It seems to me that we should pay close attention when people say they are about to rise to the defense of an abstract noun, as do our friendly right-wing Christian brothers and sisters.
There exists in certain religious societies a special police force whose entire raison d'etre is the 'protection from vice and the promotion of virtue'.
On the face of it this sounds like a wonderful organization, working towards a lofty goal.
However, when one examines the acts of these police men (for reasons inscrutable these are almost always men) one can not help but wonder if there isn't another motive behind their actions, something very different from the noble enterprise of protecting the citizenry from vice.
For those of you who do not know of what I speak, I shall be happy to provide you with video evidence of how these men protect, with merciless rod and cast stone, all that is good and just in the eyes of their God, via private email, as I fear that posting a video link on this public blog may disturb the emotional equilibrium of some.
To the point of the marriage of homosexual couples; I live on a quiet, tree-lined street, and our neighborhood is one of harmony and respect, and it is wholly unblemished,thank Heaven, by the scourge of violent crime which plagues so many of our cities.
At the very end of our street cohabit two wonderful and somewhat epicene ladies, who bake astonishingly tasty apple pies.
If our religious brethren are correct then our little haven of tranquility and peace shall suffer a blow from which it may never recover when in the night-stand drawer of the aforementioned ladies shall be placed a piece of paper with some signatures on it.
No doubt it is due to my intellectual deficiencies and the rampant truancy of my misspend youth that I fail to see just how exactly all this prophesized mayhem and murder will come about.
In my country of birth, The Netherlands, gay people have acquired the right to marry years ago and, strange to say, by some divine miracle, the country has so far been spared chaos, famine and general unpleasantness.
If I didn't know any better I would almost conclude that the self-appointed (and always God-invoking) legislators of public morality, while claiming to protect virtue, are primarily motivated by an altogether different, base and very unchristian desire to kick someone in the balls with great force, for no other reason then that they seem to get pleasure out of the act.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Vincent's wish list
It is that time of year again when I send a supplication Northward to St. Nicholas containing my dearest wishes for the coming year of our Lord 2010.
As is tradition, this list will take the form of a summary of ghastly individuals whom I most dearly wish to see publicly humiliated, whipped and beaten in the town's square and dipped in tar and feathers,followed by a hasty sterilization and prompt banishment to the Hebrides.
Note: since Janet Jackson and Adam Sandler have already been listed for 3 years in a row,they have been omitted from this year’s list,even though they most certainly belong there for various heinous offenses against common decency and everything that is just and beautiful in this land of ours.
So here they are.
Have your bucket and a strong doze of smelling salt at the ready.
1 Katie Couric
2 That psycho bitch from Alaska
3 Everyone involved in marketing
4 James Dobson
5 People over the age of 12 who read Harry Potter books
6 Mormons and all other Nazis who supported Prop 8 in California
7 Mahmoud Ahmadinnerjacket
8 That little mindless trollop who is infected with Billy Ray Sirus’ obscene and ridiculous DNA
9 Dinesh D’Souza and similar nauseating petulant right-wing cocksuckers
10 Alan Greenspan
11 Everyone who is worth more than 10 million dollars
12 Oprah Winfrey
13 The audience of Oprah Winfrey
14 Hedge fund managers
15 And, of course, Kenny G.
As is tradition, this list will take the form of a summary of ghastly individuals whom I most dearly wish to see publicly humiliated, whipped and beaten in the town's square and dipped in tar and feathers,followed by a hasty sterilization and prompt banishment to the Hebrides.
Note: since Janet Jackson and Adam Sandler have already been listed for 3 years in a row,they have been omitted from this year’s list,even though they most certainly belong there for various heinous offenses against common decency and everything that is just and beautiful in this land of ours.
So here they are.
Have your bucket and a strong doze of smelling salt at the ready.
1 Katie Couric
2 That psycho bitch from Alaska
3 Everyone involved in marketing
4 James Dobson
5 People over the age of 12 who read Harry Potter books
6 Mormons and all other Nazis who supported Prop 8 in California
7 Mahmoud Ahmadinnerjacket
8 That little mindless trollop who is infected with Billy Ray Sirus’ obscene and ridiculous DNA
9 Dinesh D’Souza and similar nauseating petulant right-wing cocksuckers
10 Alan Greenspan
11 Everyone who is worth more than 10 million dollars
12 Oprah Winfrey
13 The audience of Oprah Winfrey
14 Hedge fund managers
15 And, of course, Kenny G.
'Tis the season to be cantacerous
I’ll make an exception for the kids and perhaps even for that curious winter solstice ritual of decorating a pine tree, but besides that Christmas blows and it blows thus.
I’ve worked in the shipping industry for most of my adult life,but even most lay people who are only occasionally alert will have noticed that all this holiday hullabaloo is first and foremost about using a crass mixture of religious inanity and pagan myths to rake in some good-old cash.
So much so that all the importers start filling the container ships, coming from you-know-where, as early as July, to have the shelves of the big-box stores stocked for the mindless cattle that will come crowding through the automatic doors as soon as the Halloween starter pistol has gone off.
The herd will obediently -and precisely on cue- run, shop and drool all the way through Thanksgiving,and their Pavlovian, spastic purchasing delirium will rise to a feverish crescendo when Christmas, that grand-daddy of all excess consumerism, looms into their blinkered view.
In January the sales start to milk the exhausted wallets just a little bit more.
If people actually enjoyed spending that elephantine pile of money on all that useless crap, like giant plastic inflatable Santas, I wouldn’t mind so much.
Take a look around in your local mall in the weeks before Christmas and try to detect even a hint of bliss on the faces of these well-trained bovine creatures as they wrestle their way through the crowded parking lots and food courts and stores.
Oh boy, are they having fun!
And if you are hell-bent on being of good cheer, I have no idea why you are waiting for permission from the GAP's marketing division to adopt this attitude, and why restrict all this loving of your fellow humans to a few days in December?
Mandatory fun is seldom fun at all and that is my biggest beef with frigging Christmas.
Giving someone a present is great, as is getting together with friends and family for a good dinner.
But to do so because it is a certain date takes all the fun out of it and makes the present-giving ceremony empty and even slightly suspect.
My hunch is that most people go along with all this proscribed and costly ‘fun’ because they are afraid to actually give shape to their own lives and live on their own terms.
And don't get me started on the scrotum-crushing Christmas ‘music’ that I will have to endure in every elevator and every grocery store from Thanksgiving to December 25; those same 23 god awful shitty songs, every fucking year!
I swear, I will dig up Bing Crosby and shoot him in the head if I hear that crappy, sentimental garbage [also the best-selling song of all times] one more jingling time.
There is something disturbingly vacuous and even indecent about people who go all misty-eyed over the simulacrum of a time and place, full of carolers and rosie-cheeked uncles with arms full of gift-wrapped toys, that never existed; fake memories, false sentiment.
God damn you,Thomas Kinkade!
Christmas ?
Humbug !
I’ve worked in the shipping industry for most of my adult life,but even most lay people who are only occasionally alert will have noticed that all this holiday hullabaloo is first and foremost about using a crass mixture of religious inanity and pagan myths to rake in some good-old cash.
So much so that all the importers start filling the container ships, coming from you-know-where, as early as July, to have the shelves of the big-box stores stocked for the mindless cattle that will come crowding through the automatic doors as soon as the Halloween starter pistol has gone off.
The herd will obediently -and precisely on cue- run, shop and drool all the way through Thanksgiving,and their Pavlovian, spastic purchasing delirium will rise to a feverish crescendo when Christmas, that grand-daddy of all excess consumerism, looms into their blinkered view.
