Corona Virus Update: There Are 18 Triangles Inside of The F&#king Triangle. Pull Your-F&#king-Self Together.

“The paradoxical and tragic situation of man 

is that his conscience is weakest 

when he needs it most.”

E R I C H    F R O M M 

.....

Last time on the Ballads of Mister Rhodes (give me one of those ‘to catch a predator’ voiceovers) I took a brief look into the human being’s innate ability to decide -often at least partially blindly- upon certainty in a world of possibilities. Yup, believe it or not, that was in there. It all ties into the fear of freedom, and how the ego thrives for the concrete. I get it. I have a small lump on my right testicle that I never noticed before and the glands in my groin are the size of kidney beans. I think I have a little less energy than usual, but that could just be in my head. I keep getting the sensation that tiny bugs are crawling beneath my skin. I sincerely hope that’s in my head. I get pins and needles in my hands when I lay down for more than ten minutes and last time I checked my blood pressure was 127 over 68 but otherwise, I’m probably stronger than you. Having a little clarity on such matters is what gets us by. Uncertainty could well be one of the toughest associates we bump in to. It takes a whole lot of zen to run with ambiguity. But when you strip back the bullshit and what you make up in your head, that’s often all we’ve got.

I didn’t talk too much about the underlying desire not to die that may or may not -but probably does- have an impact on what we decide upon and accept at times like these. But when faced with something that might take the air from our lungs and reduce us to an object, it's safe to say we have a natural survival instinct that will run for the first thing that offers any security from that something. Stay at home, stay safe. Work your active life away to make sure you have a pension to pay for later. But, today I don’t want to run with any of that. We’re already up to the eyeballs in the existential dread that is usually buried deep below the surface by hashed out Netflix dramas and Instagram puppy-nose filters like the layers of foundation on a college-dropout-turned-stripper’s less than perfect skin. But hey, you got to do what you got to do. None of that shit today, Today is about this guy.    

Look at those fucking balls.

There’s a standalone paragraph for the A-list bloggers. Or the ‘nail in the coffin of good writing’ if I could retitle the award ceremony. We called him Taco. He’s been living in our neck of the woods for longer than us, and he’s a very likeable guy. Today he came to say hi because I was carrying a bag of chicken breast and I noticed these white lumps all over him. Like albino moles. Like fucking albino moles that had legs and were sucking the blood out of him. I don’t want to give any time or credit to any creature that lives with its head buried in the skin of a guy like Taco. Something like a shit boss that gets paid 50% more than you and does little more than ponce around like a twat, quickly turning your working day into a nervous tic controlling exercise. These ticks were all over the poor guy. So I grabbed a pair of eyebrow tweezers from my tweed vanity bag, and Taco and I took a seat together.

“It’s alright Taco,” I began, “somethings in life are just a bit shit, but in the long run well worth it, like quitting smoking or taking up exercise or entertaining your step-parents until they die so your name doesn’t get scrubbed off the will. This is going to be one of those things, but afterwards... Mark my words, we are going to dine on that chicken breast together. I might even wear a shirt. A feast fit for the hero you’re about to become.”

Taco didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on. Chicken is ‘ga’ in Vietnamese.

Well, I plucked out fourteen of those fuckers from him. Its quite amazing how they manage to bury their heads so deep into something, but still... How many people with an IQ higher than 70 have binge-watched ‘Sex Education’ or ‘Love is Blind’ and even gone so far as to proclaim brilliance? Their heads stuck right in there. (I just googled what’s trending on the mong-box) Looking out at the naysayers as if there might be something wrong with them. I’m not sure of the metaphor. Which one is the tick? Who is sucking who’s blood? I’ll drop it. Times are hard, we need a distraction, but why do we need them when times aren’t hard? Do you voluntarily become your own tick? Where does your own blood go?

He wouldn’t let me get the two I could see between his toes. We all have limits. I don’t want Taco to feel like he has to bite me. “Good boy, Taco.” Chicken would rekindle our relationship later.

Now, I know exactly what you’re thinking ‘Rhodes, no matter what shite you spout, you always bring it back around to something that feels as if its needed, but right now...’ It’s coming.

Fourteen dead ticks laying side by side and Taco with his chicken. A testament that true love and charity will prevail over sociopathy and parasitism. It's not that. That’s not the road I’m going down. Drop the fucking Disney munchkin.

I just thought people might need a little cheering up, and it has been a while since I tried to exhume any warmth from my dealings with life. If you’re reading this you’re probably locked in a box that you spend the majority of your waking life paying for. A lot of people are probably enjoying themselves so much that they can’t wait to get back to paying for it. I’m not going down that road either. This is my road.

The Vietnamese Quarantine Sour. 

4 parts mango rum. 

1 part egg whites. 

1 part lime juice. 

1 part Phu Quoc honey. 

A splash of lemonade

Shake the fuck out of all the ingredients and serve over an iceberg in a wine glass six or seven times

You see, times are hard. Taco has been carrying around those little fuckers for most of the day. He didn’t wag his tail and invite them to join his circulatory party. He probably just fancied a lie-down and there they were. Taco isn’t to blame. I won’t sit within an inch of a red ant and forget that its there, but I don’t think Taco thinks like that. I would imagine dogs have a much more reptilian risk assessment than we do. Fortunately for us, when we drink, if we don’t get side-tracked by the stressors of life, we turn to the topic of love. 

And here I end. In a bubble. With Taco soundly asleep outside. The gentle hum of the air-con and the two tiny geckos on the rented ceiling providing the soundtrack to the finale. Like the nice parts of War & Peace. Safe in the knowledge that no matter what all of this turns out to be, we just need to remember that we submit to the ride and whilst we’re on it we must be sure to choose love over fear at every turn it might take. Especially when you’re renewing your Netflix subscriptions. 

Good night.    

Next time: I’ll be typing with much less pace and doing my best to dramatise the dislocation and DIY reduction of my index finger. Can’t wait.