The Faux Pas Press #59

The Faux Pas Press #59

15 October 2010

By Jason Fresh

How long is the measuring stick, this American measuring stick of dreams? How long will they sell it back to me even though I went to buy a plastic ruler from the grocery store? It measures just fine. I can measure anything from my penis to my capacity to learn languages. It is limited. All tools have their limitations just as the aforementioned traits have their limits. But as long as we, the enlightened collective, the lovers and haters of constitutional representative republics, as long as we keep buying rulers, I might as well buy the most affordable one, probably made in China. No - most definitely made in China. If I measure my life by the metric system at least the numbers are inherently higher – and my IQ lower because I’m being compared to Asians who are better at math. (Penis size will remain comparatively the same, okay. We know that for sure.) I am good at math but, like, inches and feet and shit. The Chinaman is a sneaky sonofabitch though. Is it possible that he fucked around with those little plastic rulers before a woman with a graduate degree boxed them up? I’m sure mine is legit.

The woman who sold it to me, the Polynesian kind (not the ruler – the woman), working as a Walmart cashier without a degree, smirking slightly as I scooted past magazine covers with bully-victim suicides, seemed curious as she scanned, flipped, and handled it. She winked at me as if she’d experienced some intimate part of the Self.

“No, the ruler is Chinese. I’m an American.”

“Are you sure?”

“We’ll I measure in inches, measure whatever I can. I’m going to be doing a lot of measuring.”

“You measuring tonight?”

“How do you measure tonight? I’m married actually if that's what you're refering too.”

“You sure? How do you measure that?”

“I’m not sure about the answer to either question.”

Measure, measure, measure the height of your grasp then reach one hundred times higher.