Mr. Cope's Cave: Good Morning, Sunshine!

by

How are you, this bright, fine day? Say, did you happen to see Savannah Guthrie’s teeth this morning? Is it my imagination, or were they even bigger than normal?

Jeez, Cope! That was uncalled for... making some rude crack about the size of some nice woman’s teeth. And who do you think you are, anyway? I suppose your teeth are just the right size.

Oh, calm down. I was just making small talk. The truth is, that entire opening was an experiment. I don’t really give a crap about how big Savannah Guthrie’s teeth are, and I’m just pretending to call you “Sunshine.” I’ve never called anyone “Sunshine” in my life, and meant it.

The deal is, I’m still trying on tones for this blog thing. The next time, I might start with something like, “Hey turd! Don’t you have anything better to do than sit on your fat ass in front of a computer and piss away your time on websites like this?”

Furthermore, I have no idea if it’s a bright, fine day, or if Mount St. Helens blew again and it's raining ash and fire and we won’t see the sun again until all plant life is dead and we’re wading through the corpses of our neighbors, looking for something unputrid to gnaw on.

See, I’m writing ahead. I don’t want to get caught short on blog material. Who knows if I’ll have anything to write about on the day this appears. And when I committed to doing this, I was advised against doing it hit or miss. Like, you see in a lot of individual’s blogs that they were all full of things to say for about the first three or four entries, and then they peter out like some hyperactive kid falling asleep.

I don’t want to do that. And the only way I can be sure I’ll have something to say... say, eight or nine days from now... is to say it now and keep it in the freezer until I need it.

Of course, that detracts considerably from the spontaneity of the thing. But let me tell you something: Spontaneity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. That Rob Ford guy, for instance. You know who I mean... the body Chris Farley was re-incarnated into, which somehow ended up Lord High Mayor of Toronto. Now, that guy is spontaneous.

•••

No, if this material you’re reading at the moment shows up in the blog shop on the day I suspect it will, it means I wrote most of it days ahead. And if I’m right, it’s now the day after Thanksgiving—Black Friday—and I have nothing to say about Black Friday you haven’t heard before. Except maybe this:

If you’re one of the pathetic sacks of meaningless crap who camped out days ago in front of some cheesy consumer trap so you could be among the first in line to get your new toy...

...or even worse: if you are one of the pathetic sacks of meaningless crap who were out shopping yesterday (Thanksgiving Day), thereby encouraging those cheesy consumer traps to demand that their employees turn their backs on their loved ones on one of the two days on which we used to suspend commerce out of respect for familial love and the dignity of individuals as something other than a monkey on a money-grinder’s leash...

...then you are despicable.

I blame you even more than I blame the stores for this vile circumstance. After all, corporations—like sharks—exist only to feed and grow, and it’s a fool’s illusion to think they will ever behave differently out of such values as conscience or compassion.

But you—that sack of meaningless crap upon which they feed—you should know better. You should know that the poor clerk who ran your new had-to-have-it, Chinese-churned-out gee-gaw through the check-out line, needed desperately to be home with her loved ones, that one day, yesterday. That, and hopefully Christmas, that’s all she asked. Out of the whole year, Thanksgiving and Christmas are the most she could expect, that on those days, she could share wholeheartedly in the joy of being among those people for whom she does it all, for whom she slaves away there on her bad feet for eight or more hours a day, every day, month after month, putting up with slobby, thoughtless, rude, greedy, childish assholes like you, and with a corporate-mandated smile on her face and a “Have a nice day” when she’s done with you. Two days, that’s all she’s hoped for. For the health and well-being and nourishment of her soul, that’s all she’s hoped for.

But no, you had to have it, didn’t you?... that Chinese-churned out gee-gaw. And the corporate honchos (who, incidentally, spent yesterday with whatever family can still stand to be around them in some rich-dick squat like Aspen or Kuwait) made damn sure you’d get it. Your new toy. Because getting your money for that f***ing thing is more important to them than the people who sold it to you.

You sack of crap.

•••

OK, Sunshine. That’s it for now. Have a nice day, what’s left of it, okee-doke?