In January the sales start to milk the exhausted wallets just a little bit more.
If people actually enjoyed spending that elephantine pile of money on all that useless crap, like giant plastic inflatable Santas, I wouldn’t mind so much.
Take a look around in your local mall in the weeks before Christmas and try to detect even a hint of bliss on the faces of these well-trained bovine creatures as they wrestle their way through the crowded parking lots and food courts and stores.
Oh boy, are they having fun!
And if you are hell-bent on being of good cheer, I have no idea why you are waiting for permission from the GAP's marketing division to adopt this attitude, and why restrict all this loving of your fellow humans to a few days in December?
Mandatory fun is seldom fun at all and that is my biggest beef with frigging Christmas.
Giving someone a present is great, as is getting together with friends and family for a good dinner.
But to do so because it is a certain date takes all the fun out of it and makes the present-giving ceremony empty and even slightly suspect.
My hunch is that most people go along with all this proscribed and costly ‘fun’ because they are afraid to actually give shape to their own lives and live on their own terms.
And don't get me started on the scrotum-crushing Christmas ‘music’ that I will have to endure in every elevator and every grocery store from Thanksgiving to December 25; those same 23 god awful shitty songs, every fucking year!
I swear, I will dig up Bing Crosby and shoot him in the head if I hear that crappy, sentimental garbage [also the best-selling song of all times] one more jingling time.
There is something disturbingly vacuous and even indecent about people who go all misty-eyed over the simulacrum of a time and place, full of carolers and rosie-cheeked uncles with arms full of gift-wrapped toys, that never existed; fake memories, false sentiment.
God damn you,Thomas Kinkade!
Christmas ?
Humbug !
Sunday, December 6, 2009
The parson's charnel house
” When I had reached the age of falling in love, there was only the war, so I fell in love with it “
This quote is from Guy Sajer, author of ‘Forgotten Soldier’, the memoir of a German soldier in WW2.
All children of average intelligence and sensitivity reach an age when they become fascinated with the world and want to understand it and discover its secrets.
Throughout the ages, the Church has forcibly funneled all that starry-eyed wonder into the Christian doctrine, where it was warped,suffocated and finally murdered by the hideous twin doctrines of fear and guilt.
This irrescindable iniquity inflicted upon the young by maladjusted and sinister shamans is so heinous and vile that I shall never forgive the parsons for it, no matter how demurely they smile or cloak their insidious, bronze-age poison in loquacious sophistry.
This quote is from Guy Sajer, author of ‘Forgotten Soldier’, the memoir of a German soldier in WW2.
All children of average intelligence and sensitivity reach an age when they become fascinated with the world and want to understand it and discover its secrets.
Throughout the ages, the Church has forcibly funneled all that starry-eyed wonder into the Christian doctrine, where it was warped,suffocated and finally murdered by the hideous twin doctrines of fear and guilt.
This irrescindable iniquity inflicted upon the young by maladjusted and sinister shamans is so heinous and vile that I shall never forgive the parsons for it, no matter how demurely they smile or cloak their insidious, bronze-age poison in loquacious sophistry.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Stripped
The plane is flat and gray and there is nothing there but rocks and ash and there is nothing green to eat.
It goes on forever, without end, and only the wolves are not afraid and they accept the plane the way it is.
There are other creatures, delirious and crazy.
They tell stories to each other of waterfalls and lily pads.
They all know someone who has seen them but none of them have seen them with their own eyes.
The wolves, tall and thin, their coats ragged and gray, walk stoically and without rest.
They go side by side, their teeth glistening and their yellow eyes fixed on the horizon.
One almost falls out of step and the others snarl and growl and afterwards they walk in unison again.
They take pride in knowing that they are the toughest and brightest and meanest on the whole godforsaken plane that goes on without purpose, and with no end.
It goes on forever, without end, and only the wolves are not afraid and they accept the plane the way it is.
There are other creatures, delirious and crazy.
They tell stories to each other of waterfalls and lily pads.
They all know someone who has seen them but none of them have seen them with their own eyes.
The wolves, tall and thin, their coats ragged and gray, walk stoically and without rest.
They go side by side, their teeth glistening and their yellow eyes fixed on the horizon.
One almost falls out of step and the others snarl and growl and afterwards they walk in unison again.
They take pride in knowing that they are the toughest and brightest and meanest on the whole godforsaken plane that goes on without purpose, and with no end.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Polisher's rouge for aspiring philosophers
The inversion of any hyper-inflated model for social co-dependence will inevitably lead to either the erosion of the agreed upon meta-equilibrium or the crypto-fascist coercion by the Alpha males in the core group of Kekkonian “in-out-out-in” enablers who will then inevitably drift to the outer perimeters of said system where they become the primary violators of the very social mores they had dedicated themselves to in the first place.
I have no idea why people find this so hard to comprehend.
I have no idea why people find this so hard to comprehend.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Stinger missile faux pas
The plenary morning session takes place in Hall B, and, like everything else in Las Vegas, Hall B is enormous.
We all traveled to this desert oasis of opulence and kitsch to be educated in the mysterious and amorphous world of Supply Chain Management. I will leave Las Vegas having learned nothing new whatsoever about this numinous discipline.
No doubt this is due to my lackadaisical attitude, for everyone I meet there speaks highly of the event.
All I can remember is one of the speakers at the general session. He was a consultant with an ugly South-African accent who intoned that we had to stop our ‘north-south' approach to Supply Chain Management and that ‘east-west’ thinking was surely the future of the industry which would bring a cornucopia of blessings to our bottom-lines.
His voice rose in excitement and volume throughout his speech, and after a full half hour of relentless platitudes and unabashed vacuous piffle -for which he seems to be well rewarded- he ended with a keen new insight into the ways of corporate management when he declared, in stentorian voice, that all the large companies that were wise enough to meet with him have now decided on the radical new strategy of “listening to their customers’ needs”.
I know what you are thinking; in a rational universe this pretentious fraud would be booed off the stage for spoiling everyone’s breakfast,but instead a lukewarm applause from the audience was the response.
For sales people like me these events are excellent opportunities to seduce otherwise well-adjusted human beings into buying our service. This trolling for new customers is to be done later that day during hectic series of 15 minute sessions with pre-selected companies in a bizarre ritual which includes a bell announcing the pending end to each frenetic episode of corporate speed-dating.
As it turns out, half of the scheduled suitors-to-be don’t bother showing up.
I don’t blame them; they are here for the free booze which is the traditional finale to every business event and this is a nice, paid-for, break away from their dreary offices.
During the second day of speed-dating, a fat little man with an Indian accent walks up to our booth and, while I am in conversation with someone else, asks if we can “do” his meeting now, instead of the scheduled time-slot on our third and last day, because he has an early plane to catch tomorrow. This would be considered rude behavior in most settings but as his badge indicates that he is a VP at a very large purveyor of carbonated, flavored, sugar-water, it is obvious to all right-thinking business people that he is entitled to dispense with such trivial details as common courtesy.
Hall B is filled with dozens of round tables ringed by unassigned seats.
The waiters drift silently between the tables,filling coffee mugs and pouring orange juice. I am fascinated by the waiters at these events. It is as if they are invisible to all but me,and I don't understand why nobody pays attention to them.
One of the tables is only half-filled with a quartet of properly tagged corporate citizens and I take a seat next to a 40-ish woman after she acknowledged my formal request to join her troupe for the breakfast session.
