(The following unexpurgated journal entry leads into the main theme under investigation, which was mentioned yesterday. Consider this a kind of back-stage peek)
December 1, 2011 Sinclair Terrace, South Orange NJ 12:25 pm
Well, I’ve just posted what, as it turns out, will be the first of three blog entries, all sort of linked in a very silly way. I’m sure no one will be interested, but as John says, you can’t hit it out of the park every time. (In fact, in baseball, if you hit the stupid thing once every three times, you’re golden. I’d like to think I have somewhat higher standards…)
Anyway, when last we left blogland, I had just been providing a history lesson, about the underpinnings of the current uptick in human obesity, and then I reluctantly described, in harrowing detail, the approaching harvest of human -- what shall we call it -- nectar perhaps? – by a gang of hungry space aliens. Chilling indeed. But not necessarily inevitable.
My next self-assigned task is to provide the surprisingly handy, and health-inducing, remedy, which will not only help us all avert said ghastly feasting, but will return us all, as a nation, to unprecedentedly radiant health and happiness. Hence…
That Fat Attack: What We Can Do to Fend It Off, and How We Can Do It.
When last we visited, I retailed for you, as delicately as possible, the upcoming events toward which many of our national cultural trends have been taking us. I clarified – and wish to reiterate – that all of us have essentially been helpless victims here. Victims of forces far beyond our individual strength to recognize, or to resist. And yet, practically within our grasp, lie the means to postpone, perhaps indefinitely, that looming indignity. With the monokinis and all. We have, at our very fingertips, the means of restoring ourselves, as a nation, to radiant good health, while still maintaining what is perhaps our central cultural identifier -- our unlimited ability, as Americans, to go wherever we want, however we want, and whenever we want to go there.
Now, perhaps there are other, more benign forces at work in the Universe, and I would be grateful, if I were only the humble conduit for the following realizations. (Need the Dark Side always win?) In any event, these ideas of mine have been simmering for quite a while, arising -- as have many other such revolutionary notions -- from the most mundane of activities. To wit:
I used to drive to Philadelphia and back, once a week. South on Monday, north on Thursday. Week in, week out. In a standard-shift vehicle with, alas, no reliable radio reception. Someone had wedged something inextricably into the DVD player. Perhaps a sweet, sticky snack? On each trip, as a result, I had plenty of time to think.
One of the things I thought about, unsurprisingly, was the act of driving itself. After all, I was on the New Jersey's renowned Garden State Parkway for a large portion of each journey, and when traveling such a popular and in some ways thrilling roadway, the habits and patterns of other drivers quickly absorb one’s attention. In fact, they really must, if one hopes to reach one’s destination in one’s own vehicle, and not strapped, concussed, into the back of an ambulance.
And I couldn’t help thinking, as I edged my way along – most other folks seemed content to travel a mere fifteen or twenty miles over the posted speed limit, but there were always those... special drivers. Those vehicular exceptions, who apparently derived a great deal of additional personal value, from deciding -- at the risk of their own lives and those of countless others -- to depress their gas pedal further toward the floor than strictly necessary for ordinary surface mobility, and then zooming ahead of everyone else, at ground speeds that were thought to be physically damaging only seventy years ago. (And all of this, in spite of the fact that, at no matter what speed they achieved, by the time they decelerated and actually exited their vehicles, the great majority of them would still have been in New Jersey)
And, I couldn’t help thinking, what, strictly speaking, is actually involved here? What really underpins, in the simplest terms, this display of setting hulking shells of deceptively safe metal-and-plastic hurtling through space, at speeds defying usefulness and, really, common sense?
I mean, there I was the other evening, sitting at one red light or another, on Route 1 North, and some hulking driver clad in a sleeveless shirt pulled up beside me, gripping the padded steering wheel of a yellow Mustang. Sitting there, sunglasses in place, revving the engine, and making the car rock back and forth in what must have seemed a maternally comforting manner. And then, perhaps a breath of a second before the light actually turned green, off that Mustang sped, shedding scraps of tire and puffing out exhaust that rose fragrantly into the already pungent air of Edison.
Only three minutes later, to pull, squealing, into a strip mall anchored by a Chuck-E-Cheese®.
Now what, I wondered, has just happened? What, in strictly real, human, physiological terms, had taken place?
That hulking driver had depressed the accelerator. With one ankle.
Oh, I'll grant you, there was the gripping of the wheel, the tensing of the jaw, and the slight turning of the head, to look in the rearview mirror for cops. But most of the actual physical effort was strictly and narrowly limited, focused below the right calf, and well above the toes. Right at the ankle. Push.
Wow.
Privately, I'm willing to bet that the average (alright, the average 99% average) New York apartment dweller has exerted just as much effort, without even thinking about it, to extinguish the life of a… we’ll call it a water bug, because there’s company, and they can hear everything that happens in the bathroom. Thank God it's in the tub. Flex ankle, job done. It takes more effort to get the paper towel and wipe the porcelain.
