I began to feel normal again after combining a sugar-caffeine buzz, screen stimulation, gunshot blasts, and the sweet aromas of gunpowder. It all started when I was working out, endurance training, pushing myself hard, exercising my thumb, channel trawling, while watching my giant telesphere theater in my living room. After getting a bad case of numb-thumb, I happened to land on a channel where the most-recent Powerball winner was being interviewed. Asked how he felt after winning, he replied, "I feel super. I'm floatin' on Cloud 9." Lucky guy, I thought. Because I was floatin'… on Cloud 2.
Friends, no one gets up in the morning on planet Earth searching for Cloud 2. We're all trying to get to Cloud 9. In every freshening new moment, all of our thoughts, words, and greed are combining to do whatever is necessary to get us there.
It gave me Cloud 4 comfort knowing I was in good company with other Cloud sufferers. Cloud 4 is okay, but it isn't Cloud 9.So, I went back to exercising my thumb, pushing through the pain, channel trawling, searching for that certain something that would lift me up to Cloud 3. All 1500 channels were showing commercials. And all the people in them were smiling and laughing and having fun and sitting on Cloud 9. Naturally, I was feeling a little left out.
People in commercials are always conveying that same unspoken, unwritten, implied advertising promise: you can float up here with us on Cloud 9 too…if you buy this doodad. Usually it's a doodad pill, and a voiceover says, "Ask your doctor how you can get to Cloud 9 by using our doodad pill." And the video shows a man and a woman running through a field towards each other. And they meet in the middle, embracing, smiling, and looking into each other's eyes with doodad desire. Then they fall down and doodad together on Cloud 9.
Sure, doodadding is a great way to zip up there to Cloud 9. But no sooner do you get up there, piercing the edge of space, sitting on Cloud 9, then you're freefalling back to Earth through Clouds 8, 7, 61/2—and you're asleep. Meanwhile, your partner is awake staring at the ceiling. He/she/it (plug in your preference) didn't make it there because you zoomed up there too fast. Now, he/she/it is left wanting on Cloud 7. Not a complete disaster, but your snoring sounds like air leaking out of a tire. So, he/she/it is plummeting through Clouds 5, 4, and 3.
Of course, no one said it would be easy getting to Cloud 9.
The other morning, I was slipping through Cloud 2 to 1. So, I hurried off to the local trapshooting field to boost my low-cloud woes. A crowd of us stood together, stretched out down-the-line, as we shouldered our shotguns. We were all yelling Pull! and shooting at each other's clay pigeons. Between rounds I stuffed my mouth with chocolate donut holes and washed them down with high-test coffee and checked my smart phone for texts, tweets, news feeds, and to see how the cartoon show was ending.
I was clawing my way up to Cloud 3 by combining a sugar-caffeine buzz with screen stimulation, explosion-blasts, and the sweet aromas of gunpowder. A few minutes later, I noticed a lull in the action coupled with a conspicuous quietness. I looked around and everyone was taking a break, eating donuts, drinking coffee, checking screens, and talking about the end of the cartoon. It gave me Cloud 4 comfort knowing I was in good company with other Cloud sufferers.
Cloud 4 is okay, but it isn't Cloud 9.
Though, sometimes reaching it is just a fantasy. Take the Monday morning commute as the remnants of a blissful weekend dissolve into dream doo. Some of the nicest people on the planet are turning into slobber-gob werewolves on their way to a job they hate. If you happen to run into these hybrid humans, just forget about Cloud 9. If you can get to Cloud 2, take it. And if you're slipping down to Cloud 1, turning into a slobber-gob werewolf, I recommend stopping for coffee and donuts. You'll get an instant Cloud 2 buzz. Don't forget, America runs to Cloud 2 on Dunkin'.
But friends, when you're just sick and tired of Cloud 2, there's a secret place to find Cloud 9.
It's at the top of Mount Everest. That's right. Climbers go to extremes to get there, sacrificing themselves as they pass through death-zone cemeteries, making their final assault on Cloud 9. Many lose fingers and toes. Some die. Still, it's a popular place, and there's no avoiding the crush at the top.
Just before summiting Cloud 9, they form a long line as if waiting for a busy bathroom. The peak is about as big as a two-stall bathroom with one toilet out-of-service. But during the month of May, there is no line because all climbers must compete in the annual Cloud 9 King-Of-The-Hill Professional Wrestling Championships. (This formal competition is really a way of glossing over a growing trend of brawling climbers, who resort to crampon kicking and pick-axe hurling as they fight over the only porta potty on Cloud 9, which sits atop a tippy pile of rocks at the highest elevation on the planet.) Naturally, during this time, with so many climbers getting dragged out of the porta potty and thrown over cliffs, there's a lot of carnage.
After the Cloud 9 King-Of-The-Hill Professional Wrestling champion has been declared, usually a slobber-gob werewolf, it has the privilege of relieving itself while all remaining survivors make the treacherous descent through Cloud stages to base camp. Once there, they too can relieve themselves and regain Cloud 3 equilibrium by receiving coffee IVs, scarfing down donuts, and watching cartoons on their smart phones. And if they aren't having their trigger fingers amputated, they can go out to the range and shoot clay.
Well friends, from one slack-back slothful, channel-trawling, donut vacuuming, coffee slurping, Cloud 3, couch sloucher, here's wishing you the best of luck getting to Cloud 9.