Hey all, apologies for the inactivity. Getting reacclimated to college life and whatnot. In return for your patience, I give you an excerpt from either a short story or film idea I am currently developing. I have yet to decide what shape this idea’s final form will take:
Once their watches strike midnight, they triumphantly unzip their ceremonial blue jeans and piss. They piss with a retaliatory rage. They piss as if they are pissing off of a balcony and into the scalps of their capitalist oppressors during one of their posh soirees. This glorious rebuttal by the agricultural class toward the “urbane” urbanites downstream is called The Great Yellowing.
Only adults have the prerequisites to understand the political and personal impact of The Great Yellowing. Hence a boy can only participate in The Great Yellowing once he becomes a man. Each June 22nd, all of the boys (or men, rather at least in the minds of the town’s elders) who had turned twelve within the past twelve months stood next to their fathers as their father showede them the . It was the responsibility of the town’s fathers to prep their sons for this spirited rite of passage.
Oftentimes fathers would passionately explain to their sons the political symbolism and significance of their piss-streams, for their sons were still young. Because of their youth, the boys of the town had yet to be confronted with the injustices of contemporary society. For while this townwide rite of passage was an act of triumph and unity for
Shawnboy, like many of the young men who were pissing in the river for his first time, was skeptical about the importance of the ceremony. His father, Remus, sought to correct this ignorant and childish yet understandable opinion as they walked on the winding trail to the river’s edge.
“First of all, why don’t the girls in town have to do this?”
“Think about it, boy.”
“Okay, so why do I gotta whiz in the river with all the other dudes in the town anyway?”
“Well for two reasons, son. The first is that, quite frankly, this has turned into a rite of passage for all the townsfolk. Now, for you to defy this time-honored tradition would begin to subtly tear apart the unity of the collective whole. In some ways our piss becomes one as it collides and coalesces in the river’s waves. Like tears in the rain.”
Shawnboy rolls his eyes. “Yeah and what’s the other reason?”
“Do you know anything about economics, Shawnboy?”
“No duh, I’m twelve.”
“Well, our people, us farm and wilderness folk, we belong to a different economic class than the folks downstream, specifically in Manhattan. While the outer boroughs are home to an urban working class, our proletariat brothers, Manhattan has become increasingly gentrified over the past two decades, and this created a more economically homogenous city on the whole.”
“What does their lives have to do with us?”
“Well, Shawnboy, all of those who live under the same capital S State are tenaciously connected to one another, whether we like it or not. And our class, the agricultural working class, we serve the food demands of Manhattan’s yuppie population. We, that is those in the bitterly yet inaccurately named Sebarnackee Lake, ultimately resent the way our land has been, pardon my French, raped by the wealthy urban class. All of our best crops are sold to them. Did you know that grapes are supposed to be green? Not that brownish color you are used to.”
“They’re not brown, Pop.”
“Regardless, my point still stands. The French had a guillotine. We got our piss.”