Here a Nation, There a Nation: A Word Play

My home town occasionally refers to themselves as the Jayhawk Nation. There are probably many other “pseudo” nations, and the creation of so many nations stirs the imagination. With a surge of inspiration I went to Google in search of further information. Search Engine Optimization suggested the United Nations and Face the Nation. The sound of incoming email broke my concentration as I received an invitation to join an online researcher’s organization called the “Investigation Nation.” What a clever exhortation! All that was required was to fill out a short application, but I viewed their offer with trepidation. A second email touted a seniors dating service named the “Older Generation Expectation of Infatuation Association.” As an incentive to join, the club offered a free vacation at a resort with which the organization had an affiliation. I resented the insinuation that I was elderly and wondered with indignation who supplied their information.


Feeling trapped and close to suffocation, I hopped into my car, flooring the gas pedal for maximum acceleration. I soon stopped beside a Greyhound Bus which sponsored a promotion by the Bus Station Nation. Their proclamation read: “Public transportation for energy conservation!” There was a clear indication of support as the population cheered in ovation. Unfortunately the driver received a citation for a moving violation; he was driving without proper exterior illumination and was hauled to the police station for interrogation.

I took a short-cut toward a plantation in desperation, my navigation leading me through a field with farmers trying to save their harvest from dehydration. Their utilization of water condensation, purification and desalinization tools wasn’t effective, and my deliberations led me to conclude their equipment needed calibration. The farmers’ trucks had door magnets which read, “IrNat, Inc.” I realized with consternation that this was an abbreviation for Irrigation Nation—a chilling observation!

I arrived at my destination and circled the packed parking lot in frustration before spying an open space. A young woman quickly approached, offering to sell me a carnation. When I declined, her response was the middle finger salutation. Once inside, the pharmacy became my destination. I waited in anticipation for an inoculation while another man was in consultation with the pharmacist, seeking clarification about his medication for constipation. The pharmacist told him he might suffer from some inflammation after a few days’ application, but there was no expectation of lasting problems, especially if he took their recommendation for lubrication. He was told if problems persisted, he should visit his doctor for an examination.

I next stopped at a video store with the motivation of renting a full feature presentation. I saw the X-Men movies beneath a sign that read, “Mutation Nation—copies available for reservation.” In a back room, a young couple shyly perused XXX-rated videos together, including one titled “The Self-Gratification Nation.” In exasperation I cried out, “Is there no respite from my situation?”

I raced home in anticipation of lengthy isolation—perhaps even hibernation. Only separation from the population would offer me emancipation. I opened my door in elation and stretched out for some relaxation. If not for my vaccination, I would have guessed the day’s events were entirely a hallucination. There was no justification for any other explanation.

I popped the DVD into the player and settled in for some relaxation. I discovered with exasperation that I had an X-Files movie and checked the case for verification. I watched as Agent Muldur made a bold declaration to his superiors regarding information of an impending infiltration resulting in the colonization of our civilization by an alien delegation. His superiors were in collaboration, and claimed there was no rationalization for his investigation—despite the ramification of an alien occupation and the expectation of mankind’s termination. They accused him of an overactive imagination and a severe breach of regulation. Defeated he met with Agent Scully, and they flirted shyly—a weak culmination of their mutual infatuation.

At this point, I knew my aspiration for a normal day was a cry of desperation. My lamentation was heard from miles away. I reached for a wine glass. The day had been an abomination, and celebration was my only salvation.



To all of you familiar with my work: I have no explanation.