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| another thought |
| 05.03.04 (11:09 am) [edit] |
There comes a time in everyman's life when he can't take it anymore, and he wears his underwear on his head.
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| The Allegory of Popeye |
| 05.02.04 (6:19 pm) [edit] |
I imagine that if you were popeye, you wouldn’t be able to pu your hands in your pockets like normal people do, with your elbows to your side. Instead, your elbows would stick out from your hips like a country line dancer. It’d also probably be hard for you to find wrist watches and suit jackets that fit, due to your huge forearms.
Also, I imagine that no one would want to play “Thumb War” or “Bloody Knuckles” with you due to your large forearms. The townspeople would probably kick you off the arm wrestling league and run you out of town as a freak and a vagabond. And they’d yell at you and call you a “large forearmed psycho,” and they would keep doing that until you couldn’t take it anymore. Then, full of rage, you would reach out with your massive forearms and crush their heads.
The cops would arrest you and send you off to the slammer. In the prison, they’d feed you spinach, because everyone hates spinach. But not you! With your sudden burst of energy, you’d bust that joint and go on the run. After a time of dodging the police and doing secret works of good, some media men would feel inspired and make a television mini series based on your adventures.
After that, there would the movie, the video game, the cartoon series, and that comic book. And you would be able to cash in on the royalties. Everything would go along smoothly, until your conscience is racked by all the heads that you crushed on the way to the top. You’d then make a public confession on a day time talk show in a darkened room where they can only see your silhouette. But your identity would be betrayed by your huge forearms! You popularity would go for a nose dive.
Then you’d feel bad, real bad. You’d start smoking crack and turn to a life of rap. And you’d be known as the oldest rapper in the industry with big forearms. You’d pump your forearms full of steroids and waste away.
At about the age of 62, a cancerous growth would be discovered in your great drugged-up forearms. It would quickly fester and grow out of proportion. You could try to pick at it with your high school compass, but it would just puss over and get infected. Finally, the doctors would be left with no option but to amputate, leaving you a stumpy forearm-less waste of a man.
In such a saddened state you would come to yourself. You would take your millions earned from your early days and hire doctors and scientists to rebuild your body and attach large mechanical forearms. Then you’d be known as Popeye, the bionic sailor man.
The merchandise would come in again as you’d become the next great crime fighter. There’d be movies, comics, cartoons, and action figures with special head-crushing action. And sure, some critics would argue that the stories all had the same ending where the villain’s head was crushed, the kid’s would still love you. All would be well until Oliveoil, after years of neglect, sneaks up from behind and beats you over the head with a frying pan, thus ending your life.
And you would then always be remembered in the history books as: “Popeye, the bionic, crime-fighting, cancer-growing, beat-dropping, crack-smoking, movie-making, merchandizing, fuzz-dodging, jail-breaking, head-crushing, bad a**, mother-f***er, son-of-a-b**** sailor man, who got beat over the head by a girl.”
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