I’ve got "sniffles" in the way that a one-legged man has a "limp".
My throat feels like someone’s been shoveling snow off my larynx; the only album I can sing along to is In Utero.
I have brain-bubbles of enervation, ideas just beyond my comprehension - good ideas that I’m utterly unable to make work, currently.
I’m "frustrated" in the way that a thrice-whipped dog is "disgruntled".
I’m "irritated" in the way that a house picked up and dropped by a hurricane is "damaged".
I’m whining in lieu of writing, hoping that this avalanche of cavillous complaining will scrape away the hard-callous of sickness that is preventing me from writing...
Or, at least writing properly. Waaaaaah!
There; I feel better already.
INT: A PLUSH MANSION OF UNSPEAKABLE OPULENCE IN BEVERLY HILLS - DAY BRITNEY is sitting at a fine-oak table in a spacious kitchen right out of Home-Decor for Rich-People Magazine, tapping nervously on the table and chewing gum with her mouth open; this gum-chewing is more of a gum-smacking, and is very irritating. Britney:
Could you come in here? A rustling is heard off-screen; KEVIN emerges wearing an exasperated look; he was interrupted while doing...something. Kevin:
[pause; chews her gum]
Could you sit down for a sec? Kevin joins Britney at the table; there is silence, save for the constant gum-chewing. Britney:Look; I don't exactly know how to say this, so I'm just going to say it... Kevin:
You're breaking up with me. Silence; long vacant stare from Britney; the silence is eventually broken with more gum-chewing. Kevin:
How could you?
After all I've done for you? Britney is still chewing gum; her expression hasn't changed at all. Kevin:I mean, I'm your baby's daddy.
That's gotta count for something. Britney:
It's not that, Kevin... Kevin:
Is it the rapping? 'Cause I've got hip-hop in my soul, and I've gotta let it out. Britney:
[more gum chewing] Kevin:
I've got haters! Just like Jay-Z! Britney:
It's something else... Kevin:
You're not getting all caught up in what the tabloids are saying, are you?
'Cause all that partying? In Vegas? That's all...symbolic; it's a confirmation of our love...
...with drinking. Britney:
I've hired three cowboys from Mississippi to hunt you for sport. Kevin:
[nods silently; starts chewing again] Kevin:
Like, four days ago. Kevin:
No, when are they coming? Britney:
Oh...any time now. Kevin:
Oh, come off it, Kevin! You know how bored I've been lately! Kevin:
Taking care of a newborn baby doesn't keep you busy enough? Britney:
You'd think so, but no. Kevin:
What about when he "fell" last week? Britney:
Yeah; that ate up, like a day. Kevin:
Well, that's just great, Britney.
At least when I took that contract out on your life, it was out of hatred, not boredom. Britney:
This is sort of a half-and-half thing. Kevin:
Well, at least now we're being honest with each other. Britney:
[another vacant stare]
I tried to kill you in your sleep last week. Kevin:
What happened? Britney:
I was too drunk to pull it off. Kevin:
Having that kid really affected your alcohol-tolerance, huh? Britney:
I guess so... Kevin:
And let's not forget about your figure. Britney:
[chewing stops; a slow frown spreads across her face] Kevin:
Oh, come ON! Don't tell me that you think you look good? Britney:
I just gave birth, like, four months ago. Kevin:
Yeah, cry me a river...
[realizes what he's said; laughs]
...so to speak.
[pause; he starts singing "Cry Me a River" by Justin Timberlake] Britney:
At least I'm not a 30-year-old wannabe rapper who dresses like a 14-year-old Eminem clone.
No, you dress like those balding fat chicks down at White Castle who don't realize that their gut-fat is hanging over their stretch-pants.
I do SO realize that!
I'm trying to fit in.
To your pants?
With the other white-trash mothers who have nothing better to do than gorge themselves on mini-burgers.
Well, why don't you sing a song about it? Oh, yeah...because you CAN'T SING.