Not bothering to read her badge I ask who she works for.
She explains that all four of them work for Raytheon.
I am doing all right up to now; I am wearing a suit and the small-talk at my chosen table is proceeding according to protocol.
As I imagine that her company has many divisions I ask for which one she works.
“The stinger division”, she replies.
This is the moment where my ruse fails and I am revealed as the imposter that I am.
I blurt out: “I always wonder how easy it must be for a terrorist to take one of those Stingers we left in Afghanistan and stand near a US airport and take one of the airplanes down during take-off”.
The Raytheon woman erupts in a brief paroxysm of hysterical laughter and then abruptly turns to one of her colleagues to discuss less unpleasant matters.
I realize my impudence.
One is never to question the actual result of the labors of others.
What matters is whether one is part of the tribe.
I finish my breakfast in silence, contemplating the code I broke, knowing that I don’t fit in and never have.
We all traveled to this desert oasis of opulence and kitsch to be educated in the mysterious and amorphous world of Supply Chain Management. I will leave Las Vegas having learned nothing new whatsoever about this numinous discipline.
No doubt this is due to my lackadaisical attitude, for everyone I meet there speaks highly of the event.
All I can remember is one of the speakers at the general session. He was a consultant with an ugly South-African accent who intoned that we had to stop our ‘north-south' approach to Supply Chain Management and that ‘east-west’ thinking was surely the future of the industry which would bring a cornucopia of blessings to our bottom-lines.
His voice rose in excitement and volume throughout his speech, and after a full half hour of relentless platitudes and unabashed vacuous piffle -for which he seems to be well rewarded- he ended with a keen new insight into the ways of corporate management when he declared, in stentorian voice, that all the large companies that were wise enough to meet with him have now decided on the radical new strategy of “listening to their customers’ needs”.
I know what you are thinking; in a rational universe this pretentious fraud would be booed off the stage for spoiling everyone’s breakfast,but instead a lukewarm applause from the audience was the response.
For sales people like me these events are excellent opportunities to seduce otherwise well-adjusted human beings into buying our service. This trolling for new customers is to be done later that day during hectic series of 15 minute sessions with pre-selected companies in a bizarre ritual which includes a bell announcing the pending end to each frenetic episode of corporate speed-dating.
As it turns out, half of the scheduled suitors-to-be don’t bother showing up.
I don’t blame them; they are here for the free booze which is the traditional finale to every business event and this is a nice, paid-for, break away from their dreary offices.
During the second day of speed-dating, a fat little man with an Indian accent walks up to our booth and, while I am in conversation with someone else, asks if we can “do” his meeting now, instead of the scheduled time-slot on our third and last day, because he has an early plane to catch tomorrow. This would be considered rude behavior in most settings but as his badge indicates that he is a VP at a very large purveyor of carbonated, flavored, sugar-water, it is obvious to all right-thinking business people that he is entitled to dispense with such trivial details as common courtesy.
Hall B is filled with dozens of round tables ringed by unassigned seats.
The waiters drift silently between the tables,filling coffee mugs and pouring orange juice. I am fascinated by the waiters at these events. It is as if they are invisible to all but me,and I don't understand why nobody pays attention to them.
One of the tables is only half-filled with a quartet of properly tagged corporate citizens and I take a seat next to a 40-ish woman after she acknowledged my formal request to join her troupe for the breakfast session.
Not bothering to read her badge I ask who she works for.
She explains that all four of them work for Raytheon.
I am doing all right up to now; I am wearing a suit and the small-talk at my chosen table is proceeding according to protocol.
As I imagine that her company has many divisions I ask for which one she works.
“The stinger division”, she replies.
This is the moment where my ruse fails and I am revealed as the imposter that I am.
I blurt out: “I always wonder how easy it must be for a terrorist to take one of those Stingers we left in Afghanistan and stand near a US airport and take one of the airplanes down during take-off”.
The Raytheon woman erupts in a brief paroxysm of hysterical laughter and then abruptly turns to one of her colleagues to discuss less unpleasant matters.
I realize my impudence.
One is never to question the actual result of the labors of others.
What matters is whether one is part of the tribe.
I finish my breakfast in silence, contemplating the code I broke, knowing that I don’t fit in and never have.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Colorful rain boots
They are everywhere this year; colorful rubber rain boots.
The young women wear them, for Fashion tells them so.
Fashion, that mysterious and demanding cabal,has announced in the relentless and monotonous tone of mass advertising, which assaults the senses though television, large posters with perpetually smiling teenagers on them, and that most nefarious and destructive of all media - the magazines-, that the children’s rain boots of my youth are now mandatory dress for the adult votaries of retail.
The patterns and colors on the boots are so multitudinous that I can’t recall having seen the same pair twice.
When I see a woman scampering by, with nervous little feet clad in these rubber ephemera, a vague impression of sadness and loathing comes over me.
They all fork out $ 100.00 for the illusion of individual choice by picking a whirly design in black and white or a floral pattern of yellow and orange.
Because of the work I do I know a thing or two about the travels that the rubber boots make from the factory in Qingdao or Shenzhen, stuffed in ocean containers and dropped off at the distribution centers in the US, from which they are shipped to the stores.
They cost less than $ 20.00 when they arrive at the stores, and that is including all the transportation charges and import duties and the salaries of all the many hands that are involved in carrying this precious cargo to its destination.
This is how money is made now, after it was decided by the captains of industry that they’d be better off when poor people elsewhere made all our stuff.
They could always find pompous morons like Thomas Friedman to declare that the outsourcing of our jobs was actually a good thing for us.
The young women, who for some reason never seem to look at ease, do not contemplate these minor unpleasant details.
They are, after all, successful members of society and this proud fact must be broadcast via clothing, footwear and various electronic accoutrements.
Conform Obey Consume
If you want to go through life like a mindless consumer slave, be my guest.
But don’t pretend that you still have an iota of originality or sense of identity left by picking a colorful design for your fashionable rubber rain boots.
The young women wear them, for Fashion tells them so.
Fashion, that mysterious and demanding cabal,has announced in the relentless and monotonous tone of mass advertising, which assaults the senses though television, large posters with perpetually smiling teenagers on them, and that most nefarious and destructive of all media - the magazines-, that the children’s rain boots of my youth are now mandatory dress for the adult votaries of retail.
The patterns and colors on the boots are so multitudinous that I can’t recall having seen the same pair twice.
When I see a woman scampering by, with nervous little feet clad in these rubber ephemera, a vague impression of sadness and loathing comes over me.
They all fork out $ 100.00 for the illusion of individual choice by picking a whirly design in black and white or a floral pattern of yellow and orange.
Because of the work I do I know a thing or two about the travels that the rubber boots make from the factory in Qingdao or Shenzhen, stuffed in ocean containers and dropped off at the distribution centers in the US, from which they are shipped to the stores.
They cost less than $ 20.00 when they arrive at the stores, and that is including all the transportation charges and import duties and the salaries of all the many hands that are involved in carrying this precious cargo to its destination.
This is how money is made now, after it was decided by the captains of industry that they’d be better off when poor people elsewhere made all our stuff.
They could always find pompous morons like Thomas Friedman to declare that the outsourcing of our jobs was actually a good thing for us.
The young women, who for some reason never seem to look at ease, do not contemplate these minor unpleasant details.
They are, after all, successful members of society and this proud fact must be broadcast via clothing, footwear and various electronic accoutrements.
Conform Obey Consume
If you want to go through life like a mindless consumer slave, be my guest.
