Ah yes, another day on earth, trapped in this hideous rotting case of flesh and bone, doomed to eat and shit and die. It’s a raw deal, but it’s the hand we’ve been dealt. It’s the only way it ever could have been. There are no possibilities, only realities. What might have been is all in the mind. This abrasive reality of ours is all there is. Mine’s a fucking pigsty. How’s yours?
I woke up this morning to a terrifying din of activity, a cyclone. My girlfriend had overslept and was in the middle of a freak-out, trying to leave the house with her clothes only half-on. I could only assume she was destroying everything in the front room, turning over ashtrays, spilling pills on the floor, breaking glass, frightening the cats, etc. I went back to sleep. It was just too fucking early. Although she’s a beautiful vision in the evening, she’s a human train wreck in the morning, a dangerous walking disaster zone like Chernobyl. Better not to see it at all. Better for both of us really.
The noise didn’t leave with her either. Yesterday she brought my cat, Otto, a toy filled with catnip. It drove him apeshit all night, causing him to run back and forth through the house, rip up a paper bag with his teeth, hump his little girlfriend cat’s face, scratch all the sand out of his litter pan, and even hang himself in the blinds. This last scene was especially pathetic. I found him tangled up with the cord all around his neck, struggling frantically to get loose. Sometimes I think Otto’s just not fit to exist.
We’ve decided Sara’s cat, on the other hand, must be suffering from terminal depression. She stares at us with extreme disdain. Sometimes she just falls asleep looking at the wall. She tolerates Otto, but I bet her favorite thing about him is that he can’t actually find her vagina.
Waking up in the morning is a trauma regardless. I can barely cope with it. It’s the nadir of the entire day, a hell of a rough thing to start with. I drag myself out of bed and look at myself in the mirror. I look like shit. I see an unshaved mess with a miserable expression and wild mass of nappy hair. I mumble something like, “God damn my face.” I feel even worse than I look, if that’s possible. It would be fine if I could just pull myself together and get dressed, but there’s no motivation. I just want to wallow in it like a slob. Even putting on my shoes can take thirty minutes. I get one sock on and then just stare off into space for a while, completely absent. Everything is daunting, completely impossible. In the morning life itself seems impossible.
March 10, 2009
Denver
Monday, April 5, 2010
the comedic slaughterhouse
Slaughterhouses fascinate me. That’s where you can see human nature stripped of all nicety, naked and as it truly is. Imagine the predatory animal elevated to industrial proportions, hundreds of millions of victims run through the death machine every year without any trace of mercy or sympathy. I often fantasize about working on the floor at a slaughterhouse, just for that ultimate reality-check about the mysterious faceless meat substances I like to eat every day. But it wouldn’t be worth the price. Working there would be a miserable and perhaps even dehumanizing experience. It might cause me the sort of terminal brain-rot the other workers have. I used to live next to a poultry plant, and let me tell you: the half-human cretins that worked there should have been sterilized and strictly bared from entering the city limits.
If you look into the procedures of slaughterhouses you’ll find a picture so depressing and horrible that it’s hard to understand how anyone can work there and maintain any sort of basic human decency. There’s no shortage of video evidence of workers doing the strangest things to animals on the way to slaughter. I’ve seen film of people using live chickens as footballs, a baby pig stomped to death on a concrete floor, and perhaps weirdest of all, a worker using turkey’s as living punching bags as they filed past on a conveyor belt just before being stunned and killed. I’m sure that in this dehumanized piece of shit’s mind it was funny, but to my naive eyes it looked pretty god damned depraved. Here’s this guy dishing out the final fucking insult to some pathetic helpless animals just before they’re shocked unconscious and run over the edge of a saw blade. The animal’s entire existence from birth to death in a tiny wire cage involves more suffering than any normal person can fully understand, and then there’s this guy boxing with them while they hanging upside down. I’d like to see him thrown in the meat grinder. And he’s only one of many. I’m sure that a lot of people that work in these conditions are basically numb to the sight of suffering. They would have to be. Their desensitization reduces a real living thing to a crude material commodity, and they treat it accordingly. There are dozens of videos like this one and no one really seems to care about it. You can look and see. All the horrors are documented. Cows are cut up alive, pigs are drowned in boiling water, things are dragged to slaughter when they can’t walk, dying animals get the shit kicked out of them for being in the way, etc. It’s a bad trip. The most disturbing thing about all this though is the people doing it. To them it’s a joke. The fact that people can get used to that sort of action suggests something pretty damning about our ilk, those clever human monsters that subjugated the other species and confined them to short and terrible lives in what’s really just a meat factory.
Is it acceptable? I can’t come to a conclusion on that. But one thing’s certain: even human beings are not exempt form this sort of fate. In this universe everything’s got to eat… and ultimately be eaten.
