Foodgasm And A New Religion

I’m in the middle of editing the newest Spankland post, but fucked if I’m in the mood for it.  So I’m gonna just write for a little bit and clear some of the shit out of my head.  Read or ignore at your convenience:

The mood here at work is fucking grim.  Literally everyone is pissed off and ready to walk.  The only thing keeping that from happening is a fear of homelessness.  Today the factory workers had a Christmas potluck lunch.  One of the guys came into my office and told me Oswaldo wanted to talk to me.  So I went out to the factory and everyone was sitting at a table and eating and Oswaldo pointed to the food and said, “Eat some food, Tim,” and then handed me a plate.  I wasn’t even that hungry but anyone who passes up home-cooked Mexican food (or a genuine offer of friendship from good people) is an asshole.

Total foodgasm.

And for the first time in my life, as I sat with these people in silence, listening to conversations I couldn’t understand, I felt honest and profound regret that I didn’t pay better attention in my Spanish classes back in high school.  I realized today that by not learning to speak the language, I’ve really cut myself off from some genuinely good people and that is something that can only suck.  I was still able to talk to some of them in English but most of the conversation was Spanish and I mostly sat around wishing I could say something other than, “Donde esta la biblioteca?” or “Jirafa de Fuego.”  Still, it was a good time and, once again, a total foodgasm.

Congress can eat my balls.  That shouldn’t need any further explanation.

I’m currently reading The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman and it’s really goddamn good.  It’s won a million awards this year, but it’ll be interesting to see if I wind up liking it as much as Coraline, which I just finished reading for the first time and is probably my favorite children’s book ever.

I just emailed my friend, Melinda, who is awesome and one of my favorite people (and I’m not just writing that here to score brownie points on the off chance she winds up reading it some day), and part of that email – well, most of it, really – contained an idea that I liked so much I figured I’d share with you (you lucky bastards):

I want to make two or three hundred bronze statues of myself and then I want to fly all over the world, burying them fifty feet or so underground.  Then, centuries later, when future architects are doing their thing, they’ll dig up one of them and wonder what the fuck that’s all about.  Then another one will be found and this will spark great curiosity in a very small community of scientists.  Then a third.  Eventually, someone will start actively looking for them, which presumably won’t be too difficult given the advanced technology.  Before you know it, statues of me will be unearthed the world over and the likeliest assumption will be that I was some sort of religious figure who was worshiped across the planet, transcending borders, politics, and race.  Because, even as I type this, it’s a far likelier scenario than some rich asshole wasting that kind of time and money on a practical joke.

The really interesting thing would be to see if there’s a “revival” of sorts and people start actually worshiping me, which would be even more ridiculous than running into a Zoroastrian today.  Goddamn that would be awesome.

Anyway, it made me laugh.  And that’s all for now, I should get back to editing…and, oh yeah, work.

Vaya con queso, amigos.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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