"I'm the worst rapper in the world and I get no respect but I'm still an incredibly stupid dipshit..."
God, are you lame.
There are two separate knocks on the doors, one on either side of the kitchen; Britney and Kevin look at each other, and then get up to answer their respective doors. Britney opens her door, and it's the COWBOY, speaking from off-screen.
Yee-haw! Let's get to rustlin' us up some Kevin!
A lasso shoots into frame coming up just short of Kevin; Kevin opens his door, and the well-suited arm of an ASSASSIN reaches into the kitchen holding a gun with a silencer attached.
Is now a good time?
Silence; Britney and Kevin look at each other; more silence. Then:
Britney & Kevin:
[together and to each other]
It's for you.
We are all born with an inherent Belief Structure, this is true. The vast majority of the world’s population fills this Belief Structure with some ready-made religion, and this, also, is true. On the basis of these two truths, I can only surmise that the vast majority of the world’s population is lazy.
There is a cavernous distinction between a Belief Structure and Religion; Religion is the greasy Whopper Deluxe that the lethargic feed their increasingly unhealthy Belief Structure, when all the Belief Structure actually wants is something worthwhile to eat. The Whopper Deluxe becomes the only way to eat only because it’s been the only food ingested for so long...the possibility of other foodstuffs having better digestive qualities is a completely unseen proposition because of the mounds of Whopper Deluxe, and only Whopper Deluxe, filling the body cavity so fully that it blocks the eyes from seeing anything. The Whopper Deluxe becomes the litmus test for all other introduced foodstuffs: "It doesn’t taste enough like a Whopper Deluxe, so I’m not going to eat it."
As a man thankfully born unto no Religion, I can eat whatever I want; I am unafraid of varying types of meals because I have a full rainbow of flavours in my palette to draw upon or add to; I can take a nibble out of any type of delicacy and not immediately compare it to one monolithic sandwich item; I can look at food and decide on my own whether it looks worthwhile, rather than basing my decision on whether a new sandwich will taste enough like a Whopper Deluxe to fit my liking.
We are given a Belief Structure template when we are born, to be filled by experiences and to be forged out of critical thought; if we stunt our Belief Structure’s growth by cramming one book or one way of thinking into its gullet from our very inception, we are doing a grave disservice to said Belief Structure, as it then loses its capacity for critical thought and becomes only a filter through which we make decisions based entirely on how those choices will effect our Belief Structure, rather than allowing our Belief Structure to form based on our choices.
Religion from birth is the equivalent to a heroin shot into a pregnant woman’s bloodstream. The child wouldhave been healthy, ready to enter the world with its own singular perspective, its own unique possibilities, but now it enters the world with its mind clouded with addiction; from Day One, it’s heroin first, evolution of thought second. The best part about this analogy is the idea that this isn’t just a one shot deal, so to speak; no, from then on, the mother continually injects heroin into her young child because said child seems to be growing up fine, and it’s a whole lot easier to keep the child placated with heroin than it is to teach them anything. But then as the child grows, with this opiate coursing through its veins, they begin to lose the ability to allow any experience to come first; they are thinking heroin first, objectivity second. The child then goes through adolescence with a serious drug-monkey on their back, and when they’re eighteen the mother decides that since the kid is now an adult she can finally stop injecting them with junk, though she will continue said injections anytime the young adult comes home to visit. Through no fault of their own, this would-be adult now has a serious drug-problem that becomes their lifelong number one concern, leaving lived life by the wayside as they lope through their own life with hollow eyes, looking for like-minded addicts who are similarly frightened of anything that doesn’t mesh with their heroin habits.
One is an abrupt outcast should they be seen smoking in front of a small child, or, worse yet, feeding a two-year-old strong black coffee; and yet, handing a child a Bible during their formative years isn’t looked upon with the same revulsion, even though all three acts serve the same purpose: to stunt a child’s growth. Parents are actually raising their children without common sense, without the capacity to make their own distinctions between Good and Bad, without the ability to see things for what they are; these children are raised to compare what they experience against a contradictory supposed-instruction manual, which leads to quick yes or no scenarios rather than the mulling over of the absolute ambiguities that make up decision-making.
