Traffuck

Let me ask you a question.
If, while walking along sidewalk, possibly humming along with your IPod to Sloan’s Everything You’ve Done Wrong while dripping the last, little bits out of your double-double coffee into your gaping maw, and you saw a gigantic, 16-wheel flatbed truck trying to navigate a corner at the smallest of small-town intersections, would you:
A) Stop, for no other reason than because you have the last vestiges of coffee-swill drooling down your chin and, depending on the angle you held your coffee cup, sticky, mucous-like sugary-cream pooling in your eye-sockets, making depth of vision a little bit difficult to discern;
B) Stop, because the truck-driver is clearly in over his head at this intersection, trailing close to 15 tons of flattened metal & rubber around an intersection barely big enough to handle a crosswalk littered with school-kids, and the look on his face isn’t even a reasonable facsimile of the calm, cool detachment one would expect from the seasoned truck-driver who would laugh-off such a pickle in long, looping cackles in between drags off the cigarette he‘s holding in his sagging, illiterate mouth;
C) Look the truck-driver directly in his face, walk out in front of his straining, severely-rotating front-end with a blitheness bordering on obliviousness, and as the incredulous truck-driver comes to a screeching stop, thus halting all intersection traffic, you, with the most vulgar scowl you could muster, throw your empty coffee-cup on the back of his flatbed, continuing on your walk, diagonally across said intersection, while throwing a vile glare and a vague shoulder-shrug at the beyond-words-enraged truck-driver.
The answer, as I watched with my own two eyes this morning, is, astonishingly, C.

For Fuck’s Sake

I really dislike being bored.
For me, boredom only comes from one place, and that place is the barren wasteland of boring conversation; if left to my own devices, I can keep myself entertained for hours, but if A&E happens to flicker on soundlessly while they’re doing an "expose" of the Ku Klux Klan’s "secret" history, well, fuck...
Try and stop a conversation about racial intolerance once it’s gotten started.
I dare you.
Now, I’m not, nor was I, trying to avoid the subject - I’ll yell about whatever and/or whomever at the drop of a hint - but seeing a bunch of dentally-handicapped, fat, sweaty, mullet-sporting, southern fucking retards gather together with their sunglasses and rat-tail-wearing children shouting "white power" while cloaked in hooded dresses...let’s just say that I don’t also need to see grainy, black-and-white footage of blacks being whipped to become angry.
I certainly don’t need to get into a conversation decrying racism; isn’t it obvious, at this point, that racism is, LITERALLY, the most horrifyingly repellant thing we could have done to ourselves as a species? Doesn’t that seem, among other things, ridiculously arbitrary?
“Look, we gotta come up with a way to keep this little club of ours to ourselves.”
[silence]
“C’mon! Think, dammit! We’re the edumacated types, right? What can we use as a basis for exclusion?”
[more silence]
“What about...I know! What about keeping people who have brown eyes out?”
[from the back of the room]
“But I have brown eyes.”

“Oh, yeah.”
[from the corner]
“So do I.”
[silence]
“Shit.”
[more silence]
“What about brown skin?”
[silence]
“Whaddya think?”
[from the doorway]
“But then we’d have kick Scully out.”
“Naw; Scully just got a little too much sun yesterday...”
Whatever; my point is that the conversation was fruitless, was going to be fruitless, and though that doesn’t mean that racism is something that should be forgotten about, EVER, it does mean that coming up with overly-simplistic, white-guy "solutions" for an age-old problem on a drink-fueled Saturday night isn’t exactly what I would call a good usage of time or energy.
Granted, the simplistic solutions were mine, but still...it was kind of like trying to shut the TV off in the middle of a Simpsons episode I’ve seen a thousand times; “what, you don’t like The Simpsons any more?”
What?
No, it’s just that I’ve just seen this...
Yes, I know it’s a classic episode...
Fuck.

more

Randumb

Numbers are only words that haven’t the vocal-chords nor the gumption to speak the language;
The delight of a small, whole-wheat Mr. Sub veggie-sandwich is equaled only by the physical and metaphorical dragging of a non-complicit onlooker into an otherwise self-indulgent story;
The slang-phrase, "B", as in, "yo, B, getchyo fizzace outta my bizzatch" was inadvertently created when Scottie Pippen apologized cross-court to BJ Armstrong after an air-mailed pass during the Chicago Bulls’ title run in 1993;

The word "sinkhole" spelled backwards is "elohknis", an old, Egyptian carafe made from the walked-on mud of political prisoners and the broken shards of even older Egyptian carafes;

If Ian McKellan had fallen in love with my grandmother, in an atavistic and misguided attempt at not being gay, he’d totally be my grandfather...if, indeed, he managed to spawn before he gave in to the overwhelming pull of his sexual birthright;

The colour purple has a smell, and it’s a cross between crushed wildberries and dingy tattoo-ink from a decrepit tattoo-parlour;

Short-term brain-malfunctions are just the result of one’s soul attempting escape through the imagination-gland;

Free-time is a luxury afforded only to those who work so hard all day that when said free-time emerges, there isn’t anything of any consequence to relate...just slapdashittery & purposelessocity.

Randumbening

Godammit

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.

Again

Britney & Kevin: An American Love Story

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:
[calling off-screen]
Kevin!
Kevin:
[off-screen]
What?
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:
What?
Britney:
[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:
[interrupting]
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?
[pause]
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.
[pause]
That's gotta count for something.
Britney:
It's not that, Kevin...
Kevin:
[interrupting again]
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?
[pause]
'Cause all that partying? In Vegas? That's all...symbolic; it's a confirmation of our love...
[pause]
...with drinking.
Britney:
I've hired three cowboys from Mississippi to hunt you for sport.
Kevin:
[pause]
Really?
Britney:
[nods silently; starts chewing again]
Kevin:
When?
Britney:
Like, four days ago.
Kevin:
No, when are they coming?
Britney:
Oh...any time now.
Kevin:
I see.
[pause]
So...why?
Britney:
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.
[pause]
At least when I took that contract out on your life, it was out of hatred, not boredom.
Britney:
[chewing nonchalantly]
This is sort of a half-and-half thing.
Kevin:
[pause]
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:
[pause]
What happened?
Britney:
I was too drunk to pull it off.
Kevin:
[laughing]
Having that kid really affected your alcohol-tolerance, huh?
Britney:
[rolling eyes]
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:
[interrupting]
At least I'm not a 30-year-old wannabe rapper who dresses like a 14-year-old Eminem clone.

Kevin:
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.

Britney:
I do SO realize that!
[pause]
I'm trying to fit in.

Kevin:
To your pants?

Britney:
With the other white-trash mothers who have nothing better to do than gorge themselves on mini-burgers.

Kevin:
[mocking]
Well, why don't you sing a song about it? Oh, yeah...because you CAN'T SING.

Britney:
[imitating Kevin]
"I'm the worst rapper in the world and I get no respect but I'm still an incredibly stupid dipshit..."

Kevin:
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.

Cowboy:
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.

Assassin:
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.

CUE THE LAUGH-TRACK;

FADE TO BLACK

Religion is a Disease

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.

You’re welcome.

Sensationalastic!

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...

HARPER:
"Hey, George! Look!"

[waving frantically]

"Over here! WE’RE fighting the War on Terror too!"

BUSH:
[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?

I don’t know either, but GOD BLESS our troops.