Frontline Dispatches From the War on Decency

Saturday, June 18, 2011

I Sincerely Probably Hate You.

Statistically speaking, if you are reading this, I hate you.

How do I know that I probably hate you? Because I know that you are on the internet, and so you must be minimally tech-savvy, and that makes you contemptible in my eyes. Non-contemptible people lived in the 1940's. They distrusted all technology more complicated than the rotgut still and the repeating rifle, and instead of diddling themselves with iPods and Facebooks they murdered Nazis for sport. Those were men. Those men were such men that the next generation had to invent steroids and cocaine just to feel minimally adequate. If you have never picked up a weapon and sworn to kill foreigners on the whims of your government, I wish you a long life of laptop-induced impotence and humiliating lactation.

If you are fat, I hate you. Seriously, fuck you for being fat. You are the reason the terrorists hate us. Do you know how many calories it takes to produce just one pound of excess fat? You've devoted a serious portion of your life to making a wreck of your own body. Gross. But here's the rub; if you are on a diet, I also hate you. Because you are nothing more than a fat person who cheats. You know damn well that you're supposed to be fat; you like stuffing your face with butter and salad dressing. You like it so much it gets you wet just thinking about it. But instead of indulging, you eat salad and rice cakes. You go through life deliberately making yourself miserable, and the reward is that someday you get to die just like everyone else. What an idiot you are.

If you are a vegetarian, I hate you. I think you should be illegal. I want to feed you your own damaged hair. If you had been born in any other place or time, you would be beaten from your village and then eaten by a tiger. But if you're a meat-eating person who doesn't eat veal, I hate you so much fucking more. Because you don't really give a shit about animals; you're just a sucker for big goo-goo infant-eyes. You associate cuteness with humanity. You're not ethical; you're a human with a malfunctioning brain. You know what causes that? Protein deficiency. All the most delicious animals and even deliciouser when they're babies. If you're not genuinely curious about what baby seal tastes like, I want to club you to death in Newfoundland.

If you're religious, I hate you. You need to tell yourself lies in order to face life. You are a failed person. Your mind is an engine that never turned over. I don't think you should have the right to vote or own land. But if you're a non-religious person who doesn't think I should talk about religious people like they're idiots, then fuck you because I hate you too. You value niceness more than honesty. You are the reason idiocy is an inherited sickness. You are the reason farm animals rule the world. You killed Socrates and Baby Jesus.

If you've ever called a comedy routine 'offensive,' or 'in bad taste,' I hate you. I want to fill your mouth with spiders. You destroy creativity and originality. You diminish the world by your presence. You are the farm animals who took over when everyone wasn't looking. I want to let homosexuals molest you while a black man steals your TV, just to watch you sputter uselessly as you try to explain to 911 what the fuck is happening to you. Then I'll crash a busload of AIDS victims into your September 11th and Jew your Retard.

Finally, if you don't hate Lady Gaga, I truly, truly hate you.

Friday, January 14, 2011

The nun-punchingest blog in the world.

January. The month of frozen hell. The hell-freeze month. The icy death-march winter-month. Winterpocalypse.

Naked, I stood in my doorway, surveying the dead world around me. Nothing growing; nothing stirring. Just a blasted wasteland as far as the eye could see. I took a deep pull from my whiskey bottle and scratched myself thoughtfully.

"Hey you! Put some clothes on, there are children here!" I looked for the source of this disturbance and noticed an angry-looking woman standing on the street below me. She was walking with what looked to be a whole army of five-year olds, and all of them were staring at me with open mouths.

Judging me. My god, five years old and they had already learned how to judge. Such a world we live in. Tears welled up in my eyes as I threw the bottle at her and leapt to the sidewalk below, shrieking like a murderous eagle. The children screamed and scattered in all directions. Let's see you try and restore order now, Miss Please-Don't-Wave-Your-Genitals-at-the-Minors. They're free of your mind-control now; they're free.

I ran down the street dodging cars until the woman and her unruly mob of infants were long gone. It was at this moment that I began to regret my decision to leave the house naked. Not because of the cold, mind you; a lifetime of Canadian winters have inured me to all forms of freezing and windchill, as well as extended periods of darkness and near-starvation. In fact, I can actually function from inside a polar bear if it ever comes to that: this is an old Inuit trick used many a time by desperate northerners. You simply allow yourself to be swallowed by the bear, and you can live out the winter eating pre-digested seal meat and being gently rocked to sleep by the lumbering beast (the only tricky part is when it eventually comes time to pass yourself; the bears do not like this part at all). 

No, running down the street naked was a mistake because it tended to bring me to the attention of the police. They seem to have a real problem with public nudity; my theory is that most police officers are actually failed dancers, and thus came out of adolescence with severe body-image and self-esteem issues. As a result of this (and of my loudly sharing this theory with them), police have recently adopted a taser-first policy when it comes to enforcing the law upon my person. I really can't say I blame them; I'm usually so drunk that it's physically impossible to knock me out through blunt-force trauma. Hell, my reflexes are usually so slowed down that the electricity takes several seconds to reach the pain-centres of my brain (police, by the way, also do not like being laughed at as they impotently push the "Kill" button on a taser over and over again like a World of Warcraft player who knows he's about to lose a boss-fight).

Sure enough, I could soon hear the telltale sirens coming my way. Police sirens, for some reason, have always sounded to me like a unicorn being raped; of course, this gave me a considerable erection, which badly hampered my running speed. I quickly vaulted a nearby fence and landed crotch-first in someone's frozen, prize-winning rose bushes. This was every bit as painful as it sounds.

As I lay in a spreading pool of my own penis-blood, my thoughts turned existential, as they often do at times like these. Why do I bother? Is there a point to any of this? What is it about my genitals that makes them a goddamn magnet for pointy things? These questions and others pricked at my consciousness like the frozen thorns of a cruel rose bush as I inched my way home, and I resolved to puzzle them out upon the digital landscape of the world-wide-web.

And that, dear reader, is the true story of why I started this blog. Also, I punched some nuns on the way home.

Note: the preceding story is not true in the slightest. Like, not one little bit of that was even remotely true. And frankly, if you believed any of it, you may be retarded. Talk to your doctor.