I’ve put forth the argument that Religion, much like cigarettes, alcohol, and recreational drugs, should be left to be found by burgeoning adults; the response I’ve gotten is that Religion won’t be found, and to this I vehemently disagree. I was raised, again thankfully, without an oppressive Religion and found myself drawn to it, like it was a decaying homeless-person on an otherwise unblemished stroll through the suburbs; I was able to research it, to take it in as a whole as well as in all its little offshoots; I was able to appreciate the preceptsof while maintaining my critical eye to its flaws; in short, I taught myself Religion rather than it teaching me.
Religion is Santa Claus for adults, and much like children reaching a certain age realize that it’s Dad eating the milk and cookies, adults have to come to the same conclusion as to their own beliefs: "God" isn’t watching over you, twisting your life down some pre-determined path; "God" doesn’t have a "plan" for you; "God" is just something to frighten and distract you from all of the fantastic things going on in your life, a scam to keep fearful individuals murderously enraged for no good reason...other than the value of blind-worship to a dictatorship. For us to continually evolve, we need to inoculate ourselves against the anchor of Religion, to cure our flawed thinking of this insidious disease so that we’re free to think openly and maybe, just maybe, progress as a species.
It took the accumulation of three-times the firepower used in the Oklahoma City bombing for Canadian authorities to arrest 17 suspected terrorists, and now Canada’s on the map...five years after the fact, we in the Great White North now have own very own nonstop news story, complete with the requisite fear and wild speculation one would expect from Canadian media outlets who finally have a story to write breathlessly about. The vilification has begun:
Pure evil, right? Forget the apparent Predator-like heat-seeking lens on the cameraman; the drawn-in likeness of what looks to be the lawyer on the right proves the lengths to which we will go to personify the story, to put a face with the evil.
Best of all, this news gives our Prime Minister, Stephen "Cold Eyes of a Baby-Eater" Harper, the excuse to explain to us why terrorists would want to bomb us...which is sort of like a seagull just missing us with a shit-bomb, and as we look to the sky someone explains to us how the bird’s intestinal-biology works: the point is that we almost got shit on, not why a bird shits.
Unfortunately, it’s not because of "what we stand for", but rather because we have Canadian troops "cleaning up" the Taliban in Afghanistan. Oh, I’m sorry, it’s not because we somehow elected a Prime Minister who immediately sent troops overseas, a Dubya-Juniour who rode into office on the back of a massive Liberal Sponsorship Scandal but still only won by a hair? I see; there’s NO correlation between our newfound interest in the "Fight Against Terror" and this sudden foiled plot? It’s just coincidence...
"Hey, George! Look!"
"Over here! WE’RE fighting the War on Terror too!"
[talking to an actual dignitary while dismissively waving Harper off]
"I see you, I see you…very nice."
I love that people are surprised by all of this; that the bombing in Britain was viewed on the same level as any other attacked foreign embassy, that we all engage in the "that’s-terrible-but-it’s-across-the-pond" syndrome until it’s in our backyard. These terrorists were caught, and that’s great, but that’s what the authorities are for, isn’t it? I mean, kudos for actually preventing an attack, but since these bomb-ingredient-buyers were found in Pickering and Kingston, well...doesn’t that make our troops in Afghanistan unnecessary? If the terrorists are RIGHT HERE, why are we over THERE?
To receive a Bud Light M&M Meat Shops Steak coupon without purchase please send a written request to Bud Light Steak In-case Promotion, P.O. 850, Moncton, NB, E1C 8N6. Limit of one request per household. All requests must include a one hundred word original essay on “Why I love to barbecue” along with the sender's name, return mailing address, the statement "I am of legal drinking age in my province of residence" and your signature. You must also enclose a self addressed stamped envelope with sufficient postage. Requests must be received before June 11th, 2006, the promotion closing date. While supplies last.
