I’m all for the idea of governmental non-interference, but I seriously think that my student loan lendor (in this case the Federal Government) should’ve been legally required to advise me, as an English major, that I would have a greater chance in the future of being struck by lightning than I would of being able to pay my bills with creative writing.

This same law should have gone double for my decision to earn an MFA. Seriously, I think men in suits should have shown up at my door with actuarial tables. “See here: if you continue on your current career track, you will forgo vacations, new cars and the idea of ever being able to afford Christmas presents for anyone outside of your immediate family.” Short of that, I think the Fed should at least mail a letter. “Dear Sucka” might be an appropriate opening.

As far as my creative writing goes, I’ve earned more money writing t-shirts than I have with fiction, plays and screenplays combined. I can write a mean t-shirt. Literally. (See www.zencommandments.com.)  But it does rankle to realize that I simply don’t have the energy to write the shirts, burn the silkscreens, print them by hand and market them with any kind of effectivity. So right now my sole method of marketing is to set up shop at local holiday bazaars.

Allow me to be the first to warn future English majors that they might find themselves on the slippery slope of their thirties selling t-shirts at crafts fairs.

So there I was, yesterday in Buffalo, WY. The crowds were cool. I even met someone who understood what a “fatwa” was. And I also saw, in addition to some good wood carvings and jewelry, a stall featuring imported leather goods with awful fake jewels glued onto it. This look is actually common in this part of the country. My husband named it Christian Cowboy Bling.

It looks like this: A black or brown leather background with generic rhinestones and other fake diadems, often in the shape of a cross. I saw belts, bags, and jackets with this lovely combination on them. I also saw A LOT of money changing hands at those booths and nearly choked to death on my trail mix. Who, I wondered, would spend their hard-earned cash on gaudy Jesus bling when they could order a t-shirt from me with a slogan that combines global warming and fart jokes?

The more bazaars I attend, the more I realize that I don’t know my audience at all. Granted, I can safely guess that a woman with a shiny blue plastic cross on her purse is not going to be pulling her wallet out in my general direction. But I’ve sold to several people with crucifixes around their necks. It’s good, at least, to realize that Jesus has a sense of humor. He would have to, to appreciate that many of his followers are unironically sporting belts with horseheads and his name spelled out in worthless fake rubies and diamonds.

This memorial was erected a dozen years ago outside the local Catholic church:

 …oddly enough, they don’t have one for victims of pedophile priests.

Tonight’s the annual Monster Truck night again at the county fairgrounds. Despite my so-called ironic interest in such things, I decided to pass. It’s raining. Besides which, I spent my admission money on a half-gallon of Rice Dream, which I plan to consume while watching Chris Rock on DVD.

Confession: I went last year. So I can report firsthand that the audience recited en masse the Lord’s Prayer and sang the Star Spangled Banner before the trucks rolled into the ring.

There is no separation of church and state and white trash in wyo.