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Belting Out The Good Word


In a stirring battle from the ongoing inner-conflict between the embittered laws of nature, a casualty close to home was lost: my belt.

A reasonably well-constructed strap of blackened leather with an imitation silver fastener, it served my needs well enough over the last two or three years of inglorious modern living.

Until quite randomly, whereupon the metal bits came apart from the leathery bits, with no way to reconcile the two under said laws of nature’s bucky little cousin, the laws of physics. I’ve honestly been working out so much that I have added inches to my waistline.

Being the crafty sort when stoned enough, I elected to cut up the net-sack I keep my dirty laundry in to magically re-purpose its drawstring into a belt chord, tied like shoestrings attractively in the front of my belt-line.

It gave me the feeling of being Quick Kick from GI Joe, except his belt was totally different. My remarkable ingenuity was very casual and comfortable, though, and functional until I might find the necessary window of time to dig up some more graves for pawn-shop capital.

Suffice to say these tragedies got me to thinking.

I have never in my life heard mention anywhere of a ‘belt industry’ in this culture, where if you ask around just three or four degrees from Kevin Bacon one might find grooming services explicitly for in-costume furries. There are oodles of various industries out there, inundating us like the stench of an overflowing, simmering ashtray in need of being thrown at the neighbor’s kids, yet never is there a news story concerning the belt industry specifically.

Leading me to believe that the poor thing is in its death-throes.

And that distinct possibility has me up in arms.

I’ve been a wearer of belts since kindergarten, and not just for Sunday school or class picture day at public school.

I may only tuck my shirts in for funerals, but the only occasions when I am not wearing a belt are when I am doing things either illegal or immoral, as was the case for most men of our forefathers’ generations.

But they (inferring the belts although the same could be said for said forefathers) really don’t seem to be a big thing anymore.

I can see that and I can fix that. I can save the belt industry with one or two lines:

Belts? You may laugh them off as extras, ‘totes’ unnecessary or whatever youths are getting jiggy with these days. But me? When the zombies rise to bite out the soft parts of the ones you love while you’re in line to register for a clue, I know I will always have a weapon on me, one which never goes dull and suffers no friendly fire.”

Because the belt is a secret weapon, like the towel in Hitchhikers but even more universal. You can whip it like Indiana Jones, which any child to have had the rotten whooped into them with a projecting parent’s own belt can attest, leaves a wallop physically as well as psychologically. And when the zombies do come, halfway tripping already as they shuffle towards you all Romero-like because the freshly dead abide by current belt-free trends, your own fight for survival will also be both physical and psychological.

As fans of The Walking Dead lamenting the evident passing of the program’s entire writers room (preferably by way of getting locked inside with a lifetime supply of stink-bombs) can attest.

So, to the belt industry: pitch your wares to the zombie fans. The moment you do, you will find yourself living as carefree as a Trump daughter’s Instagram feed. It’s a good, free idea and in this rare case provides truth in advertising as belts really can be used offensively, more offensive than the belt-less waddling like penguins as they do.

Plus, should they fail against the legions of undead, the belt can also be used in that special way attested by anybody to have been placed under ‘suicide watch’ during a stint at a state mental hospital under threat of having their own belts taken away.

Dreaming of David Carradine.