Must be of legal drinking age and a resident of Ontario.
Please allow 3 to 4 weeks for delivery.
The nostalgia of the Family-Barbecue is deeply ingrained within even the least of us; summertime bums themselves had a garbage-can of fire with which to sear a generously-donated piece of raw meat for their own indelible barbecue memories. I still hold up my end of the tradition today, gathering my small but slowly-growing family around the charcoal briquettes of our second-hand, football-shaped promotional grill, complete with the painted toxins so common among those items that were not intended for their eventual use. We laugh; we clink our Bud Lights together; we avoid mention of the crushing realities that drown out our happiness for even the most joyful of celebrations, preferring to ride the wave of good tidings that steak brings for as long as it lasts. We are united in our love of grilled meat; we pull together just as easily as we pull apart once the gorging is complete, going our separate ways, keeping to ourselves the various resentments and lingering disgust that would only serve to begin an argument should they be spoken aloud. Yes, the family-barbecue is the solitary light shone on an otherwise dank and sordid set of lives; the kind of beacon that allows all of us to remind ourselves that, hey, we’re all in this together...let’s eat some steak and then forget all about our temporary reconciliations. We’re family, after all.
I am of legal drinking age in my province of residence.
South Dakota can take a big, meaty bite out of my cock...those inbred, backwards, idiotic, prehistoric, asinine, fucking control freaks.
Seriously. Who the FUCK cares if someone wants an abortion? Does it matter to anyone other than the person actually making the decision FOR THEMSELVES? Apparently, yes it does, as the powers-that-be have decided that the people make enough decisions already in SD, what with elections and everything, that the very personal decision to have/not have an abortion needs to removed from the individual ledger. Well, fuck that.
I think every male within the vicinity of SD, or, if you're like me you're saving your money for a trip, should seduce and impregnate every congressman/woman's daughter we can get our filthy hands on. Let's see these evil fucking barbarians' resolve when they're faced with the prospect of their family blood-line infected with the likes of my seed...a bunch of screaming, no-job-holding, anti-everything little monsters running around SD, voting democratic just because it would piss their parents off.
ME: "Hi, mom."
IDIOT CONGRESSWOMAN: "Would you stop calling me that."
ME: "No way. Your daughter is going to birth my waterheaded baby, and I'm personally going to dilute your family-bloodline until there isn't anything left but compassion and logic."
[beat, for effect]
ME: "So, obviously it's going to take a while."
[another beat for effect]
ME: "And a lot of fucking."
The real problem here is that this is just the first shot in what looks to be an upcoming war against individual decision-making in general; it's not being alarmist to mention the 2000 election yet again, as the decision-making was taken over & controlled by the government. If you disagree, you're wrong, and you're putting yourself in line with the other attempted-history-erasers...the 2000 election was fair & square just like the Holocaust never happened.
It's also not some "wacky" conspiracy-theorem to suggest the government is attempting to relieve the common man of his decision-making rights just because you get bored of hearing about it, or are too lazy to look it up. It's all there, in black & white...open a fucking book and take a look. Repeating a phrase ad nauseam, such as "abortion" in conjunction with the word "evil" or "godless", doesn't make it true, or little Jimmy from eighth grade would've had sex 35-times while in juniour high just like he said he did.
Bill Hicks had the right idea: All you mothers who are not legally allowed to have an abortion should just havethe child and put them on the front steps of the Supreme Court. Day after day, week after week, just pile baby after baby on the steps...YOU say we have to have them, YOU FUCKING TAKE CARE OF THEM. Life is so precious, right? Well, use some of your ill-gained money from electioneering & campaigning to take care of the thousands of babies left on your front porch, you holier-than-thou fuckwads.