February 25, 2009 / Denver CO
If you look into the procedures of slaughterhouses you’ll find a picture so depressing and horrible that it’s hard to understand how anyone can work there and maintain any sort of basic human decency. There’s no shortage of video evidence of workers doing the strangest things to animals on the way to slaughter. I’ve seen film of people using live chickens as footballs, a baby pig stomped to death on a concrete floor, and perhaps weirdest of all, a worker using turkey’s as living punching bags as they filed past on a conveyor belt just before being stunned and killed. I’m sure that in this dehumanized piece of shit’s mind it was funny, but to my naive eyes it looked pretty god damned depraved. Here’s this guy dishing out the final fucking insult to some pathetic helpless animals just before they’re shocked unconscious and run over the edge of a saw blade. The animal’s entire existence from birth to death in a tiny wire cage involves more suffering than any normal person can fully understand, and then there’s this guy boxing with them while they hanging upside down. I’d like to see him thrown in the meat grinder. And he’s only one of many. I’m sure that a lot of people that work in these conditions are basically numb to the sight of suffering. They would have to be. Their desensitization reduces a real living thing to a crude material commodity, and they treat it accordingly. There are dozens of videos like this one and no one really seems to care about it. You can look and see. All the horrors are documented. Cows are cut up alive, pigs are drowned in boiling water, things are dragged to slaughter when they can’t walk, dying animals get the shit kicked out of them for being in the way, etc. It’s a bad trip. The most disturbing thing about all this though is the people doing it. To them it’s a joke. The fact that people can get used to that sort of action suggests something pretty damning about our ilk, those clever human monsters that subjugated the other species and confined them to short and terrible lives in what’s really just a meat factory.
Is it acceptable? I can’t come to a conclusion on that. But one thing’s certain: even human beings are not exempt form this sort of fate. In this universe everything’s got to eat… and ultimately be eaten.
February 25, 2009 / Denver CO
the events of wednesday
The Events of Wednesday
As soon as I arrived at work Wednesday morning I was fired for "not fitting in" and then excused with a couple of days extra pay. On the way back home my mind raced through the entire conversation over and over again, and I had many emotions ranging from anger and insult to relief. Sure, my former boss, Paul Ramsey had insulted me in all sorts of ways during our talk, but I already knew he was a piece of shit, and that I was not even good at selling Persian rugs. So why did this upset me? Furthermore I felt relieved that I was no longer married to this completely miserable job. It was all I could to just to convince myself to tolerate the hours I spent there. Then while riding my bike across town from King Soopers grocery store that morning, my thoughts still reeling about what to do, I took a spill in the middle of the road, and hit the pavement pretty hard. Groceries spilled out of my backpack in the middle of Speer Boulevard in front of the Denver Diner, and I happened to see my bananas squashed indifferently by a passing car. After a moment of shock I jumping up to get out of the way, and was pleased to realize I had not hit my head (wearing a bicycle helmet is fucking gay). I also discovered that my clothes were all ripped up and covered in a conspicuous amount of blood, presumably because I slid about six inches on the pavement. I lit a cigarette, tried to figure out if my arm was broken, and then called a taxi. "Take me to the Emergency Room." No big deal.
Luckily for me, I was distracted from my troubles for a couple of hours by the really entertaining scenes of suffering I found in the ER. I totally forgot about being fired and financially dicked over and everything. Amongst the general din and mayhem of the ER there was one gentleman tied down to a bed just a few feet from me who was raving drunk and screaming profanities and sobbing and apologizing and telling the nurses over and over again that he needed to pee. I had to laugh out loud when one answered, "You're peeing right now." This reminded me of my friend back home who's catch phrase of sorts was to respond to a query about the bathroom with the simple factual declaration that, "I'm peein' now." I dug out my cell phone and tried calling him, but there was no answer so I hung up and speed dialed an escort service who's number I found in the back of the Westward with the words "CINDY, babe with tight ass, luscious dick." I explained that my name is Paul Ramsey, and that I was greatly looking forward to shitting on her tits this evening, then I gave the bastard's address. "I keep a spare key under the yard jockey (which I happen to know he does). Let yourself in and wait for me to get home. Don't be late either or I'll strangle you with an electric cord you nasty fucking sack of aids!" Then my doctor arrived and came behind the curtain with me, so I politely excused myself from the call to pay attention.
After being x-rayed and rejecting the proposed sling (almost as gay as wearing a helmet), I was discharged and went on my merry way, walking back across town in my shredded bloody trousers, somehow imagining that I looked pretty cool with my underwear showing. I happened to pass by the exact spot where I wrecked and looked at the sad debris of my groceries, now scooted onto the edge of the road. A box of cheese-its was still somewhat intact but not really worth salvaging. My mood blackened. I became extremely frustrated and angry about basically everything in the universe, especially the physical pain and the spilled groceries and what my former boss said to me that morning.
