I’m Going To Live In A Small Town Now, By Tom Oatmeal
I want to introduce everyone to a new contributor, Tom Oatmeal. I found Tom’s work by accident online somewhere and thought he was a good fit for Misanthropy Today . All I know about Tom is that this idiot horse bit off his hand when he was trying to feed it a pinecone, and he lives in Los Angeles. –AF
Thanks Andy. Here goes nothing:
After a brief and ultimately failed attempt at starting a life in California, I have recently decided to try living in a small Midwestern town. I am single, unemployed, and have accrued a small debt that is manageable, but a far cry from the savings I had expected to have at this point in my life. However, I’m not here to dwell on the hasty decisions and missed opportunities of my past. There is work to be done! A life exists for me back home, but not until certain things have been set into motion. I give you…My Plan for Happy Small Town Living:
Step 1.
First and foremost I will immediately bring myself up to speed on any mindless sitcoms that feature a fat, semi-retarded husband and his inexplicably attractive wife. When the laugh track sounds, I too will laugh. I will gather up any books and thought-provoking literature I have and pawn it off in order to have money to purchase the boxed sets of these shows. I will buy a TiVO so that when I come home from work, I can watch television until I go to sleep. Opportunities to socialize will be wasted by never ending discussions of last week’s episodes of everything. My friends will insist that I just HAVE to watch certain shows and I will promise to do so. This new, sedentary lifestyle will lead to bedsores and I will become increasingly detached from reality. Upon finishing a set of DVDs I will melt the discs into a spoon, load a syringe with the liquid, and then inject it into my veins. With the drug of bullshit comedy now in my bloodstream, I will do something bumbling and mildly foolish like dent my neighbor’s classic car or record a football game over a wedding tape.
Step 2.
I will post my resume on countless job sites before settling on a company that claims to be looking for young, sports-minded, college graduates with an entrepreneurial spirit. I will attend what turns out to be a group-interview. The day will be a blur of short haircuts and even shorter men trying their best to convey an alpha-male attitude as they fill my empty soul with false compliments, tired lines from films like “Wall-Street”, and promises of rapid advancement that in any other field would require violence. After lunch a group of us will be hustled into a boardroom that is empty except for some cheap furniture and a few posters that scream motivational messages so vague that I will briefly forget if the goal is to climb a mountain or masturbate into a cup. We will watch hours of sales videos featuring men that “get it” despite their penchant for sleazy women, loud cars, and noticeable hairplugs. After a few handshakes I will be offered the job way too fast and I will accept despite my not yet knowing what the hell this company actually does. It will be revealed to me on Monday that I am a door-to-door knife salesman. Fine.
Step 3.
Now I will begin the process of finding a woman to settle down with. Bars are my best bet, as alcohol will provide me with that temporary vacation from the feelings of shame that might otherwise stop me from embellishing on the morbid details of my life. These outings will lead to countless nights of awkward sex, but will never materialize into anything of worth thanks to the fact that our desperation is obvious. We will try to go on traditional dates, but conversation of any kind will quickly give way to impatient, “Christmas List” style descriptions of our wants and needs. Eventually I will settle for a girl I meet in a park and I will immediately pat myself on the back simply because we didn’t meet at a bar. She will ask me where I went to high school and I will inquire the same of her. This will matter to us even though we are both approaching our 10-year high school reunions. She will be wearing cutesy workout shorts that ironically, have a better chance of coming into contact with pizza sauce than the sweat of exercise. This will not matter because, again, we didn’t meet in a bar and that’s all I have any more. We will get married.
Step 4.
We will buy a house. When we hear about some single guy or girl buying an apartment in a young and bustling part of town we will scoff at him or her for throwing away their money. “Screw the freedom to try living in new and interesting places,” I’ll say. I will call you back in the room and we will dial up our other married, property-owner friends on speakerphone and demand that they too scoff at the notion of renting property. They will scoff and then confirm that they are indeed available for bowling on Tuesday. “I don’t think Bill and Deborah like us,” I’ll tell my wife after hanging up the phone.
Step 5.
I will donate my kidney to a young boy in hopes that his family can love me in a way that mine no longer can. He will send us cards during all major holidays. These updates will serve as a type of temporary adhesive for my crumbling, sexless marriage. On one particular Thanksgiving, I will run my fingers along the lines of glitter on the latest card, watching in a trance as the colorful plastic rains onto the surface of my kitchen table. This will remind me to clean the “stripper glitter” out of the small shop vacuum I keep in my car.
Step 6.
I will attend church every Sunday not because I believe in it, but rather, because in a life that has become a series of safe bets, why the fuck not go? I will stand around folding tables after the service eating free donuts with other members of the congregation and we will lie back and forth to each other about not being able to remember the last time we ate donuts.
Step 7.
My job will become so unbearable that I will look forward to activities like “getting more staples to refill my stapler” and “urinating” simply because they require me to leave my desk for a short while. In a few years my prostate will have increased in size, doubling the amount of times I need to use the restroom in a given day. I will decline medication for this ailment telling the doctor that it is the best thing to happen to me in years. Baffled, he will continue my physical in near silence, speaking only to decline my request of “trying that knee hammer thing on my throat.”
Step 8.
Before arthritis can claim the use of my hands, I will tie one end of a length of rope to the trigger of a shotgun. After securing the other end to a doorknob, I will take a seat and position the weapon so that the barrel is just inches from my nose. When the door is opened, a single blast of buckshot will be released, wiping the permanent look of defeat off of my face forever. The funeral will be closed-casket, an announcement that will come as a relief to a funeral parlor staff that has grown tired of explaining to countless families the difficulty of removing stress-induced wrinkles from the foreheads of their loved ones.
Okay, that’s it I think! If anyone can give me the name of a reliable moving company, I’d appreciate it. I have a lot of boxes to load!
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I found your blog on google and read a few of your other posts. I just added you to my Google News Reader. Keep up the good work. Look forward to reading more from you in the future.
Stacey Derbinshire
[...] tomoatmeal wrote a fantastic post today on “Iâ??m Going To Live In A Small Town Now, By Tom Oatmeal”Here’s ONLY a quick extractBars are my best bet, as alcohol will provide me with that temporary vacation from the feelings of shame that might otherwise stop me from embellishing on the morbid details of my life. These outings will lead to countless nights of … [...]
#8. Hollywoodmove.com. Tell them the production company sent ya.