Friday, June 27, 2014

Tit For Tat

So there you are, more or less, the latest version of yourself, meticulously constructed under, let's face it, less than ideal circumstances, the possibility of appearing an actual person increasingly more a strain than a pastime.  The big question: Who are you?

There ought to be a book you can read to figure it out - Figuring Out If You Actually Exist, And Why That Might Matter.

There should be someone you can ask:

"Hey man, can you see me?"
"Whoa! Who said that?"
"Come on. Tell me something about myself, reassure me."
"Okay, you're the coolest fake human I know."
"So, you do know me."
"Uh, the usual deal is in play? Fifty bucks, no questions asked?"
"Yeah, sure."
"I so know you, man. In fact, knowing you barely covers it. I mean, I KNOW YOU! Put it this way, I comprehend you. I grasp the nature of you. I ..."
"Fifty's my absolute limit."
"In that case, I'll see ya - wouldn't want to be ya."
"I heard that."

Okay, so you're paying people for positive feedback. Is that so wrong? Approbation is a commodity, like anything else. You could ask your friends, except you don't have any. No, that's not exactly true. You have friends, even sort of like a few of them. It's no big mystery that most of them are morons, but these are people at least willing to talk with you. Okay, 'willing to' may be a stretch. People tend to be nicer than they normally would be when they suspect you might be carrying a gun; a.k.a. packing heat; going heavy; etc.

Is that a Glock in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?
Neither. It's a Beretta. And I'm pretty sure the safety is off.


So this guy is driving along a highway somewhere in Sweden. Why would he do that, you ask? Who knows? Guys do stuff. This time of year in Sweden it's light for like 22 hours a day, the sun in the sky resembling a screaming skull that refuses to go away. You tend to run out of sensible things to do. Sleep is pretty much out of the question, and you can only stay drunk for so long before people start to notice. They're drunk too, of course, but not dumb enough to get in a car and drive on a highway.

Anyway, he's driving and sees this road sign, a sign on a highway, apparently they have those in Sweden, too, although naturally you would expect them to be written in Swedish.  This one, however, was not. And it's not like the Swedes to joke around with road signs. Lighthearted highway high jinks in general is not a feature of the Scandinavian agenda. Basic rule of thumb: Don't make stuff up while you're driving.

Get to the sign already.
Right. Sorry.

The sign.  It read:  "Tom Tits Experiment."  Only that.  No other explanation.  No "Please refer to your driver's handbook for further instructions."

Wait a minute, did you just see that sign?
I did, but I'm pretending I didn't. The sun is playing tricks, that's all.
We should definitely go back and investigate.
Are you insane?
Uh ...
No, don't answer that. Are you at least going heavy?
So I may have put on a few kilos. There's no reason to taunt me with it.
A gun! Are you carrying your gun?
Where do you think we are, L.A.?

What does it mean?  The logical inference is that someone named Tom (not even a Swedish name, interestingly enough) is performing some sort of experiment on tits, which sounds illegal, not to mention more than a little creepy.

Tom:  "Unlike most men, content to sit back and passively obsess over tits, I've taken my obsession to the next level, practical experimentation."

Unless Tom's surname is Tits; equally bizarre, if for different reasons. A man named Tom Tits is performing some unknown experiment somewhere in Sweden, the mere fact of which somehow warrants a road sign.

The obvious conclusion is that Sweden may be a stranger place than we originally thought, although we are all aware of the pitfalls of jumping hastily to conclusions. We'd like to hear from Tom directly on this, or from anyone who knows Tom, perhaps a former girlfriend who bailed as soon as the weird experiments started.  Contact us. Anonymity guaranteed.