But don’t pretend that you still have an iota of originality or sense of identity left by picking a colorful design for your fashionable rubber rain boots.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The Prejean Blues
How does one get from a pea-brained, bigoted nincompoop, who is currently having her 15 seconds of infamy, to pondering the shivers of cosmic loneliness ?
Just leave it to me.
I can wind up blabbering on about peering over the edge of the abyss from almost any starting point; be it an expose of yet more corporate cupidity and douchebaggery, or the social merits and ills of patchwork gatherings for senior citizens.
If my mood is foul and dark enough, I can pull it off.
However, this time I may actually - purely by accident and through no fault of my own - have a point.
For those of you who avoid that horrid sideshow euphemistically called “the news” even more diligently than I do, let me give you a brief overview of the nefarious facts as they come to us through our laptops and television sets.
A contestant in a beauty pageant makes, as is so often the case, a faux pas when trying to answer the obligatory question that is cunningly injected in the otherwise shameless T & A fest.
This is done so people whose moral compass is in the final stages of syphilitic decay will feel a bit better about themselves after ogling pretty girls marching up and down the stage.
Hey, don’t get me wrong. I like watching naked ladies as much as the next pervert, but why the pretense ?
It’s those fucking puritans again! Without them we could all be saying on camera what we are all thinking off camera; nice ass, girl!
Some overzealous writer for the pageant gave Carrie Prejean, -who looks conspicuously like that other oracle of our time, Jessica Simpson - a question about gay marriage ,and she answered that she didn’t agree with it due to her sound, Christian morals.
A big hullabaloo ensued; she didn’t win, lawyers came rushing to her defense, a sex tape featuring Carrie masturbating surfaced, she dropped her lawsuit, and now a book about her ordeal graces the shelves of Borders and Barnes.
Meanwhile, for reasons I can’t quite grasp, some of our brothers and sisters on the right have seen it fit to make her a martyr.
Saint Prejean; tied to the stake in a televised auto da fe, condemned by the high priests of godless Liberalism for taking a stand for Our way of life, Christian decency, Apple Pie and wholesome, all- American homophobia.
Yet it is hard to make out whether her moaning is brought on by pain or pleasure when one of her hands becomes untied and starts searching the pink folds between her thighs.
Well, why do I care about this mindless trollop?
Why does she get to me?
Some years ago I was sitting in the lobby of a magnificent hotel on the Boulevard Haussmann in Paris’ ninth arrondissement, sipping my favorite liquor,green Chartreuse.
I was waiting for my colleagues to finish washing the stink from the day’s tedious sales meetings off them before we could venture out into the grand-old city for dinner, drinks and laughs.
A woman, about fifty years of age, sat on the couch in front of me and she was utterly mesmerizing.
I could not keep myself from watching her and she didn‘t seem to mind. In fact,she liked the attention.
Although she would not be considered beautiful, or even pretty by beauty pageant standards, her entire presence demanded attention and awe.
Her every move was deliberate, graceful and fantastically erotic, and she had mastered the art of sitting still and not letting one’s eyes dart about; she was in control, confident without being arrogant, and gloriously feminine.
When an American business man with a goofy smile and an ill-fitting suit came to pick her up, my hunch about how she made a living was confirmed.
Lucky goofball. I would have paid good money just to watch her sit there for a while longer.
Her sublime eroticism comes to mind when I try to picture the antithesis of beauty queen Prejean, with her fake breasts and her fake smile and her fake indignation.
Carrie’s sex tape shouldn’t come as a surprise. For women, feigning pleasure is a very marketable commodity, as is feigning joy while prancing around in a bikini in front of strangers who take notes.
Her claim to having profound moral convictions is never truly questioned by the cable news pundits, whose intellectual bona fides are never questioned by the purveyors of abdominal exercise machines and toothpaste, who are their de facto employers, and who -just like our heroin- only care about ‘the bottom line‘.
People use what they have to get what they want.
Perhaps I just ought to accept that.
Maybe there is nothing unexpected about some hypocritical dimwit milking her shallow and vulgar morals, as well as her tits, to make a buck and buy a large house before she joins the Big Compost Heap that awaits us all, and perhaps I am too demanding of my fellow primates that I expect them to go through life we just a smidgen of dignity and honesty.
Just leave it to me.
I can wind up blabbering on about peering over the edge of the abyss from almost any starting point; be it an expose of yet more corporate cupidity and douchebaggery, or the social merits and ills of patchwork gatherings for senior citizens.
If my mood is foul and dark enough, I can pull it off.
However, this time I may actually - purely by accident and through no fault of my own - have a point.
For those of you who avoid that horrid sideshow euphemistically called “the news” even more diligently than I do, let me give you a brief overview of the nefarious facts as they come to us through our laptops and television sets.
A contestant in a beauty pageant makes, as is so often the case, a faux pas when trying to answer the obligatory question that is cunningly injected in the otherwise shameless T & A fest.
This is done so people whose moral compass is in the final stages of syphilitic decay will feel a bit better about themselves after ogling pretty girls marching up and down the stage.
Hey, don’t get me wrong. I like watching naked ladies as much as the next pervert, but why the pretense ?
It’s those fucking puritans again! Without them we could all be saying on camera what we are all thinking off camera; nice ass, girl!
Some overzealous writer for the pageant gave Carrie Prejean, -who looks conspicuously like that other oracle of our time, Jessica Simpson - a question about gay marriage ,and she answered that she didn’t agree with it due to her sound, Christian morals.
A big hullabaloo ensued; she didn’t win, lawyers came rushing to her defense, a sex tape featuring Carrie masturbating surfaced, she dropped her lawsuit, and now a book about her ordeal graces the shelves of Borders and Barnes.
Meanwhile, for reasons I can’t quite grasp, some of our brothers and sisters on the right have seen it fit to make her a martyr.
Saint Prejean; tied to the stake in a televised auto da fe, condemned by the high priests of godless Liberalism for taking a stand for Our way of life, Christian decency, Apple Pie and wholesome, all- American homophobia.
Yet it is hard to make out whether her moaning is brought on by pain or pleasure when one of her hands becomes untied and starts searching the pink folds between her thighs.
Well, why do I care about this mindless trollop?
Why does she get to me?
Some years ago I was sitting in the lobby of a magnificent hotel on the Boulevard Haussmann in Paris’ ninth arrondissement, sipping my favorite liquor,green Chartreuse.
I was waiting for my colleagues to finish washing the stink from the day’s tedious sales meetings off them before we could venture out into the grand-old city for dinner, drinks and laughs.
A woman, about fifty years of age, sat on the couch in front of me and she was utterly mesmerizing.
I could not keep myself from watching her and she didn‘t seem to mind. In fact,she liked the attention.
Although she would not be considered beautiful, or even pretty by beauty pageant standards, her entire presence demanded attention and awe.
Her every move was deliberate, graceful and fantastically erotic, and she had mastered the art of sitting still and not letting one’s eyes dart about; she was in control, confident without being arrogant, and gloriously feminine.
When an American business man with a goofy smile and an ill-fitting suit came to pick her up, my hunch about how she made a living was confirmed.
Lucky goofball. I would have paid good money just to watch her sit there for a while longer.
Her sublime eroticism comes to mind when I try to picture the antithesis of beauty queen Prejean, with her fake breasts and her fake smile and her fake indignation.
Carrie’s sex tape shouldn’t come as a surprise. For women, feigning pleasure is a very marketable commodity, as is feigning joy while prancing around in a bikini in front of strangers who take notes.