Also, here's another good point; it's not pro-abortion, it's pro-choice, and every man in the world was born pro-choice. Why? Because WE are NEVER HAVING BABIES. Not one guy is going to shit out a baby, no matter how much estrogen they ingest. So, maybe, if you got a girl pregnant, then, between the two of you, you MIGHT have some opinion on the debate...something like 1, 2 percent. Because it's the girl whose body is going to be split open like a oyster while having the child, or the girl who has to withstand the trauma of the abortion, NOT YOU. No man has any right to say anything about the choice of abortion, other than, maybe, "Whatever you decide. I've got your back." That's it. If you see any man talking about being pro-life, tell him to mind his own business; if he's so into life, why doesn't he have one? Where's his commitment to the premise?
Here's another one, and this goes out to the fellas: Imagine your President/Prime Minister/Dictator told you that you could no longer watch football/hockey. Hey? What about that? You can watch or do whatever you want, right? Nope; shut the fuck up and turn off the TV. It's your life, you can make up your own mind, right? Nope; shut the fuck up. But your watching football/hockey doesn't affect anyone else, right? Shut the fuck up. This South Dakota bullshit is a good sign for the newsmedia, however; just think of all the stories to come ofnewborn babies in dumpsters and garbage cans. Or the reports of rotting infants in low-income housing because there just wasn't enough money for food. Dead babies floating in the river. Dead babies in alleyways. Dead babies on the doorstep of a family on vacation. Dead babies everywhere, and stories for days.
As a public service, a South Dakota Tourism Suggestion:
You want to spread your seed, no questions asked? Head to beautiful South Dakota, throw on some cologne, and get with the fucking. Sure, you'll be mixing your genes with the best imbecilic young South Dakotans that the state has to offer, but if they have any kind of job, you can just sit back and collect your winnings.
In non-descript South Dakota, they HAVE to have your kid; it's the law! So, come to South Dakota, where leeching off your steakhouse-waitress wife and having kids faster than you could say "government stipend" is no longer a dream.
While often misconstrued as a malady of the upper-head area, this mostly temporary affliction is brought upon by the pretentiousness of over-thinking. Many sufferers complain of enduring low-brow “entertainment” just prior to the fever’s onset. Side-effects include excessive upward-nose turning, foreign-film-viewing braggadocio, and derisive sniffing instead of laughter. As with most superficial conditions, this particular fever can be cured with laughter; one viewing of Team America: World Police should suffice. Uninteresting Story Cough
Oftentimes a good tool for indicating a certain level of distaste or boredom towards never-ending anecdotes, this habit can quickly become an over-used crutch for those with a short attention-span. Found in higher numbers at bars and late-night parties, anywhere alcohol has beaten down the barrier between interesting story-and-solipsistic blather, this easily-curable ailment is known to decrease rapidly once the sufferer is around interesting people. Also, for long-time sufferers, cough drops are recommended. Ignorant-Pundit Nausea and Ceaseless Anathematization
Brought about by the inborn rage of watching a paid pundit miss the point, lie, or do no research, whatsoever, as to the topic of conversation. Said fury results in a queasy, spasmodic shifting around in one’s seat, followed by repeated attempts at emptying one’s stomach of the bile and disgust that sloshes around in the distended belly of the afflicted. While the antidote seems obvious (throwing something heavy through the TV set; writing out death-threats), the best results have been reached by just turning the offending television off…and maybe having a good cry in the shower for the fate of the world that rests in the ill-informed hands of moronic talking-heads.
A psychological affliction towards those who cannot differentiate between an analogy and a simile, as well as those using an analogy unnecessarily, this resentment can boil and stew for countless hours if not dealt with in a timely fashion. A pocket-dictionary works miracles in such situations, as well as a tape-recorder, for immediate playback of asinine comments and to leave no doubt as to the offender’s lack of understanding in regards to the words that they are misusing. Also, as with the Uninteresting Story Cough, finding better conversational partners is key to avoiding this condition in the future.
