Whiskey Jack

Micronesians are my favorite people on all the Earth. Their women dress like flowers and their pixie children infect one with laughter. Their men fight hard, pocket knives their weapons, and all to often to the death. They drink. They live, and I am jealous.
Plaid khaki Northern car salesmen, their yellow curdled wives and their greasy yo-yo spawn are my least favorite.
Don't be fooled if you meet a tribe maybe wearing less plaid khaki, less yellowed, and not quite dripping slime on the pavement behind them. This is a lie. A visual trojan horse. Trust me when I say they wait to make war on your senses, your sensibility and in the end, they will try to sell you a car.
I don't blame them. I don't belive this to be a concious action, no more concious than the virus that disolves you, makes blood in your urine. Follows a predestined, instinctual instruction manual, and like the termite or the CEO is not fully aware of the destruction one may cause in the simple act of carving out a spot in the world with the tools you were born with (into), making a home of it. The big picture makes us arrogant, and I am no different.
I've embedded amongst them from time to time and once found myself joining the ruse when I could not (or maybe would not) longer fight the machine but instead greased the cogs.
I'm a child of my generation, to be sure. I'm wondering now if apathy is genetic.
I've faultered, sure, and joined the tribe once, saw my error, joined again, rinse and repeat, but I swear to you I never bought a car.

There