Her claim to having profound moral convictions is never truly questioned by the cable news pundits, whose intellectual bona fides are never questioned by the purveyors of abdominal exercise machines and toothpaste, who are their de facto employers, and who -just like our heroin- only care about ‘the bottom line‘.
People use what they have to get what they want.
Perhaps I just ought to accept that.
Maybe there is nothing unexpected about some hypocritical dimwit milking her shallow and vulgar morals, as well as her tits, to make a buck and buy a large house before she joins the Big Compost Heap that awaits us all, and perhaps I am too demanding of my fellow primates that I expect them to go through life we just a smidgen of dignity and honesty.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Las Vegas
He wears his uniform; Docker shorts that are the same as his other leisure pants, but cut off above the knee.
He wears them too high, accentuating his already too large ass.
He wears a proper belt in them.
The shirt is always a golf shirt, neatly tucked in.
His hair is short and clean and since he is on vacation he wears white socks and white sneakers.
She is fat and dresses for comfort.
Once out of the air-conditioned hotel, she immediately starts to sweat in the desert heat.
She thinks no one notices but I can imagine the tiny beads of sweat bubbling up from her armpits where her pink, sausage-arms begin and between her legs, where her husband only fucks her on Saturday nights, after three shots of Jack Daniels.
He will be thinking of Jennifer Aniston.
They don’t walk.
It is more like a wobble,a stumble.
Their steps are unsure.
They look like sedated cows, not knowing that they are being led to the slaughterhouse.
In Las Vegas everything proceeds perfectly to plan.
All the staff in all the hotels and casinos and shops and restaurants follow their script with understated courtesy.
They speak only when spoken to as the herd must not be unnecessarily distracted from its purpose.
Once their performance is completed, the staff withdraws into the background where they stand eying the tourists like benevolent spiders.
The elevator that takes me to my room on the 32nd floor is fast and silent.
It doesn’t stop too abruptly to give you that queasy feeling in your stomach.
It stops perfectly and the doors open quietly and smoothly.
My bath is comfortable.
It has a sliding end so my neck is not at an odd angle.
Outside, on the strip, the cows stumble by, confused at what to gaze at.
There is so much to see.There is a fake Eiffel tower (no need to go to France).
A man takes a picture of a fake Gondola.
No one smiles.
No one is happy.
But this is where they are supposed to go on vacation.
They don’t mind not being happy, because it is comforting to be led around by billboards and the ever-present friendly staff.
They don’t mind losing their money in the casinos, because that is what you are supposed to do.
They drink exactly as much as they do at home but here it is a wonderful vice, not a shameful secret.
At night, the same cows shuffle along the strip, the hot dessert air, like a giant blow drier, stinging their eyes.
Their senses are numbed to almost nothing by the assault of the lights and the incessant ringing of the slot machines.
In the morning this macabre parade will start again like clockwork.
I write a postcard to Morrissey: “How I dearly wish I was not here.”
I wait for that crazy Arab man. You know the one.
The one we are all anxiously awaiting. The one with the ticking suitcase.
If he must come then I hope he comes here.
And when he opens his suitcase the desert will be quiet again under the immense, beautiful, blue sky.
He wears them too high, accentuating his already too large ass.
He wears a proper belt in them.
The shirt is always a golf shirt, neatly tucked in.
His hair is short and clean and since he is on vacation he wears white socks and white sneakers.
She is fat and dresses for comfort.
Once out of the air-conditioned hotel, she immediately starts to sweat in the desert heat.
She thinks no one notices but I can imagine the tiny beads of sweat bubbling up from her armpits where her pink, sausage-arms begin and between her legs, where her husband only fucks her on Saturday nights, after three shots of Jack Daniels.
He will be thinking of Jennifer Aniston.
They don’t walk.
It is more like a wobble,a stumble.
Their steps are unsure.
They look like sedated cows, not knowing that they are being led to the slaughterhouse.
In Las Vegas everything proceeds perfectly to plan.
All the staff in all the hotels and casinos and shops and restaurants follow their script with understated courtesy.
They speak only when spoken to as the herd must not be unnecessarily distracted from its purpose.
Once their performance is completed, the staff withdraws into the background where they stand eying the tourists like benevolent spiders.
The elevator that takes me to my room on the 32nd floor is fast and silent.
It doesn’t stop too abruptly to give you that queasy feeling in your stomach.
It stops perfectly and the doors open quietly and smoothly.
My bath is comfortable.
It has a sliding end so my neck is not at an odd angle.
Outside, on the strip, the cows stumble by, confused at what to gaze at.
There is so much to see.There is a fake Eiffel tower (no need to go to France).
A man takes a picture of a fake Gondola.
No one smiles.
No one is happy.
But this is where they are supposed to go on vacation.
They don’t mind not being happy, because it is comforting to be led around by billboards and the ever-present friendly staff.
They don’t mind losing their money in the casinos, because that is what you are supposed to do.
They drink exactly as much as they do at home but here it is a wonderful vice, not a shameful secret.
At night, the same cows shuffle along the strip, the hot dessert air, like a giant blow drier, stinging their eyes.
Their senses are numbed to almost nothing by the assault of the lights and the incessant ringing of the slot machines.
In the morning this macabre parade will start again like clockwork.
I write a postcard to Morrissey: “How I dearly wish I was not here.”
I wait for that crazy Arab man. You know the one.
The one we are all anxiously awaiting. The one with the ticking suitcase.
If he must come then I hope he comes here.
And when he opens his suitcase the desert will be quiet again under the immense, beautiful, blue sky.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
The ants will win
The CEO of our company declares at the annual meeting that his priorities are (in order of importance): God, Family, Company.
I think he means it.
He is not ashamed of his open hostility.
I envy his narrow-mindedness.
At home,in my shower, a single ant crosses the vast white wall.
He stops for a moment to check his compass.
He must be looking for food for the collective.
I wish I could tell him that there isn't any here in my immense bathroom.
It is a journey of many days through the desert of my living room to get back to the colony.
I wonder if he will make it considering that his knapsack with provisions can not hold much.
Either way, he will miss the daily meeting.
Deep beneath my house, where thousands of frantic legs trample on toes and heads, the queen starts the meeting.
The ants already know her speech by heart, but they all stop their work, face her, and listen with razor-sharp concentration.
The speech consists of that one terrifying word, spoken with utter conviction, over and over again.
I think he means it.
He is not ashamed of his open hostility.
I envy his narrow-mindedness.
At home,in my shower, a single ant crosses the vast white wall.
He stops for a moment to check his compass.
He must be looking for food for the collective.
I wish I could tell him that there isn't any here in my immense bathroom.
It is a journey of many days through the desert of my living room to get back to the colony.
I wonder if he will make it considering that his knapsack with provisions can not hold much.
Either way, he will miss the daily meeting.
Deep beneath my house, where thousands of frantic legs trample on toes and heads, the queen starts the meeting.
The ants already know her speech by heart, but they all stop their work, face her, and listen with razor-sharp concentration.
The speech consists of that one terrifying word, spoken with utter conviction, over and over again.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Leftist rant no. 2334 (with a whack at religion included)
My unpleasant paternal grandfather (he himself a wealthy man) used to say: “Poverty has to keep them (the rabble) in line”.
It is interesting to note that the morality imposed on the poor is, of course, only suitable to the poor.
The rich, enlightened as they are, with their religious backers, have no need for such celestial restraints.
Mother Teresa was very much opposed to divorce, but not for her friend Diana Spencer who was “obviously unhappy in her marriage”.
