SlapDashittery
Monday, June 22, 2009
After something like 300 hours of continual rain, the loud, blue-collar mood of the neighbourhood recoils like a scrotum in a cold lake, understanding its place in the galactic drama of existence as, at best, a tertiary concern. Brick and mortar goes soft under that type of duress, so inundated with water that houses up and down the street bob and bend in swollen protest, their aluminum-siding frowns a soggy testament to shoddy workmanship and this plague of environmentalism running rampant through the hearts and minds of even those thickheaded enough to fight it. We are the generation of sodden sacrifice, where moral superiority is painted forest green, and we’ll save the world ourselves; don’t worry your pretty little head about it, pops.
"I don’t understand."
"Don’t you care about the earth? You should buy these coffee-filters."
"Those are four times the price."
"Yes, but they’re made from recycled material."
"They go in the compost bin either way, don’t they?"
"You need to stop worrying about money and start worrying about the future; you have to be part of the solution."
"By quadrupling my grocery bill."
"Right."
Of course, but what good is any of that now? Logic and rationality have no place in a neighbourhood like this at this best of times, and certainly not after it’s been violated by rain – attacked, if you will, by the very forces we’re bicycling to protect.
OHIO (AP) – Senator Howitzer Jackapple, the humanitarian crusader for deer and buck rights best known for his successful "Hunt Not Lest Ye Be Hunted" campaign, was fatally shot by a deer this morning deep within what local residents refer to as "The Toledo Badlands".
"Why?" asked Senator Jackapple just minutes before being pronounced dead by on-site paramedics. Why indeed: among the many mysteries surrounding this bizarre ambush, such as determining where a deer learned how to operate a rifle and how it became so fully versed in irony, chief among them is why any deer would assassinate the man Time magazine called, "The Deer Jesus"; running a close second is the alarming question of whether or not the deer acted alone.
Unlike the vast underground network of highly-organized deer extremists, the forces of nature need make no such concession - there is no conspiracy of raindrops, just vengeance piddled out on a ghastly populace of reprobates and degenerates, the down and dirty revenge of Mother Earth designed specifically to trap her smug "saviors" indoors where she doesn’t have to listen to them congratulate themselves.
Alas, not all of life’s ills can so easily be explained away by a leaky sky; if only the teeming rain could account for that grizzled old hag with the mummified legs who invades the street in her minivan at odd hours shouting over the kind of redneck rock and/or roll that makes Lynard Skynard sound like a squad of eunuchs singing Amazing Grace. Perhaps it’s a large-scale brainstem-soaking that’s to blame for two cross-street rivals angrily Eskimo-kissing in regards to who heard what said about whom, grown men with the collective common-sense of a greasy sponge bickering like weasels trapped in a transparent elevator.
If it’s possible that waterheads are made and not born, there is no evidence of it on this dead-end street of teenaged temper-tantrums and one-legged vigilantes waiting behind the curtains for crime to appear in the narrow focus of their garage-mounted video-surveillance systems. No, it seems highly unlikely that the pervasive wet weather is responsible for this constant showcase of idiotic skullfuckery, and even less likely is the notion that dampness alone has been keeping this group of grisly werewolves from succumbing to evolution.
Ah, but now, as the clouds part, the sunshine can’t help but reveal two essential truths hiding within the slippery wreckage of city life: embedded gangfucks of sillywitted dipshits cling to this street like piss to the pantleg of a reverend on a rollercoaster, and no matter how violent the storm, the rain never seems to wash away all the grime.
"I don’t understand."
"Don’t you care about the earth? You should buy these coffee-filters."
"Those are four times the price."
"Yes, but they’re made from recycled material."
"They go in the compost bin either way, don’t they?"
"You need to stop worrying about money and start worrying about the future; you have to be part of the solution."
"By quadrupling my grocery bill."
"Right."
Of course, but what good is any of that now? Logic and rationality have no place in a neighbourhood like this at this best of times, and certainly not after it’s been violated by rain – attacked, if you will, by the very forces we’re bicycling to protect.
OHIO (AP) – Senator Howitzer Jackapple, the humanitarian crusader for deer and buck rights best known for his successful "Hunt Not Lest Ye Be Hunted" campaign, was fatally shot by a deer this morning deep within what local residents refer to as "The Toledo Badlands".
"Why?" asked Senator Jackapple just minutes before being pronounced dead by on-site paramedics. Why indeed: among the many mysteries surrounding this bizarre ambush, such as determining where a deer learned how to operate a rifle and how it became so fully versed in irony, chief among them is why any deer would assassinate the man Time magazine called, "The Deer Jesus"; running a close second is the alarming question of whether or not the deer acted alone.
Unlike the vast underground network of highly-organized deer extremists, the forces of nature need make no such concession - there is no conspiracy of raindrops, just vengeance piddled out on a ghastly populace of reprobates and degenerates, the down and dirty revenge of Mother Earth designed specifically to trap her smug "saviors" indoors where she doesn’t have to listen to them congratulate themselves.
Alas, not all of life’s ills can so easily be explained away by a leaky sky; if only the teeming rain could account for that grizzled old hag with the mummified legs who invades the street in her minivan at odd hours shouting over the kind of redneck rock and/or roll that makes Lynard Skynard sound like a squad of eunuchs singing Amazing Grace. Perhaps it’s a large-scale brainstem-soaking that’s to blame for two cross-street rivals angrily Eskimo-kissing in regards to who heard what said about whom, grown men with the collective common-sense of a greasy sponge bickering like weasels trapped in a transparent elevator.
If it’s possible that waterheads are made and not born, there is no evidence of it on this dead-end street of teenaged temper-tantrums and one-legged vigilantes waiting behind the curtains for crime to appear in the narrow focus of their garage-mounted video-surveillance systems. No, it seems highly unlikely that the pervasive wet weather is responsible for this constant showcase of idiotic skullfuckery, and even less likely is the notion that dampness alone has been keeping this group of grisly werewolves from succumbing to evolution.
Ah, but now, as the clouds part, the sunshine can’t help but reveal two essential truths hiding within the slippery wreckage of city life: embedded gangfucks of sillywitted dipshits cling to this street like piss to the pantleg of a reverend on a rollercoaster, and no matter how violent the storm, the rain never seems to wash away all the grime.
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6 Comments:
Are you a Berke Breathed fan by any chance?
You're going to have a lucky kid.
This made me feel stupid, as in simply thick.
Excellent.
Yeah, Xbox nailed it. Just made me feel stupid.
But wait, maybe not. It also made me think you might have done some sort of remote brain scan long enough to discover a few of the errant committee members in there.
Um, that's just another way of saying this makes me feel stupid, isn't it.
Nevermind, you brilliant bastard you.
Not having the time to read my favorite blogs lately, I've missed having you make me feel stupid!
Outstanding.
You guys are all rad - sorry it's taken me so long to get back here, but there's a pretty good explanation for my absence coming... eventually.
All's well on the baby-front, however, so worry not.
Love Ry
you big fucking tease.
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