Linggo, Marso 18, 2012

Twelve Epistles from Letter’s To Wendy’s by Joe Wenderoth

 August 19, 1996 

Today I was thinking that it might be nice to be able, in one’s last days, to move into a Wendy’s. Perhaps a Wendy’s life-support system could even be created and given a Wendy’s slant; liquid fries, for instance, and burgers and Frosties continually dripped into one’s vegetable dream locust. It would intensify the visits of the well, too, to see such a care is being taken for their destiny.    

                                         August 26, 1996 
Very high on marijuana brownies, I could not speak today at the register. I kept stepping aside for other customers and staring hard at the menu. I was overwhelmed by the chicken sandwich pictured there, but no words for it. I kept saying ‘there, that one… the man dressed like a woman.” It’s hard to get served when on understands the signifier as a process.

                                        August 27, 1996
Still high on those brownies, but coming down. I’ve eaten, in the past twenty-four hours, so very many burgers and chicken sandwiches. The Sea of Coke is heavy today with meat- its cold swells with the meaty goodness that objects to language. Some kids drift by, talking. One of them says “that sucks dead donkey dicks,” and the other agrees. Imagine.

                                        September 5, 1996

Naturally I think about smashing the skulls and rib-cages of the other customers. They stand in line so smug-like they were safe, out-side the desires of or for an other. It’s as if, for them, there is no other’s desire- as if desire was one thing, and was ours. Restraining myself is dishonest. It’s a way of maintaining a keen sense of the unforeseeable injuries which shall certainly reunite us.

                                         October 8, 1996
It would bring me to despair to think that I could get a Frosty in my own kitchen. I need to believe a frosty can only be gotten outside of where I ordinarily dwell. To be constantly in the place of real Frosties- this is unthinabke, somehow unbearable. The fact is this: to be a subject of language is to desire an Event, and an Event needs to be nothing to move out of, to seem to begin.

                                         November 17, 1996

I eavesdrop on people at Wendy’s. I notice they never talk about their assholes. It’s not that I think an asshole, as an abstract (as Platonic form if you will), is so interesting. It’s specific assholes that are interesting - my asshole as compared with Nick’s, yours as compared with Ted’s or Mary’s. How one experiences another’s asshole speaks volumes- it seems selfish not to make these volumes readily available.
                                         November 25, 1996 
This idiotic notion that one should love the other customers. Love here really means: agree, for the time being, not to attack. People pretend, thought, that each customer is an irreplaceable piece of some priceless puzzle- like the death of each customer is significant for every other customer. It’s just not true; one cannot love what one does not know, and - fortunately- one knows very little.

                                         December 27, 1996 

I can say without hesitation that if Wendy’s ever started to “deliver” i would end my life. And in a way, my suicide would mimic Wendy’s decision to “deliver.” That is, I would decide that my blood, which, in my body, made sense, should flow out in to the dust, where it makes just more dust. Our homes are dust?  you ask. Yes, our homes are dust. Don’t pretend you are surprised.

                                            January 3, 1997    

I’ve been sort of hesitant to mention this, but i believe that one of your employees- you must know the one I speak of - is a beaver. It’s impossible to look into her face, to hear the sounds she makes, and to see the way she moves, the way she carries bits of wood, and to not feel that this is a beaver. I’ve not mentioned this before because, obviously, beavers are powerful creatures.

                                           January 19, 1997    

These fucking teeny-bopper cunts- they’ll steal your man as soon as look at you. Even if you don’t have a man, they’ll steal him. They’ll steal him and they’ll take him back to their fucking teeny-bopper bed-room. They they’ll suck his dick real slow as thought they’ve never sucked a dick before and they’ll say, “its so big!” even if it isn’t. And then afterwards they’ll act like they never said it was big at all.

                                              March 14, 1997 

As I look around the restaurant at all the beautiful folks enjoying themselves, I wonder what catastrophe awaits each one. Young man, will your heart explode? Will your intestines fill with blood? Perhaps a seizure on a boat in the middle of a lake. The sun shinning down. The stars concealed once and for all. I always feel less anxious when I recognize that the collision is already well under way.

                                               June 28, 1997

My previous statements were made in haste. I was hungry and confused, and i longed for purpose. I wanted to seem like i was in the process of focusing in on something important. I wanted to feel purpose rising like an ancient city from the excavator’s pick and shovel. I wanted this so much that I rushed- I swung my pick wildly, and I brought a great delicate city to the dust it had always verged on.

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