Religion is, and always has been, used to separate society into rich and poor.
In all American elections the majority of people in the poorest states consistently vote against their own economic interests, while being riled up by very clever Republican strategists with bogus issues like god, guns and gays.
It is considered in bad taste to quote one the biggest mass-murders in history, but I think uncle Joe made a very good observation when he said; “Mankind is divided into rich and poor, into property owners and exploited,and to abstract oneself from this fundamental division,and from the antagonism between poor and rich, means abstracting oneself from fundamental facts.”
The conservative mindset is a deplorable one.
When you unpack the relentless propaganda and smoke-screens you will find what lies at the heart of this way of thinking.
It goes like this: “I’ve got mine and you can all go fuck yourselves”.
It is interesting to note that the morality imposed on the poor is, of course, only suitable to the poor.
The rich, enlightened as they are, with their religious backers, have no need for such celestial restraints.
Mother Teresa was very much opposed to divorce, but not for her friend Diana Spencer who was “obviously unhappy in her marriage”.
Religion is, and always has been, used to separate society into rich and poor.
In all American elections the majority of people in the poorest states consistently vote against their own economic interests, while being riled up by very clever Republican strategists with bogus issues like god, guns and gays.
It is considered in bad taste to quote one the biggest mass-murders in history, but I think uncle Joe made a very good observation when he said; “Mankind is divided into rich and poor, into property owners and exploited,and to abstract oneself from this fundamental division,and from the antagonism between poor and rich, means abstracting oneself from fundamental facts.”
The conservative mindset is a deplorable one.
When you unpack the relentless propaganda and smoke-screens you will find what lies at the heart of this way of thinking.
It goes like this: “I’ve got mine and you can all go fuck yourselves”.
Ave atque vale, Janet Jackson
This poem was written by Vincent V. The Lesser, two hours after he was notified that his favorite celebrity had passed away in an unfortunate lawn-mower accident.
The siren has left us, all hope is now lost
Her mellifluous voice is no more
Oh Janet, oh Great One, what I would not give
For just one celestial encore
We miss you we adore you, we weep and we mourn you
In stardust your name will be writ
May flights of angels welcome you home
You pretentious, talentless twit
The siren has left us, all hope is now lost
Her mellifluous voice is no more
Oh Janet, oh Great One, what I would not give
For just one celestial encore
We miss you we adore you, we weep and we mourn you
In stardust your name will be writ
May flights of angels welcome you home
You pretentious, talentless twit
The Holy Hour
By Sister Agnes Lubricius (1955-2007)
Bleak and cold is my cell and my heart
But a bride of the Lord I am
Stale is my bread and the silence I dread
Austere is this life for The Lamb
The nights spend alone a hard cot is my throne
Its touch so ice-cold and blunt
This sinner’s life, with sorrow it is rife
Thank God I can play with my cunt.
Bleak and cold is my cell and my heart
But a bride of the Lord I am
Stale is my bread and the silence I dread
Austere is this life for The Lamb
The nights spend alone a hard cot is my throne
Its touch so ice-cold and blunt
This sinner’s life, with sorrow it is rife
Thank God I can play with my cunt.
Simulation
by Amy Wofford Fraffraf (when her nome de plume was still Salt Creek)
They are such flirts - so coy and cold,
displaying to our glassy eyes
mirrored hist’ries, backward told.
They borrow requisite surprise
from future built by axiom.
Their farewell whisperings and winks
supply the questions that will come
to answer, “Did you really think…?”
They are such flirts - so coy and cold,
displaying to our glassy eyes
mirrored hist’ries, backward told.
They borrow requisite surprise
from future built by axiom.
Their farewell whisperings and winks
supply the questions that will come
to answer, “Did you really think…?”
Ode to my balls
by Cuthbert Merrybottom III
On oceans wide as Hades’ scorn
A tiny boat endures
Its fishing line a spider’s spine
The naked nymphs it lures
In ink-black sky an inaudible sigh
From he who roams these halls
A grinning mouth, a look down South
God, I love my balls.
On oceans wide as Hades’ scorn
A tiny boat endures
Its fishing line a spider’s spine
The naked nymphs it lures
In ink-black sky an inaudible sigh
From he who roams these halls
A grinning mouth, a look down South
God, I love my balls.
Yes, but does she get naked?
by A.A. Mills
The ties that bind, that squeeze and blind
The wild, the wise and the wicked
Shoot pheromones on dry, white bones
For silver tongues to lick it
The moon is up and far and near
For all but the dull and sated
The Phoenix yearns and the question burns
‘Yes, but does she get naked?
The ties that bind, that squeeze and blind
The wild, the wise and the wicked
Shoot pheromones on dry, white bones
For silver tongues to lick it
The moon is up and far and near
For all but the dull and sated
The Phoenix yearns and the question burns
‘Yes, but does she get naked?
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Mr. Definitely
(This relates to a broadcast from some months ago.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Ew9CngVeFA
What are you to do when you are the producer of a talk show on HBO and you need to schedule a panel of three guests and you already have booked Christopher Hitchens and Salman Rushdie?
You don’t want to run the risk that the episode becomes too wordy or bookish, or -God forbid- too intellectual, so, for counter-balance, you make sure that your third guest is a grade-A moron.
The producers of Bill Maher’s show must have been thinking along these lines when they, in their infinite wisdom, decided to complete the trio with Mos Def.
For all you people unfamiliar with the hauntingly beautiful and hopelessly romantic world of rap music, Mos Def is also known as ‘the intelligent rapper’.
If you have already watched the linked Youtube video you will at this point begin to wonder how feeble and disorderly the minds of the other rappers must be if, by comparison, this impudent piece of trash is considered intelligent.
I will help you out here; yes, most rappers are indeed excruciatingly, phenomenally, Sarah Palinly dumb.
Besides that, they are also inarticulate, vulgar, lewd, shallow and misogynistic to the point that the Taliban starts to look respectable, and the black community is doing itself an enormous disservice by not abjuring these talentless, base and odious clods.
Mos Def ‘aks’ a question which results in a little tussle with Hitchens, who, bless-his-whiskey-sodden-heart, will have none of the show’s politically correct bullshit.
First my mind dwelled on the history and the particulars of the black community in America to explain the behavior of this fractious turd, but then it dawned on me that his attitude is perfectly in line with our pop-culture.
Mr. Definitely simply asserted that his opinion, uninformed and deranged as it was, had just as much value as everyone else’s, simply because he held it.
If there was one thing I could alter in my chosen country of residence it would be that we stop giving credence to an opinion merely because it exists.
PS.
Of course, I would also outlaw Rod Stewart albums and demand a formal apology from the Canadian government for Celine Dion.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Ew9CngVeFA
What are you to do when you are the producer of a talk show on HBO and you need to schedule a panel of three guests and you already have booked Christopher Hitchens and Salman Rushdie?
You don’t want to run the risk that the episode becomes too wordy or bookish, or -God forbid- too intellectual, so, for counter-balance, you make sure that your third guest is a grade-A moron.
The producers of Bill Maher’s show must have been thinking along these lines when they, in their infinite wisdom, decided to complete the trio with Mos Def.
For all you people unfamiliar with the hauntingly beautiful and hopelessly romantic world of rap music, Mos Def is also known as ‘the intelligent rapper’.
If you have already watched the linked Youtube video you will at this point begin to wonder how feeble and disorderly the minds of the other rappers must be if, by comparison, this impudent piece of trash is considered intelligent.
I will help you out here; yes, most rappers are indeed excruciatingly, phenomenally, Sarah Palinly dumb.
