The Moo Moo Queens

On any given day here in the real world, it’s inevitable that I get bombarded by the moo moo queens. Plump, bubbly women with short bob haircuts who wear bright colorful shirts sporting lower necklines than anyone should have to endure. These women typically push the line about 200 pounds, underuse the makeup while overusing the perfume, and have pumped out a healthy flock of kids. They never seem to be interested in their kids so much as using them for something to talk about with the other moo moo queens in the herd. These perky hulks are permanently locked into "baby talk" mode, and have a penchant for stating the obvious.

"Hey, look. You see that picture of a cheeseburger? This sign says that it's a bacon cheeseburger. Isn't that neat?"

A cheeseburger you say? Wowee, you certainly have your thumb on the pulse of the universe don't you?

How do people like this survive nature? Forget wolves and bears, I'm talking the basics of modern society. How is it that fatty acids or quick moving traffic hasn't removed them from the gene pool? How have they endured without someone like me wrapping fingers around that thick neck and squeezing until the knuckles meet? Because I guarantee you it's crossed my mind. And whether you'll admit it or not, you've considered it too.

And who would blame you? When they start shuffling about en masse, as the herd is prone to do, the annoyance factor can skyrocket. And while you have the option of turning and running in the day to day, when you’re stuck at the 9 to 5, dealing with them no longer becomes a choice. That is when the quirks of the herd become quite obvious.

First, there is the clucking. The constant barrage of mindless pointless banter that exists only to come out of the mouth of one, and bounce around the herd, growing in pitch and enthusiasm until climax. The climax being, a jolly round of laughter amongst the collective, one that is both jubilant and reserved. The kind of laughs that get those extended chins bouncing around like beach balls.

The topics of conversation are of course without merit. Usually revolving around things that are already well defined. If there was an apple on a pedestal with a sign next to it that read APPLE: COLOR RED, the conversation would go something like this:

“Hey, that looks like an apple.”
“It is an apple! See? It says it right here.”
“And look, it says that apples are red.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Me neither.”
“I thought I heard somewhere that apples were green.”
“Yeah, my cousin, you know the one who just had a baby girl, said she saw some green apples. Yellow ones too.”
“Really?”
“Wow, that is so neat.”
“It sure is.”
“I just thought of something funny.”
“Oooh! Tell us, tell us!”
“An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” 

“Tee hee hee.........”

This is about the point where the sane rational individual who has no choice but to be subjected to this shit puts the barrel of a gun under his chin and waits for the silence.

There is nothing to these people. No mark of personality whatsoever. These beasts exist to spread wide for some underweight sensitive man, spit out a few clones, then join the migrating herd to see the town. You never get the impression that they learn from their experiences. Nothing that is seen or done ever gets explained to another person later on, and the interesting elements of the universe that are within view, but have no choice but to be longer than a paragraph, are ignored like passing traffic. The world, in which there never seems to be enough time to learn about, becomes minute photographs where they can say, “Hey, that looks cool. Now I want a mocha latte.”

Maybe I’m harsh. Maybe Mr. Blood & Guts here has become a bit jaded in his years, but I can’t help but be a little pissy with this bunch. They’re mindless beings who learn and adapt to nothing, and somehow manage to consume four times the resources I do. You’d figure if you eat enough to be that jolly and have the time for herd drama and overpriced beverages, that you’d find time to read a fucking book. But they never do, they can watch Opera, but never buy the books she recommends.

I swear, some days when they walk into our libraries and zoos and museums, and other institutions for public learning for a bit of mindless gossip and amusing scenery, that there should be some kind of a test. Hand them a quiz sheet along with their ticket. On it should be a series of questions they have to research and answer during their stay. Call it a scavenger hunt if you like, but warn them that if they fail, we’ll be hefting their oversized behinds onto the world’s largest candlesticks, setting them ablaze, and seeing if all that tub and wax can stay lit longer than the olympic flame. And then we can see how well that bubble-headed mind can work when members of the herd are acting as the light source. Life takes effort damnit, prove your worth to the crowd or get out of the evolutionary chain.

Of course, this whole thing might be a testament to the reasoning that I should never write when I’m sick.