A Brief Social History of the Bootstrap

As Americans, we are acutely aware of the peculiar power of the bootstrap. These seemingly innocuous objects possess a curious sway over us. The average American, when faced with some manner of hardship, can, with the aid of these, overcome all that obstructs their path and prevents them from achieving their goal. Bootstraps are an essential, if little known to outsiders, part of the patchwork fabric that composes this great nation of ours. An American with a pair of boots and a gun can do incredible things.
Recently, it seems that other countries are catching on to the power of the bootstrap. In Zimbabwe the bootstraps were removed from all boots imported or made in the country. Boots were banned outright in Belarus. In Turkmenistan, Sapuramat Niyazov renamed boots after bread, which he had renamed after his mother. It is debatable whether or not it was this or the tightly censored state-run media apparatus that rendered the bootstraps powerful. In North Korea a group of dissidents were imprisoned for bringing bootstraps across the boarder. No where was the authoritarian fear of bootstraps more evident than in the Soviet Union. It is said that Stalin had nightmares about the bootstrap. In 1977, in a small village in then Soviet Kyrgyzstan, there was an uprising that started when a pair of boots were smuggled into the town. Today there is a large sculpture of a boot in this village, though ironically, the government strips the straps off all boots that are imported.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, and Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise. This week's theme: 'Bootstraps'.

Paralells

The car crashed, the fender buckled, our heads slumped forward. The force of the impact carried my head forward until it met the windshield. It was a fucked up situation. But it wasn't my fucked up situation, it was Arnold's. It was Arnold's because it was his car, because he had drank all that wine, and because he'd been driving. So he did what was perfectly natural, he drove off. Or what was perfectly natural in our situation. Before we had hit the other car, Arnold had been telling me about the dream he'd had last night. In it he had seen a Golem, and had followed it into town. He followed the golem into a McDonalds, followed the Golem into a hotel watched from some obscure hiding spot while the Golem fucked a whore. Then he looked in the mirror and saw that he was the golem. He told me it was very moving, that he had wept and dedicated himself to change. I told him the symbolism was lazy, then we hit the car in front of us. I don't recall the make or color of it. I only remember that it was there, the impact and that we left. Then we met Ivan. Ivan was very tall. Arnold asked if he played professional basketball. Ivan called him an asshole. Ivan had been standing on the side of the road. Smoking a cigarette and half-heartedly looking for a ride. When we asked if he needed a ride, he looked skyward, as if contemplating some far off anguish; then slowly picked up his backpack and crawled into the backseat. His knees were scrunched up to his chest. He looked ridiculous. He had such wayward eyes and such a crooked smile, I fell in love immediately. I was already in love with Arnold. But I figured I could love both at once. And we did, in the motel we rented that night. It took some persuading for Arnold. He said he was greedy, that he didn't want to share me. But eventually he relented and, I think, enjoyed himself. In the morning we found a briefcase in the lobby. If it had been left there for days or for minutes didn't matter to us. We took it. We found that it was filled with money. Or rather, it had a lot of money in it. It wasn't entirely filled, it had some stray papers and folders strewn about. But there was still a lot of money in there. We stopped at a park to count it and drink beer. Ivan started arguing with Arnold about who was more deserving of the money, who had had the greatest trials in their lives. Soon they began fighting, punching each other, rolling around on the ground. Ivan picked up a large rock and smashed Arnold's face with it. I didn't need to look to know he was dead. Ivan sat down, holding his head in his hands. He looked at me. I could see the profound sadness in his eyes. Before I could say anything, he reached into his backpack, pulled out a gun and shot himself. I kissed them both on the forehead before closing the briefcase and driving away.

The car crashed, the fender buckled, our heads slumped forward. But it looked like the car in front of us had sustained more damage than ours. It was a fucked up situation. But it wasn't my fucked up situation, it was Arnold's. It was Arnold's because it was his car, because he had drank all that wine, and because he'd been driving. He tried to do what was perfectly natural for him, which was drive off. I persuaded him to stop and see if who'd ever been in that car was still alive, and maybe call an ambulance. Arnold wanted to leave. He was drunk, he didn't want to go to jail. I told him that this was probably the lesson he should have gleaned from the golem dream he had just been telling me about. He told me that was bullshit and to shut up. We looked in the car we'd just hit. The drives door was open, but there was no one inside. All we could see was a briefcase sitting on the driver's seat. Arnold wanted to take it, I tried to tell him that stealing from a crime scene would only get him in more trouble, but he had his mind set on it. And I couldn't talk him out of something when he set his mind to it. So we drove away. We stopped at a Denny's to see what was inside. We found a lot of hundred dollar bills scattered amongst the papers and other detritus that had been stuffed inside it. Arnold could barely contain his glee. He ordered the Moons-Over-My-Hammy, I had a strawberry milkshake. We tipped the waitress generously. Perhaps too generously, as she followed us into the parking lot to make sure we hadn't put the wrong bill on the table by mistake. We assured her we hadn't. She was so grateful she could have kissed us. She was an attractive young girl, tall, red-hair, breasts you could imagine being lovely if they weren't obscured by the boxy Denny's uniform. Arnold started flirting with her, and eventually persuaded her to come out with us. We waited until she got off, then left to get some beer to take back to our hotel room. We must have attracted someone else's attention because another car followed us out of the Denny's parking lot. In our motel room we got drunk with Caren (her nametag informed us that it was spelled with a "C"). One thing led to another and Arnold started fucking her. I didn't love him, but watching them, I kind of felt jealous. I went outside to smoke a cigarette and clear my head. I must not have him enter the room. I just heard the screams and the sick sound of something breaking. I went to the room, inside a large heavyset man was choking Caren. She was gasping, struggling, trying to wrest herself from the grip of the mammoth of a man. I could see that Arnold was dead. The Tv had been smashed over his head. The sheets were covered with blood. I figured the jagged shards had cut his throat. I couldn't go anything, I was frozen in my tracks. I wished I could have, but I just watched the giant of a man kill that poor, sweet girl. The man picked up the briefcase and brushed past me, as though I wasn't even there. I felt like I wasn't there. Like I didn't even exist. The only thing I could do was cry.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'Alternate Realities'.

Joke Zone!

Q. Under what division do ghosts box in?

A. Phantomweight

Q. What did the Jew say to the Balrog?

A. Would you like a bagel?