Besides that, they are also inarticulate, vulgar, lewd, shallow and misogynistic to the point that the Taliban starts to look respectable, and the black community is doing itself an enormous disservice by not abjuring these talentless, base and odious clods.
Mos Def ‘aks’ a question which results in a little tussle with Hitchens, who, bless-his-whiskey-sodden-heart, will have none of the show’s politically correct bullshit.
First my mind dwelled on the history and the particulars of the black community in America to explain the behavior of this fractious turd, but then it dawned on me that his attitude is perfectly in line with our pop-culture.
Mr. Definitely simply asserted that his opinion, uninformed and deranged as it was, had just as much value as everyone else’s, simply because he held it.
If there was one thing I could alter in my chosen country of residence it would be that we stop giving credence to an opinion merely because it exists.
PS.
Of course, I would also outlaw Rod Stewart albums and demand a formal apology from the Canadian government for Celine Dion.
Ai, quelle horreur!
(This refers to something that happened a few months ago, yet the abomination in question is so foul and heinous that a warning in retrospect is justified.)
There is a darkness growing at the edge of our city.
Whatever is touched by the icy fingers of this sour and cold fog will whither and shrivel as if caressed by the Prince of darkness Himself.
It surely is a portent of the immolation of all that is just and fine and beautiful in our land, of all that we hold dear and cherish, of every valuable prize we have wrested from Nature by our long and hard struggle against the indifferent elements.
And I have the burdensome and sorrowful task of being the bearer of this catastrophic news.
You and I, brothers and sisters, friends and foes, will have to make our stand, and we will have to make it in this year of our Lord 2009, for something truly wicked this way comes.
Of course, you already know what I am talking about, since you have felt that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach for weeks.
Very soon now, the monstrosity will be upon us.
I speak of S. Darko, that unholy sequel to one of the best motion pictures of all time, Donnie Darko.
I beseech ye of little faith; resist this cinematic demon with all your will and boycott this piece of shit film.
Trailers are available on Youtube but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dczcw0aNMEo
There is a darkness growing at the edge of our city.
Whatever is touched by the icy fingers of this sour and cold fog will whither and shrivel as if caressed by the Prince of darkness Himself.
It surely is a portent of the immolation of all that is just and fine and beautiful in our land, of all that we hold dear and cherish, of every valuable prize we have wrested from Nature by our long and hard struggle against the indifferent elements.
And I have the burdensome and sorrowful task of being the bearer of this catastrophic news.
You and I, brothers and sisters, friends and foes, will have to make our stand, and we will have to make it in this year of our Lord 2009, for something truly wicked this way comes.
Of course, you already know what I am talking about, since you have felt that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach for weeks.
Very soon now, the monstrosity will be upon us.
I speak of S. Darko, that unholy sequel to one of the best motion pictures of all time, Donnie Darko.
I beseech ye of little faith; resist this cinematic demon with all your will and boycott this piece of shit film.
Trailers are available on Youtube but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dczcw0aNMEo
To a necrophiliac unknown
To a necrophiliac unknown,
By Irmtraut von Flokkenstoffen, (1901 -2004)
The hot, wet skin it furrows your brow
With warm breasts you’d know not what to do
If a cooler love is what you crave
Well, have I got something for you
If rigor mortis your passion sets free
Then after the eulogy is read
Just wait about an hour or two
And come fuck me when I am dead
By Irmtraut von Flokkenstoffen, (1901 -2004)
The hot, wet skin it furrows your brow
With warm breasts you’d know not what to do
If a cooler love is what you crave
Well, have I got something for you
If rigor mortis your passion sets free
Then after the eulogy is read
Just wait about an hour or two
And come fuck me when I am dead
Racial drift
"Manners are more important than morals", said Oscar Wilde.
"Karma simply means that a good action has a positive result and a bad action has a negative result", said a Tibetan wanker.
I smelled shit.
I was forced to.
For a good 20 minutes the vilest miasma wafted from a steaming pile of excrement and up my lamentable nostrils.
And there I was, stuck in the seat of an overcrowded bus that was making its way through Chicago’s congested streets, with no alternative but to endure the stench.
I was motivated to write this mainly because I had a thought, or rather, a visceral reaction, the sort of which is usually expressed by folks who are quite far to the political right of me.
I have always known that there are at least two Americas; the one in which I live and one in which a great portion of America’s blacks live.
In Chicago, these two worlds are very much separated.
I live North of down-town in a neighborhood called Lake View, and the people there are almost uniformly pleasant and polite.
Even though there is a large baseball stadium here, surrounded by a great many bars where large amounts of alcohol are consumed regardless whether the Cubs win or lose, there are hardly ever any fights and the only clear signs of the indelible stamp of our lowly origin are the usual honks and extended middle fingers of the motorists.
In Chicago’s vast black ghettos in the West and the South things are quite different. To illustrate; the vast majority of Chicago’s annual 600-or-so murder victims (and perpetrators)are young black men.
The two black women entering the bus are young. I estimate they are around 18 years old. One has what appears to be a shower cap on her head so I suspect that she has just received some form of hair treatment, or otherwise fashion has ,once again, taken a harsh turn without anyone notifying me about it.
She also has a tattoo on her cheek.
Upon entering the crowded bus the girl with the shower cap on bumps into a gentleman, who, according to shower cap, doesn’t apologize authentically enough for her bumping into him and a torrent of abusive language,which goes on for a full 2 minutes,is his punishment.
After this incident the young ladies sit down in the seats behind my girlfriend and me, and for the next 20 minutes they regale us with the wondrous tale of another maiden called Takisha.
Now, I wish I could tell you in detail what their discussion was all about, but since their accent was quite alien to me I could only make out the general plot line of their story.
The original thesis, proposed by shower cap, stated that Miss Takisha was both a motherfucker and a ho.
She was very adamant about her position as she repeated the words ‘motherfucker’ and ‘ho’ multiple times in each sentence.
The rebuttal from her interlocutor centered around the proposition that she was convinced that Takisha was both a bitch and a motherfucker.
Though their lack of enunciation was at times confusing, we were all fortunate that they made up for this slight deficiency by speaking so loudly that all of us on the bus could enjoy their spirited conversation.
My girlfriend, tormented by the endless stream of obscenities, suggested to me (in Dutch) that what these ladies were producing was verbal diarrhea.
The people on the bus, mainly white and Asian, were all thinking what I was thinking. Of this I am convinced.
And this thought is what surprised me and prompted me to write this entry.
It goes like this: wherever shower cap and her companion go is a place where I don’t want to be.
I was horrified by the idea that these people would move into the apartment across from me with their hostile, vulgar and ignorant ways.
And then another thought made its questionable appearance.
I remembered how police forces in cities across America are accused of ‘escorting’ young black or Latino people out of white neighborhoods when they are found walking or driving around there, and I was shocked to find myself thinking that I would have no problem at all with the Lakeview police escorting shower cap and co. out of my neighborhood.
I know myself fairly well and I know I am not a particularly bigoted person.
I also know that no amount of public money will ever close the racial divide in our country if people keep behaving like shower cap.
"Karma simply means that a good action has a positive result and a bad action has a negative result", said a Tibetan wanker.
I smelled shit.
I was forced to.
For a good 20 minutes the vilest miasma wafted from a steaming pile of excrement and up my lamentable nostrils.
And there I was, stuck in the seat of an overcrowded bus that was making its way through Chicago’s congested streets, with no alternative but to endure the stench.
