THE VILLAGE OF BLAND.
It was a beautiful planet, succulent in the beginning, like an over ripe peach impeaching people to feel, suck it and see the potential.
Some people though, that didn't really belong anywhere or more importantly, couldn't afford in forethought the luxuries future city dwellers were to become accustomed to, thought Bland sucked. Indeed, they would mutter a brief prayer for the few stranded inhabitants, for the new dwellers, as they walked that imperceptible increment of walk only apprehensive feet could provide the extra motivation to rid them of that fear of being ensconced/swallowed by the vacuum of blandness. "Dear Lord, the lent of suck or more to the point, the suck u lent to this could be Village inspires blandness." Imagination and inspiration did not receive an open invitation the day the Mayor apparent, stuck a pick in the ground, drew Mrs Bland to him, brandished his bland brown stereotype plain brown paper bag hat at the heavens one bright day in past pasture, declaring, "this pick will sight the site of a village...here indeed lies a village."
Don't get me wrong, the countryside trees were green, bland green. Indeed, people of Bland when they opened their paper same bland color laptops and punched the brown cardboard keys, were first greeted by Mayor Bland's first news scoop statement; slightly misconstrued were the new confused arrivals numbering some 66 strong about-to-become bland inhabitants. The headline pick read thus to them. "Here lies a Village...under my pick." Had the villagers tearing up around the pick looking for the lying village stopped and inquired before excavating- expecting perhaps to uncover the cardboard houses of a buried village- they would have twigged that the village had yet to be constructed and in essence didn't exist. Perhaps in their bland state which didn't progress past the Village State, they thought their worries over, which in effect- weren't.
To appease the disappointed newcomers, M Bland sent this email out. "Please wait a few weeks until the completion of route 66 which will take you 66 people to the local cardboard Village hall which hasn't been built yet. Nonetheless, stop at the pick with the sign on it that speaks for itself,"here will be built sometime soon a meeting hall...wait here, i'll be along before long. Bring your nit picking picks because nits abound. And a brown paper plate with whatever bland dough you can spare. Drinks will be provided from a nearby stream. DO NOT wash your feet in the stream upstream, it will present latecomers downstream an unpleasant fetish feetish drink. Should some of the ladies be that way inclined. some of the more bland women may think feetal attraction is a fatal attraction and to be quite honest i only use my feet to walk with whereas my bland wife puts hers up the the cardboard table i haven't hewn from a tree yet and shouting as she did last night, "FEET SUCK!" which i did. But i wander." I wah! wah! wah! wonder...where...where, where, where, where...our love went pong. And i wonder..."But that's another song pong.
At this point in this not- as- yet- built bland village you may be thinking," what absolute rubbish is being blandished here?building a village of cardboard and paper, this partially built story to be is not worth the paper it's printed on."Okay, desist reading! This post has no scientific significance at hall. TRUE! TRUE! but didn't i just explain that the hall hadn't been built at all yet?
A pertinent point here also. The original inhabitants of Australia, though thought to have been of or from a continent joined at one point when the earth perhaps was still reeling from cool; which it doesn't seem so lately if i may add, was occupied by a people of stellar advanced knowledge in being at one with nature and in doing so lived in and under natural bark cover and the occasional cave. So, in effect, Bland a beginning as it was, Mayor Bland had the right idea at least initially for the implementation of paperbark trees which abounded a village to be built. Not satisfied with that explanation? Okay, have it your way. But remember this, don't paper bag everything everyone says. Remember when electricity came into being? Everyone thought it was better than a night out with Kim Kardistan or Beyonce? I myself lean heavily towards KK and B simply because electricity bills leave me in the dark as to their charges! Don't get me wrong, KK and B don't hold a candle to electricity because electricity bills can be seen with a flick of the switch. That old familiar song, sung by the 'Generators' band, "you light up my life!" But you can't hold a candle to the outrageous price of lit...maybe you do? Literally off the planet. Guess we all have a dark side when a lot of the supposed meter readers err there with a 'guestimate' by some companies...or so it screams? :>)
The Mayor sat on a cardboard director's Mayoral chair, fell through it. Spoke from his briefs, blandly. Everyone of the hand- picked pick carriers had washed their feet downstream, supped a drink, kissed their partner's feet dry, sat in a circle around the Mayor, staring blandly at empty paper plates,the invitation card bored resting upon. "Newcomers and some original cardboard dwellers. Welcome here today, i hope route 66 completed yesterday with inbuilt potholes to enable the shocking shocker future of spring companies to spring up to replace same...have had an uneventful trip here. I know when you people blindly read my first headline and you dug down looking for an Atlantic City of composite paper you expected something for nothing. Only ratbag expectation would expect a city sunk paper chase. There is no such thing. Indeed, you shall have children who expect something for nothing. There's an old saying. "There's nothing more rewarding than being promised nothing then unexpectedly out of the blue receiving same. Much ado about nothing. A democratic right guaranteed by all governments that tend to use slightly different word language but the limp corpse of body language belies the fact that a house purchased on paper is but a pack of cards waiting to implode at the whim of the market place." You can bark but the bank barks louder.
