Buy Nothing Day

I might have mentioned somewhere that I recently purchased one of these things:

The Mouth Breather, City model

I’m not sure why I did it, to be honest, so I’m going to take some time to explore my motivation. I often buy stuff I don’t need when I’m feeling particularly bored or helpless in other areas of my life. Like all of us children of the white devil capitalism, I know it’s wrong but it feels so right. On the way to Gattaca every morning I suffer through at least three places where the traffic is backed up and the late model Czech made behemoths spew out fumes blacker than Obama in a Glenn Beck nightmare. Now, I’m a smoker, so I figure those fumes to be about 1/100th as dangerous as the damned cigarettes I suck down while staring at the gray skies outside the edifice of my torment, but it still makes me feel better to know that I’m protecting my delicate, pink lungs from the fumes of traffic. And of course it made me feel better to order the damned thing and have it arrive in my mailbox as I bid. “Come hither,” I said with my Visa Electron card, and the bitch slunk on over, tail between her legs. That’s progress. That’s gettin’ her done. That’ll show whoever (certainly not me) is responsible for my weak-willed submission to vapid underemployment in the name of compromise and rent money.

Now, it’s been pointed out to me on our forum that the only other person who wears a pollution mask like that is this guy:

Now I know why he’s so damned grumpy all the time.

This bloody mask is a catastrophe for me, really. Here’s why: The little metal nose gripper constricts my breathing passages (AKA nostrilways) to the point that only a steady drizzle of snot runs out. It’s weird. If you ever had a cat, you’ll know the peanut butter spot – the place in the small of its back which, if scratched, causes the cat to madly lick anything put in front of it. Well, this damnable contraption has found a similar spot on my nose which causes me to produce snot.

The next reason is much more prosaic, but nonetheless irritating. I wear glasses when I ride. This keeps the wind from causing my eyes to blur with the tears of impotent frustration I shed on the way to my occupation every morning. The glasses also provide a handy barrier between my eyeballs and the random weird shit thrown up from the Czech roads by overzealous Audi pilots in their hurry to pass me on their way to their own, equally meaningless occupations. The mask is designed in such a way as to channel the warm, moist air up and over my cheek bones and directly onto the lenses of the glasses, causing them  to fog up. Really, this happened to me this morning and I found myself dead blinded trying to cross a critical intersection where the Honzas are plentiful and distracted. Strike Two, affected looking shredder mask!

The third and final reason is that the mask has a particular odor. I won’t say that the odor is bad, but it reminds me of an activity best not contemplated whilst riding to Gattaca on a fixed gear bike at 8:30 in the morning. I honestly don’t know how they did it – if the thing was infused before shipping (a likelihood the specifics of which I’d rather leave un-contemplated) or if it is some peculiar property of the material.

These three reasons lead me to want to shelve the mask, which was got to the Inland Grumpire of Czechia with much trouble and expense, but I just can’t do it. Call it stubbornness, call it pride. Call it an inability to sort out what I want from what I need – the ubiquitous dilemma of all those laboring under the Christ-endorsed system we rule our affairs by. Call it hope; hope that the properties of the thing will somehow change with use and time, rendering the dingus somehow more suited to its purpose of making me breath cleaner air. Call it masochism. Call it perversion. I love the smell of pussy in the morning.

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~ by themicah on November 27, 2009.

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