I was motivated to write this mainly because I had a thought, or rather, a visceral reaction, the sort of which is usually expressed by folks who are quite far to the political right of me.
I have always known that there are at least two Americas; the one in which I live and one in which a great portion of America’s blacks live.
In Chicago, these two worlds are very much separated.
I live North of down-town in a neighborhood called Lake View, and the people there are almost uniformly pleasant and polite.
Even though there is a large baseball stadium here, surrounded by a great many bars where large amounts of alcohol are consumed regardless whether the Cubs win or lose, there are hardly ever any fights and the only clear signs of the indelible stamp of our lowly origin are the usual honks and extended middle fingers of the motorists.
In Chicago’s vast black ghettos in the West and the South things are quite different. To illustrate; the vast majority of Chicago’s annual 600-or-so murder victims (and perpetrators)are young black men.
The two black women entering the bus are young. I estimate they are around 18 years old. One has what appears to be a shower cap on her head so I suspect that she has just received some form of hair treatment, or otherwise fashion has ,once again, taken a harsh turn without anyone notifying me about it.
She also has a tattoo on her cheek.
Upon entering the crowded bus the girl with the shower cap on bumps into a gentleman, who, according to shower cap, doesn’t apologize authentically enough for her bumping into him and a torrent of abusive language,which goes on for a full 2 minutes,is his punishment.
After this incident the young ladies sit down in the seats behind my girlfriend and me, and for the next 20 minutes they regale us with the wondrous tale of another maiden called Takisha.
Now, I wish I could tell you in detail what their discussion was all about, but since their accent was quite alien to me I could only make out the general plot line of their story.
The original thesis, proposed by shower cap, stated that Miss Takisha was both a motherfucker and a ho.
She was very adamant about her position as she repeated the words ‘motherfucker’ and ‘ho’ multiple times in each sentence.
The rebuttal from her interlocutor centered around the proposition that she was convinced that Takisha was both a bitch and a motherfucker.
Though their lack of enunciation was at times confusing, we were all fortunate that they made up for this slight deficiency by speaking so loudly that all of us on the bus could enjoy their spirited conversation.
My girlfriend, tormented by the endless stream of obscenities, suggested to me (in Dutch) that what these ladies were producing was verbal diarrhea.
The people on the bus, mainly white and Asian, were all thinking what I was thinking. Of this I am convinced.
And this thought is what surprised me and prompted me to write this entry.
It goes like this: wherever shower cap and her companion go is a place where I don’t want to be.
I was horrified by the idea that these people would move into the apartment across from me with their hostile, vulgar and ignorant ways.
And then another thought made its questionable appearance.
I remembered how police forces in cities across America are accused of ‘escorting’ young black or Latino people out of white neighborhoods when they are found walking or driving around there, and I was shocked to find myself thinking that I would have no problem at all with the Lakeview police escorting shower cap and co. out of my neighborhood.
I know myself fairly well and I know I am not a particularly bigoted person.
I also know that no amount of public money will ever close the racial divide in our country if people keep behaving like shower cap.
98 %
.…of everything is crap
I vaguely remember this maxim being uttered by some real person in the cold light of day of this harsh realm we find ourselves in.
Or perhaps I was the only one who heard it reverberate through my septan cranium during one of the many chemically induced stupors I used to call Friday night, or Tuesday afternoon.
Regardless, someone, somewhere has said it and if they haven’t, they should have, for it is true.
This theorem is easy to prove.
No doubt, you will all nod your wise and recently washed heads in silent agreement when I say that for every ‘One, by U2’ and ‘One headlight, by the Wallflowers’ one will be tormented by 98 “Achy Breaky Hearts, by Pretentious MulletHead” or similar auditory offense against good taste and common decency.
Likewise one can, without even trying, point at 98 heinous and horrific visual infestations of the ether, disguised in the innocuous sounding euphemism ’television programming’, such as; Dancing with the tarts, American Dilhole and The News, before one, exhausted and delirious, can state that Shooting Stars and Fawlty Towers are well worth watching.
However, like all good rules there is an exception to this one and that is, of course, people talking on their mobile telephones (usually loudly) in public.
Of every one hundred ‘conversations’ that are forced into my immaculate and well-shaped ear exactly zero are of any interest to me whatsoever.
I’ll admit that I may be a wee more punctilious than the average citizen.
I’ll even grant you, perplexed reader, that I hover towards fastidiousness.
Oh sod it! All right,I’ll admit it;I am a cantankerous old fuck,but when is the last time you overheard anyone saying anything remotely interesting on their wireless monstrosity?
“We have just landed and we are almost at the gate”, “ And, like, she was, like, uh, oh no you didn’t, and I was, like, Whatever!”, “ dude, wassup ?”, “fo-shizzle, ganizzle I’s be out the dos, hos”.
Aren’t we lucky that we have satellites orbiting our troubled blue sphere that are linked up just so that we can,with digital clarity, send to and fro these important, beautiful and wise communications?
About every 5 years another alien spacecraft carrying inhabitants from some distant galaxy comes a-speeding towards Earth, eager to meet the creatures that hurl these millions of strangely coded messages into the universe.
However, when they come close enough to hear what we are actually saying, they invariably shake their over-sized heads and mutter, disappointed and slightly pissed-off;
“Dude, that’s one lame-ass species. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
I vaguely remember this maxim being uttered by some real person in the cold light of day of this harsh realm we find ourselves in.
Or perhaps I was the only one who heard it reverberate through my septan cranium during one of the many chemically induced stupors I used to call Friday night, or Tuesday afternoon.
Regardless, someone, somewhere has said it and if they haven’t, they should have, for it is true.
This theorem is easy to prove.
No doubt, you will all nod your wise and recently washed heads in silent agreement when I say that for every ‘One, by U2’ and ‘One headlight, by the Wallflowers’ one will be tormented by 98 “Achy Breaky Hearts, by Pretentious MulletHead” or similar auditory offense against good taste and common decency.
Likewise one can, without even trying, point at 98 heinous and horrific visual infestations of the ether, disguised in the innocuous sounding euphemism ’television programming’, such as; Dancing with the tarts, American Dilhole and The News, before one, exhausted and delirious, can state that Shooting Stars and Fawlty Towers are well worth watching.
However, like all good rules there is an exception to this one and that is, of course, people talking on their mobile telephones (usually loudly) in public.
Of every one hundred ‘conversations’ that are forced into my immaculate and well-shaped ear exactly zero are of any interest to me whatsoever.
I’ll admit that I may be a wee more punctilious than the average citizen.
I’ll even grant you, perplexed reader, that I hover towards fastidiousness.
Oh sod it! All right,I’ll admit it;I am a cantankerous old fuck,but when is the last time you overheard anyone saying anything remotely interesting on their wireless monstrosity?
“We have just landed and we are almost at the gate”, “ And, like, she was, like, uh, oh no you didn’t, and I was, like, Whatever!”, “ dude, wassup ?”, “fo-shizzle, ganizzle I’s be out the dos, hos”.
Aren’t we lucky that we have satellites orbiting our troubled blue sphere that are linked up just so that we can,with digital clarity, send to and fro these important, beautiful and wise communications?
About every 5 years another alien spacecraft carrying inhabitants from some distant galaxy comes a-speeding towards Earth, eager to meet the creatures that hurl these millions of strangely coded messages into the universe.
However, when they come close enough to hear what we are actually saying, they invariably shake their over-sized heads and mutter, disappointed and slightly pissed-off;
“Dude, that’s one lame-ass species. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
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