June 6, 2008 / Denver
As soon as I arrived at work Wednesday morning I was fired for "not fitting in" and then excused with a couple of days extra pay. On the way back home my mind raced through the entire conversation over and over again, and I had many emotions ranging from anger and insult to relief. Sure, my former boss, Paul Ramsey had insulted me in all sorts of ways during our talk, but I already knew he was a piece of shit, and that I was not even good at selling Persian rugs. So why did this upset me? Furthermore I felt relieved that I was no longer married to this completely miserable job. It was all I could to just to convince myself to tolerate the hours I spent there. Then while riding my bike across town from King Soopers grocery store that morning, my thoughts still reeling about what to do, I took a spill in the middle of the road, and hit the pavement pretty hard. Groceries spilled out of my backpack in the middle of Speer Boulevard in front of the Denver Diner, and I happened to see my bananas squashed indifferently by a passing car. After a moment of shock I jumping up to get out of the way, and was pleased to realize I had not hit my head (wearing a bicycle helmet is fucking gay). I also discovered that my clothes were all ripped up and covered in a conspicuous amount of blood, presumably because I slid about six inches on the pavement. I lit a cigarette, tried to figure out if my arm was broken, and then called a taxi. "Take me to the Emergency Room." No big deal.
Luckily for me, I was distracted from my troubles for a couple of hours by the really entertaining scenes of suffering I found in the ER. I totally forgot about being fired and financially dicked over and everything. Amongst the general din and mayhem of the ER there was one gentleman tied down to a bed just a few feet from me who was raving drunk and screaming profanities and sobbing and apologizing and telling the nurses over and over again that he needed to pee. I had to laugh out loud when one answered, "You're peeing right now." This reminded me of my friend back home who's catch phrase of sorts was to respond to a query about the bathroom with the simple factual declaration that, "I'm peein' now." I dug out my cell phone and tried calling him, but there was no answer so I hung up and speed dialed an escort service who's number I found in the back of the Westward with the words "CINDY, babe with tight ass, luscious dick." I explained that my name is Paul Ramsey, and that I was greatly looking forward to shitting on her tits this evening, then I gave the bastard's address. "I keep a spare key under the yard jockey (which I happen to know he does). Let yourself in and wait for me to get home. Don't be late either or I'll strangle you with an electric cord you nasty fucking sack of aids!" Then my doctor arrived and came behind the curtain with me, so I politely excused myself from the call to pay attention.
After being x-rayed and rejecting the proposed sling (almost as gay as wearing a helmet), I was discharged and went on my merry way, walking back across town in my shredded bloody trousers, somehow imagining that I looked pretty cool with my underwear showing. I happened to pass by the exact spot where I wrecked and looked at the sad debris of my groceries, now scooted onto the edge of the road. A box of cheese-its was still somewhat intact but not really worth salvaging. My mood blackened. I became extremely frustrated and angry about basically everything in the universe, especially the physical pain and the spilled groceries and what my former boss said to me that morning.
June 6, 2008 / Denver
masters and maggots
A small minority of people are carrying the weight in our world. The other ninety-nine percent are maggots feeding on the work of the few without any hint of gratitude or respect. They undermine everything. Each giant step forward is counterbalanced by a million small and petty retrogressions. Only in a totalitarian state is any form of social progress even remotely possible. And who knows if “progress” is something we can even come to terms with?
July 7, 2009
Greenpoint / Brooklyn
July 7, 2009
Greenpoint / Brooklyn
magical colfax
Walking with my Sara on Colfax Avenue late one night, there’s a phantasmagoria of the crippled and insane all around us. People shit their pants at the bus stop and vomit on the steps of the church. One man stands in a shadowy entryway has his briefs around his ankles and no pants on, puking up what appear to be… Spaghetti-O’s? A fat man in a basketball jersey calls me a “faggot.” An old black man tries to trade me an oversized margarita glass he found in a dumpster for enough money to get a hamburger. Someone else demands a cigarette… or at least some onion rings! Morons in pickup trucks cruise past making loud guttural noises at us, shout that they want to fuck us both. Mouthy niggers say obscene things to my girlfriend, then threaten me when I react.
Back at home we enter the high security gate and I say, “There are a lot of people like that in the world. That’s why you need a gun.”
In deed, every time I go up to the roof to smoke a cigarette, looking down on Grant Street and Colfax Avenue I’m visited by visions of wild riots breaking loose on the street below, and I’m holed up on the roof with a riffle and a case of beer, helping the police pick off degenerates. Sometimes I wish someone would sterilize these fucking maggots. But then Colfax wouldn’t be any fun anymore.
