The Fear Is Real

May 20, 2010: Let's start, while I remember, to note that those little shit heel manipulators at Haagen-Daz have done their part to help mind screw us all, just like the Chapstick people I so eloquently blasted in a previous entry. (If I wasn't so tired, I'd bother to look up the date and title, and reference it, but I'm hoping you'll help a little with this effort by looking for it yourself.)

You probably haven't noticed that, what was once their standard "pint" of ice cream is no longer that. Without any word, that sneaky little bunch of Scandanavian bastards markedly reduced the size of their ice creams containers, roughly from 475 fluid ounces to 410. Now you weren't likely to notice this because, OF COURSE, the price wasn't reduced. Luckily a sensitive consumer (meaning ME) who periodically devotes long, thoughtful moments to studying the Haagen-Daz and Ben & Jerry's offerings at the local market, caught this, and has since vowed to never buy their shitty ice cream again. I strongly suggest you do the same, because as good as it may be, especially late at night when you're depressed and thinking about how awful your life is, it's not so much better than any other brand -- certainly not so much better that we should put up with their petty, greedy little mind F'ing. There are enough strange, mind-mutating pins being stuck in our collective psyches without having to get another from your bloody ice cream man. (Dirty heart-breaking F's!) And who else would report this? No one! And that's why I even write this stupid Blag, and so if for no other reason than respect for my ... Oh, never mind. You people never listen to me anyway!

This brings me to the other side of my mind, which is willowing with fear as we speak (or as I write ... and I don't even know if "willowing" is a word -- that's how debilitated I am!). You see, I've been up all night coughing with the remnants of my awful sickness. Not only that, my stupid cat (who I wouldn't be surprised to learn is in league with Haagen-Daz) has been carrying out all her ridiculous middle-of-the-night cat acrobatics, which mainly consist of making as much noise as possible and then racing around the house like a rocket when I try to throw things at her (little shit). Worse than all that, I distinctly heard a buzzing around 5 a.m., and as I just killed TWO SEPARATE WASPS IN THE HOUSE this week (can you imagine!), I'm sure there's another one somewhere about. (This is why I hate summer, AND Easton.) Worse, worse, I can't find him anywhere, but I keep thinking he's on my back, just sort of hanging there in that cold-weather dumbfounded way stinging insects have when they're not mad with heat orgy, but still languidly alive, thinking up their next awful plan.

So, you can imagine what a terrible morning I'm having. Thoughts of 1984-style ice cream methods, and now a deadly venomous insect clutching to my pajama top. And my hearing is so hallucinatorily acute, I keep thinking I hear the buzz again, but I can't be sure. You wouldn't believe the things I'm hearing. It's awful and disconcerting, and vaguely fascinating too. The problem is I'm so terribly tired, and still rather sick, so I can't even enjoy being all disoriented, I just have to sit here in this gut-wrenching fear and fight off the powerful feeling that I may die at any instant, or worse, be angrily stung by some stupid hornet. I hate bugs, and especially the angry ones that cling to your clothes. Just the thought makes me feel like I've bugs all over me ... and the really awful, awful thing is I can't be sure I don't!

I don't know what else to say, except I urge you to join my flat boycott of Haagen-Daz (despicable wretches). They should be ashamed, and if you eat their ice cream after reading this revelation, you should be ashamed too, and I sincerely hope you get stung by bees.