Steak And Plastic

Gary - Ewa Beach, Hawaii
Entered on April 17, 2008
Age Group: Under 18

Steak and Plastic

There comes a time when a child transforms into an adult. Their virgin eyes tainted by this awesome society; plastic-doll-figures that traipse amidst the beefy steaks of America; a bunch of affable gangster wannabes, smoking un-prescribed medicine behind the old, dingy cafeteria. Moreover, of course, the President ensuring that “We the people” (Condescending Americans) will have affordable health insurance. It’s no wonder why we see our “fellow Americans” hosting slumber parties in dark, murky alleys that veiled beneath the shadows of ignorance and false hope; roasting snow-colored marshmallows over a steel can that holds our rubbish. And might I add that their RAT B.B.Q is really something else, not many bones but you must be aware of its marble black eyes. You will choke. By the way, if you plan to be critical about what you are reading, I don’t give a RAT’s ass about what you have to say.

The un-paid chefs only cook RAT when it comes to special occasions: feeding their capital to materialistic things, and later, drowning in debt. It’s amazing, really, to see them swim during the holidays. The wind punching their bodies with its icy fist and blowing its bitter breath, without question, I see why these chefs (our “fellow Americans”) throw bonfires. They could have made it to the Olympics if only they slashed their credit card a few times more. Although they didn’t go to Australia, they did end up in the streets where it’s free. As our ancestors said, “this is the land of the free”.

I couldn’t help realizing that the American population is brainwashed by television, so much so that they couldn’t sit through a simple hour-and-a-half live performance without complaining of boredom and leg cramps; yes, they can’t wait to morph into couch potatoes. Anyone who watches even the least amount of TV is familiar with the following scene: The Geico gecko with its Australian accent offering you an English muffin with jam; a bunch of agents saying how he or she is like a neighbor to those who buy a farm. And, of course, the Major of the Unit asking the audience (television viewers) if they’re in “good hands”. What’s amazing about these commercials is that they all share one common goal: to sell car insurance, that is their dream. But if you want to hear about dreams, go ask Naruto Uzumaki, that kid’s got some dream. It never ceases to amaze me the power of the media, the American people buttered up with their sugarcoated words. You’re probably asking if I fell for that damn media. Well, what can I say; that damn gecko got the best of me, and of course, I always did want a good neighbor.

My past neighbors were never what you call “good” or fun. However, they were nice enough to leave their aesthetic ability on the exterior walls of our house. If I remember correctly, they left a beautiful spray painted message colored in black that said “GET OUT”. I guess this was for those who weren’t wanted in the neighborhood. It’s about time somebody sends a message to those damn cats that would jump in our yard during the middle of the night. These cats would always borrow our belongings, without asking. I would recall a bunch of big, grown cats wearing socks on their heads borrowing my basketball hoop. Shows how considerate they were. First, they took my basketball hoop without asking, then, never retuning it. Damn

Those people who believes in the term borrowing without asking. I BESEECH YOU! What later kicked me in the ass, was finding out that those cats were the ones with the artistic and visual ability, damn yin-yang concept. Yes, mom should’ve switch to state-farm; obviously, all state didn’t put us in “good hands”. At least with state-farm, we would have good neighbors that would always be there. It’s been 11 years now, and I’m still waiting for my damn batch of cookies; and I thought were good neighbors.

“Gary, you’re seventeen, so start acting like it.” My mother would say this to me continuously, a phrase that oft became redundant. I know I’m seventeen, but how the hell is a seventeen-year-old boy supposed to act? It’s not as if I’ll learn it in a day. I keep telling her our life is not like the Matrix; I’m not Neo who learned to master Kung-Fu in a day. Don’t get me wrong though, I do know the significance of the number and why it is important towards the individual and America.

“Mom, you do know that I’m a year away from turning eighteen, right?”

“Yeah, I know, but that doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want. You still live under my roof; therefore, you will abide by my rules.”

“But, once I’m eighteen, I am an adult and legal. I can do the hell I want to do!” A dear friend of mine always tells me that I should think before I say something and know when to stick a sock in my cynical, smart-mouth of mouth of mines. Sarcasm seems to be an innate feature of mine, and I oft use logic and sarcasm in a double-whammy combination to prove a point; something I do quite frequently, seeing as my pride is one that is much too difficult to swallow. Being the only male in my house and dating the most captious woman in the world, I have learned that the female species copes their insecurities with either violence or an irrational compromise.

Thinking about the number seventeen, made me realize that I’m a year away from going to adult clubs and four years away from hearing the dealer say “winner, winner, chicken dinner” (gambling). To add to that, being soaking wet from what use to be prohibited in the 18th amendment (alcohol) ; thank you Franklin D. Roosevelt with your 21st amendment. And to think, I wanted to be a kid forever; there’s a whole world out there waiting to be explored by non-other that Gary Raymundo. I think Canada would be a great place to start; they have better health insurance (it cost too much in America).