's as spontaneous as a fifteen year old boy cumming within two seconds of being invited to touch a girl, "There" for the first time. One week I may choose to read a work of great beauty and wisdom and the next week I'll be reading the literary equivalent of left over Taco Bell that's been in the refrigerator for three months. Of course, my manically driven choice of reading material is a bit embarrassing at times, but in the end, it hurts no one.

Music hath charms that soothe the savage beast. It's true or in my case, I try to rock the voices in my head to sleep, or when that doesn't work, to drown them out entirely. For example, on my commute home from work, I will snarl along with Dave Mustaine and "Tornado of Souls," celebrate debachery with the Rolling Stones belting out, "She's so cold," or shiek to Valhalla with Led Zeppelin's, "Immigrant Song." Some people shoot heroin. Some people drink. Some people pray. Some people dress up like a 19th century German school boy and get spanked by a 300 pound woman dressed like a Swedish milk maid. Me, I worship at the feet of the rock gods and goddesses.The end result is that I make it home without entering a psychotic rage resulting in me taking a tire iron to the driver of the motherfucking Tesla that is apparently saving battery charge by NOT USING HIS FUCKING BLINKER!

Well, there is no escaping madness. We really are all mad here. The difference is we can MY BOLONEY HAS A FIRST NAME IS O-S-C-A-R, MY BOLONEY HAS A SECOND NAME, IT'S M-A-Y-E-R and join the often harmful insanity of society or we can shape our own madness like sculpting mashed potatoes into a scale model of Mount Rushmore. Being crazy may be inescapable, but being a crazy dick, that's a choice. Ha! I bet you were thinking I'd add the Oscar Mayer hotdog jingle in here somewhere!