And then – possibly because, at about that same time, I had just been made keenly aware of the dire, alien-centric events awaiting our Nation – it struck me. It struck me like one of those Lexus Supremes, or whatever they are, that drop from airplanes over the Nevada desert, to make me want to buy a Lexus Supreme that hasn’t dropped from an airplane over the Nevada desert:
This very ease of transport itself, with the delusional sense of personal involvement in, and responsibility for simple locomotion, has all along been part of The Big Plan. The Giant Chubby-Making Plan. The Human-to-Aphid Redesign Plan. Operation How Big Can They Get?
Well think about it. Not only are we awash in limitless sources of superfluous calories, we also go gliding about, on padded seats, with so little effort as to amount to no exertion at all, and for what? To waft up the street to the grocery store, or to go out to dinner, or to stop for an ice cream -- and often enough, my Fellow Americans, with some fat-laden sandwich or silky milkshake or caramel-infused candy bar actually held, poised for consumption, at our very lips!
Of course it fits. All of it. Like the well-laid plan which, in fact, it is.
But now we know.
And more importantly, now that we see the full extent of the plot, we must put our creative ingenuity to better use than the perfection of a new tart-grape flavored, turquoise-tinted Sno-Ball ®. We must now, as a Nation and a People, develop our own sure salvation. And it goes like this:
The Radical Re-Design of the Automobile.
We implore – no, we demand that those clever engineering minds in… wherever they design and build cars today… rethink and refit our chief mode of transportation, the personal automobile, so that a certain set, unambiguous and appreciable percentage of said vehicle’s motion be supplied by… the human beings actually inside the car itself! The driver, of course, from a sort of locomotive noblesse oblige, provides most of the energy. (See disclaimers below) Passengers chip in too, both front seat and back. Those teeny ones in the kiddie seats as well, I think it’s safe to say -- it's never too early to learn to contribute to the family good. Besides, there may be a free lunch somewhere in this universe, bunnykins, but we are not going to be it.
Personally, I would aim for, maybe 20% muscle contribution toward forward thrust? (Is that too much? Too little?) Maybe 25%, if the car is clad chiefly in papier mache (don’t laugh – in a showroom near you, next spring)? Definitely as much as 40%, in the smaller, sportier models. But these details can always be worked out -- that’s what the engineers get paid for, anyway.
But just think. Legs engaged. Shoulders and arms involved. Glutes in gear. Lats and delts and whatever other parts there are, finally pulling together. We need to ensure that the prosaic trip to the supermarket for a quart of milk really gets the blood going – that a casual jaunt across town raises a sweat. Visiting the inlaws is a new kind of workout. And a drive to Philadelphia? The equivalent of three marathons, in a row. There’ll be cheering and confetti and vitamin water at the Ben Franklin Bridge, every morning.
Then picture, it you will, the surge of real, solid, red-blooded and justifiable pride that driver of the yellow Mustang will have, when there's some real effort behind that squealing burst of power and speed. Some real accomplishment in moving that metal, and all those decals. The sweat. The brawn. The pump. That’s something to put on the mantelpiece, or hang from the rear-view mirror. Instead of… flexing your ankle? Please...
[Disclaimer voice: Modifications available for several human body types and physical limitations. Requirements may vary, according to automotive model and local ordinance. Road conditions excluded. Canine adaptations mandatory – carrying more than one canine per vehicle may require additional license fees. Discounts available for drivers and passengers over age 55, the blind, and those currently holding elective office. Temporary adjustments possible for those suffering the flu, seasonal allergies, women who are pregnant or may become pregnant, drivers with OCD, OPF, LR5, BEAN syndrome, and other situations and complaints too numerous to mention. Doctor’s note strictly required. Not valid in all areas)
I would estimate, my Fellow Americans, that as a Nation, in under one calendar year (perhaps longer, if this winter is as bad as the last) we would see a corporate loss of body mass, a shedding of unnecessary expanse, that will bring complete despair to the innards of those wily alien masterminds who’ve been toying with us for far too long. Imagine their surprise when, as they stretch their photogenic limbs after their interstellar voyage, metaphorically licking their alien chops, ready for a nice protracted feed at our expense, they find themselves facing a host -- an expanse -- a Nation -- of well-toned, trim and alert Americans, each one of whom knows the score.
‘Retract your palps, guys,’ we can all say, telepathically, on that great day, ‘This country, this America, is no longer on the menu.’
(Cue flag, and eagle, and short shot of aphid)
(Go to commercial) (BTW -- it's not clear -- is Jack-in-the-Box ® or Reddi-Whip ® taking this hour? Let me know. Thanx)
© 2011 Walter Zimmerman
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