Wasted Carbon

Thanks to Obama and the billions of dollars dumped into the Economic Recovery and Reinvestment Act, soon everyone will be working again! Yippie! How do I know? It has finally hit home for me. I have seen the effects in my community…

You see, as I drove through my podunk little town, a small cross-street was completely closed to traffic due to repairs. At first I was pissed because of the inconvenience (we Americans LOVE convenience), but my spirits were quickly lifted when I saw THE SIGN. That glorious SIGN! This road-sign was unlike any other I had seen before. It was a strident beacon of hope and new-found prosperity.

It read, “Keep America Working. This project funded by the Economic Recovery and Reinvestment Act.” Oh, glory! I had to stop to speak with the workers, to get their stories of success.

I approached a hardy-looking fellow wearing Dickies overalls. I introduced myself and asked him about the project. He told me they were resurfacing a 50-yard section of the side-street and the project would be complete in two days. I asked, “Then what?” He responded simply, “Dunno. I hope something else comes up…” Did you catch that? He said “hope.”

Obama is a man of his word. He had clearly instilled hope in these workers: I hope I can find more work… I hope the bank doesn’t foreclose… I hope I have enough money for groceries… I hope no one in the family gets sick… I hope…

What cosmic twist of fate has placed me in my current residence? I have a Baptist Minister living with his family to my right and a Methodist Minister living accross the street… It sounds like the beginning of a good joke, but alas, ’tis no joke at all.

I swear these two guys have been conspiring (or betting) to convert me. The Baptist is hell-bent (yeah, pun intended) on getting me to his church. I’m not sure if he has a conversion quota to meet or if he’s just looking for some poor-sap to sacrifice (I was raised Catholic, so don’t think I don’t know what goes on in those places.) Whatever his reason is, you’d think he’d catch on after I have politely declined several times.

The Methodist is a nice enough guy. He takes a less direct way to force Jesus into my life. See, a conversation cannot be had with this man without him forcing an awkward, out-of-context reference to god, or Jesus, or The Lord, into the mix. For example, I say, “Nice day huh?” and he responds with, “These are god’s gifts to his children.” Okay, it couldn’t be the high-pressure system that moved in overnight, eh? I usually just reply with, “Yep” or “Uh-huh.”

All I know, is that sometimes I would just like to mow my fucking lawn with no interruptions, or talk about angels or church. I mean, for shits-sake, I’m usually mowing it on a Sunday! Isn’t that sign enough that I’m a hopeless, sabbath-breaking-man-devil?! I think I’ll tell the Baptist I’ll go to church if he mows my lawn for me…