Tuesday, April 28, 2009

My Shandian piece

I just finished reading Sterne's Tristrm Shandy and decided I would take a stab at my own piece.  I tried to relate my life story as the narrator of Sterne's story did.  It is an interesting way for me to tell my story in a non-linear fashion, which is a characteristic of the oral culture.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF BRANDON SPEVACEK….A CAR PARKING STORY

BY BRANDON SPEVACEK

WORD COUNT 1915

ENGLISH 342 PAPER 3

CREATIVE OPTION

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 1

To be a bastard was a hard thing for such a fervent youth like myself to swallow when I was a young tike growing up in small town Montana.  If only my parents would have planned out my youth, I would have not suffered the slings and arrows from society that I would have had to endure.   If only they would have took the time to understand just what they were getting into, they may have changed there way of praising “God the almighty” in the fashion that they had done.  See, being the youths that they were, my parents “put the wheat in the bin” during a sanctimonious prayer at a Catholic youth camp.  “ Oh God!  Oh God!  Brad don’t stop” Prayth my young mother.  It seemed that my mother could only do her humanistic duty during the most religious ceremonies at the time.

CHAPTER 2

            I had often heard that an idle hand was the devils playground when I was reaching my peak of intellect around the age of ten.  Now that I look back at that saying, I quite understand why Mr. Clinton was often busy attending to the countries most dyer needs with his interns.  As for my adopted father, interns and world policy was not his hobby.  No, his hobbyhorse was racing.  When I was a young man, I often saw him intricately placing model racing cars together.  He had a whole track and collection of cars; one such model was an actual replica of the funny car my dad would drive down the track before he would leave and park the car in my mother’s garage.  No, it is a shame that when my dad parked his car in my mother’s garage, no little funny cars were to follow.  Because society placed importance on the number of cars they produced, my adopted parents had to adopt another car into the family.

CHAPTER 3

            I was truly indebted to my father’s lack of philosophical knowledge.  In my life, most of the people who know philosophy that I have encountered are not the most wonderful people.  My birth father for example, was an expert in philosophy but they only real gift he ever gave to humanity was helping my mother pray and assist her in bringing me forth into this cruel world on the 9th of September.  I have met this man once in my life and he always tried to downplay our intelligence by his use of grandiose words.  Even though he would talk about the discourse of Freud and other great minds of the time, his conversation was always about the same as my adopted dad’s the best way to park the car in a garage.  As I had previously mentioned, my dad raced funny cars as a young man so his digression was about the most time-effective way of parking while my birth dad had to degrade him.  My birth dad talked about the mechanics of parking, the philosophy of parking and most importantly, how to pray to God the Almighty while parking.  Either way, as much as my birth dad tried to insult the intelligence of my adopted father and myself, the message was still the same.  It is important to park the car anyway possible

CHAPTER 4

            My birth mother, being of Catholic descent was distraught at the idea of being pregnant out of wedlock.  My birth father, being the complete jackass he was, decided that he had to go help other woman find God instead of doing the noble action of continuing their religious journey together throughout life.  Being the young woman of sixteen that she was and since she had no other person to pray with, thought it best that she do a Catholic tradition of putting her soon to be new car on the auction block.  Thankfully my beautiful adopted mom and my racing minded father were on the lookout for a new baby car that they could buy without the pain of reversing their own new baby car out of my mother’s garage.

CHAPTER 5, AUTHORS INTENT

            Even though I digressed a bit, I must inform the reader that I was the hero of the story I told thus far.  Is it not obvious that I am the hero of my own life?  I would believe that wit and judgment, when in use would give evidence to such a fact.  Locke once wrote an intellectual discourse about how the use of wit and judgment were things that could not be used together.  They are impossible to use together.  Our former leader of the free world tested this hypothesis and found that hiccupping and farting at the same time was easier for him to do then to use wit and judgment simultaneously.  But I digressed again.  Let me tell the meaning of this whole paper.  I am going to tell how I came into this world, which I live in.

CHAPTER 6

            I did not understand the meaning of parking fast and driving at a young age so I tried to do both literally.  Once at the age of five I was asked to move my dad’s pickup across the farm and park it in the garage out of harms way.  I remember both my birth dad’s and my adopted fathers advice for the best way to park and tried to utilize both at the same time and I ended up parking my dad’s beloved pickup into the side of a barn instead of the garage which awaited the vehicle.  But I shouldn’t have said that, I got ahead of myself.

 

 

CHAPTER 7

            With my arrival out of the garage due any day, my birth mother being the naïve young lady she was decided that it was a wonderful idea to accompany her family on their annual ski trip to Red Lodge Montana.  I had been told my whole life that I should sit on a pole and rotate so how ironic that I came into this world while my mother clutched two ski poles?  Funny thing about ski poles, I still to this day don’t quite understand their use and purpose.  They are meant to slow one’s self down and help control their speed as they progress down the racetrack of ice.  Even with this as the purpose, I had tried this and found it as successful as our foreign policy and Iraq which is not been a success thus far.  I wish to note that I do not speak ill of the soldiers risking their life over seas.  No, I am only commenting on how the policy itself is as useful as ski poles.

            How I was started on poles I shall never know but back to the story at hand.  My mother was nine months pregnant and expected me to back out of the proverbial garage any day and decided that she could still attend the family ski trip at Red Lodge Montana.  With my arrival fast approaching, my dear mother had already decided on a strong name to give me before she sold me to the highest bidder.  She had decided on Scott.  Scott was thought to be a strong name, a name a boy of high intellect and holy regard could be proud of.  Alas, the time had come and I was brought into this world and was thus named Brandon by my adopted family, the proud owner of a new car who soon will park his car in some lucky ladies garage.  This is not a story of my life I guess, just a story of parking cars.

 

 

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