A Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie story
This is a story about how the world gets shittier and shittier — utterly unnecessarily — one stinky little turd at a time.
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” Thus spake Commandante Clipboard, the Sun City Recreation Center’s micro-minion charged with annoying people and their dogs at the Duffeeland Dog Park.
His is not my first clipboard, so I said, “I think I need to pass on that opportunity.”
“Okaythen,” he forged ahead obliviously, “Can I ask where–uh… Wuh– ?”
“I said, no, I would rather you did not ask me any questions.”
I was there with Naso, of course, and we had stayed too late in the day. It used to be that the park was open twenty-four hours a day, but since the Rec Center took it over locks and chains and orders backed by threats are the order of the day.
“But I have to know if you belong here.”
“Now there’s a topic fit for a philosopher. I am imminent, surely, but does my imminence make me immanent? But, really, practically speaking, addressing such subjects is no path to eminence, much less prominence, and I speak from a lifetime of experience.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Commandante Clipboard was getting steamed, and I confess to taking a certain satisfaction from this particular flavor of petty vengeance.
“I’m trying to help you determine if I belong here. I would argue that my presence is an existential instantiation of a contingent, temporary inevitability: I am here by my own free choice, but while I am here I am incontrovertibly here, I am not anywhere else, and no one else is where I am. If that doesn’t equate to belonging here, then you’ll have to do your own homework.”
“Sir. What is your full name?”
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Volume One of The Naso Diaries