Therefore with nothing particular in mind my wife suggested we knock down a few trees, live together here in a bland communal log tree cabin. I will travel into the city, bring back a lucky horse shoe to place on the door of the cabin you people will build in my absence. Here is the plan, don't lose it." The 66 chosen cheered. They got to work. Mayor Bland returned two months later. It was a heavy horseshoe and the horse refusing to move or give up one of his shoes,tied a knot in it and consequently had to be pushed and pulled all the way back to the proposed log cabin being constructed. Horsing around all the way.
Mayor Bland had brought a land surveyor, Noah Hoarse, back with him also. The three stood aghast. The log cabin was nowhere to be seen. The land as far as the eye could see had been flattened,vegetation removed. Dirty water lapped at the banks of the stream. The plan recipient in charge shrugged. "I lost the plan Mayor, we built a tree cabin of sorts but it was too heavy to shift because there isn't a tree left to support it nearby so we built this boat." The unplanned plan manager pointed sadly at a large wooden vote. "We had a boat on it and decided to dismantle the grounded tree cabin and build a vote." Noah Hoarse rolled alarmed eyes at the Mayor, shaking his head. The horse shook his head. "Mayor, this mob has wrecked the place, they have upset the ecological glue binding this place together." The horse spoke,"i'm no shoe in with these vote builders, yes,you've lost my vote and by the look of the weather those 66 fools are about to lose theirs!
It rained for the 66 dazed and 66 tights...that's what constant rain does to those early dazed tights. Noah, though Hoarse, forgot his surname which strained his throat. The horse sighed. Two of everyone boarded the vote. The waters from the overloaded creek burst their banks, the vote lifted and floated blandly down the river of no return for many many years. Holes developed in it from the rocking blues band frightened 66 who constantly woke every morning without fail occasionally and cried out as one, "at least we're alive...knock on wood," which they did, on the bottom of the boat which in turn dislodged the knots in the wooden hull from hell.The vote finally came to rest on the steps of the White House.
All the President's men dragged the boat incongruous...sorry, into Congress. The 66 shamefaced stood in front of the Cong, distressed. Cong beat its chest.The conscience stricken plan loser stepped forward. The horse neighed him in his backside actually, stood on the unfortunate's tights which had fallen down round his ankles. The President hushed the milling throng of media and gaping politicians from all sides of the house,including those playing billiards in the basement UNDER the house, who came up because of the strange vote...which was the 'norm' for them?
The President shook the Mayor's hand, spoke softly to the bowed elderly plan man, looked sympathetically at the assembled aged 66...patted the horse's mane. The horse grinned. "My friends welcome." An adviser to the President pushed forward,spoke urgently in the President's ear. Several politicians spoke to the media. "We must follow through on this vote, the President is 66 votes short of winning, a dead horse can see he has lost. The horse dropped dead, revived himself, "yes...i can see that...but wait!"
The President hushed the assembled again. He spoke in a clear voice."I am 66 votes down on a referendum which if you sixty six persons standing before me will join with me in accordance with a transcript i propose will make all men equal and a terrific fair deal for all..." He stopped abruptly patted the vote. "This is one nice deciding vote, despite its holes..." Of course the bewildered half dead horse started to struggle to its knees. Blurted out, "Mr President...those 66 aren't with it, they have been lost in the political wilderness so long. The original boat they they took to build a vote doesn't hold water does it sir?" The President motioned a burly aid to stuff the horses bewildered face in a chaff bag.
The 66 stepped forward, voted the referendum in. The media went crazy.Someone remarked, "the media ARE crazy." The horse chewed loudly. Noah spluttered, "ark me, give me animals anytime." He wrenched a piece of chaff from the horse's bag,threw it to the media. They pounced on it. The News arced up. "Horse beaten to death with chaff by animal rights activist. Noah near nagged to death for an exclusive." All sounds a bit like we should return to the Village of the 'BLAND?' It's amazing the hype and rhetoric that permeated throughout history. Continues to do so. The political chaff of legend born from media fed rise- and- fall out of desperation to get a scoop full?
I just hate it when people don't rein in their imagination. They certainly won't get my boat. You can vote on it. Have a chaff free day. At least if you wear modern day tights they don't chafe...or do they? :>)