Malignant Colon Discharge; Malevolent Defecation; Hateful Excremation; The “Shits”
Self-explanatory, this ailment is best rectified (so to speak) by avoiding whatever it is that was eaten/ingested beforehand, as well as taking the proper amount of time to ensure that all of the offending excrement, or “poo”, is shit out before any trips longer than five minutes are attempted. For plan-cancellation due to this unfortunate condition, use the phrase “dysentery”, as in, I cannot meet your parents, or your incredibly insane extended family, as I have come down with dysentery. For those less concerned about outward appearances, the following phrase also works nicely: It’s not just that I don’t want to spend an hour catching up with your friends from high school, but that I would rather spend my afternoon shitting out that horrific pseudo-Mediterranean “meal” from Thursday night then listen to you drone on and on about nothing more than who your high school sweetheart ended up marrying, and how much of a whore she is.
I take this old, old post with me wherever I go, like a security-blanket or lucky knickknack…I keep on posting it, because it will continue to be relevant as long as Nickelback decides to keep making albums. I remember vaguely staring at a story in the Toronto Star about something called "Beer O'clock" at a Nickelback concert, and being even more vaguely irritated. As I sat and re-read the story, I tried to figure out why I was seething over something as ridiculous as Chad Kroeger throwing beer into the crowd, which might as well have been water-balloons for all the alcoholic effect it had. Most of the time, I don't concern myself with Nickelback; at one point, I had even convinced myself that they didn't exist, that they were a figment of some middle-of-the-road record executive's imagination, that I had somehow just tapped into the wrong dreamscape one night while asleep. But no, here they were, a story in the Toronto Star. Maybe that's what bothered me, an incongruous story in my otherwise readable newspaper. Maybe it was the drummer in the cowboy hat. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because Nickelback is the very definition of What's Wrong With Popular Music Today.
Here's a perfect little story that radio-listening Canadians can probably remember: In those blissful, pre-Nickelback days, before that "How You Remind Me" song destroyed a generation's affinity for the radio, there was word that Nickelback was on the up-and-up, that they were starting to get noticed, that Sammy Hagar wanted them to play at his private New Year's Party...Sammy Hagar. The DJ's were treating this like John Lennon had come back from the dead and wanted to see Canadian-born Nickelback, and it occurred to me that this was the perfect pairing of the dinosaur-rocker's Post-Crap and Nickelback's hollow Pre-Crap, and I felt the harmony.
Luckily for me, so that I could keep up with their "meteoric" rise to fame, I'm Canadian. That meant that if Kroeger so much as drove through town, littering the roadway with his Albertan-charm, I was going to have to hear about it. And it wasn't, or isn't, their ubiquitous-ness that bothers me, but the guilt-by-association that comes with being Canadian, "just like Nickelback". It's like coming from a family of idiots; it's not your fault that you were born into an idiotic family, but you end up being defined by your idiot relatives. Much like being Canadian when Nickelback releases a new record.
Sometimes, when I'm feeling blue, I like to imagine what it would be like if Scott Stapp was Canadian...the overwrought, shitty singing, the awful music, the empty, "dramatic" gestures. What perks me back up is the vision I have, of the hopefully not too distant future, where Scott Stapp dies, and there's finally a picture of him with his fucking shirt on. Alas, I know that there would be wind machines at the funeral, but at least he wouldn't be singing.
I believe in Karma, and so I see some happy times ahead: Chad Kroeger will grow old and bitter, reminiscing about his Rock-Star glory days while making Phil Collins-music for various Disney films; the members formerly comprising Nickelback will kick back on their million-acre farms, whittling little pieces of tree-bark into the Juno Awards they wished they were still receiving, and a typhoon will miraculously destroy their land, their houses, their lives…they’ll be reduced to begging Kroeger, at this point wandering LA hoping to be noticed, his sunglasses ever perched on his colossal nose, even indoors, for money to help build back their respective ranches, and Good Ol’ Chad’ll send them Cheques...but they’ll bounce, and all the washed-up Nickelbackers will hear is the strains of mean-spirited laughter echoing off in the distance. more