Denver
March 12, 2009
Back at home we enter the high security gate and I say, “There are a lot of people like that in the world. That’s why you need a gun.”
In deed, every time I go up to the roof to smoke a cigarette, looking down on Grant Street and Colfax Avenue I’m visited by visions of wild riots breaking loose on the street below, and I’m holed up on the roof with a riffle and a case of beer, helping the police pick off degenerates. Sometimes I wish someone would sterilize these fucking maggots. But then Colfax wouldn’t be any fun anymore.
Denver
March 12, 2009
"You may say I'm a dreamer..."
“You may say I’m a dreamer…”
It’s another night on Colfax. What’s the lesson of it? That black people must be put in the meat grinder, made into fatty low-grade dog food. I have no interest whatsoever in living in any society where these people are free and equal. I long for the days of segregation, of eugenics. Dumb assholes drone on and on about the virtues of diversity, but it has no appeal to me whatsoever. In most cases, diversity means poverty and desperation with a foreign face. I dream of a beautiful world where the degenerates in the bus stop are actually afraid to mouth off in my face, much less bother my woman. There was a time when you could be hanged for just Looking at a rich white woman. Any miscreant who disturbs reasonable citizens must be hosed with mace and have all their teeth busted with a lead pipe. Seems perfectly sensible to me. Doesn’t it to you? Don’t feel guilty. They hate you too, and always will. Imagine a world where the maggots on the bottom know their place and act accordingly. That’s an effect only the fear of physical harm can provide.
How did the bleeding hearts force us to accept this sort of repellent behavior? How can any politician living in a gated suburban community grasp the reality of social issues? How can anyone possibly be convinced that the people telling us how to think and feel about the “man in the street” know what’s happening at street level? When’s the last time our mayor went for a walk through the heart of Denver on Colfax Avenue? Would it affect his policies if he were constantly ridiculed and called a faggot by thugs in bus stops? Would any politician do the same lip service about equality if a crack addict raped his daughter in the piss-stained back seat of a Cadillac? I truly wonder what effect it would have on his thinking. Policymakers need a reality check; the kind of reality check only an evening with aggressively hostile black people can provide.
Later, John Lennon’s voice drifts out of a coffee shop. The naiveté is appalling. He wants me to “imagine all the people living life in peace.” I’m game, but to live in peace we’re going to have to get rid of quite a few of those people! A whole generation grew up affected by kind of attitude, this completely unrealistic drivel. It wasn’t the drugs that rotted their brains; it was the idealism of their times. Now we pay the price.
February 9, 2008
Denver CO
It’s another night on Colfax. What’s the lesson of it? That black people must be put in the meat grinder, made into fatty low-grade dog food. I have no interest whatsoever in living in any society where these people are free and equal. I long for the days of segregation, of eugenics. Dumb assholes drone on and on about the virtues of diversity, but it has no appeal to me whatsoever. In most cases, diversity means poverty and desperation with a foreign face. I dream of a beautiful world where the degenerates in the bus stop are actually afraid to mouth off in my face, much less bother my woman. There was a time when you could be hanged for just Looking at a rich white woman. Any miscreant who disturbs reasonable citizens must be hosed with mace and have all their teeth busted with a lead pipe. Seems perfectly sensible to me. Doesn’t it to you? Don’t feel guilty. They hate you too, and always will. Imagine a world where the maggots on the bottom know their place and act accordingly. That’s an effect only the fear of physical harm can provide.
How did the bleeding hearts force us to accept this sort of repellent behavior? How can any politician living in a gated suburban community grasp the reality of social issues? How can anyone possibly be convinced that the people telling us how to think and feel about the “man in the street” know what’s happening at street level? When’s the last time our mayor went for a walk through the heart of Denver on Colfax Avenue? Would it affect his policies if he were constantly ridiculed and called a faggot by thugs in bus stops? Would any politician do the same lip service about equality if a crack addict raped his daughter in the piss-stained back seat of a Cadillac? I truly wonder what effect it would have on his thinking. Policymakers need a reality check; the kind of reality check only an evening with aggressively hostile black people can provide.
Later, John Lennon’s voice drifts out of a coffee shop. The naiveté is appalling. He wants me to “imagine all the people living life in peace.” I’m game, but to live in peace we’re going to have to get rid of quite a few of those people! A whole generation grew up affected by kind of attitude, this completely unrealistic drivel. It wasn’t the drugs that rotted their brains; it was the idealism of their times. Now we pay the price.
February 9, 2008
Denver CO
hot wings polemic
Charley Brown’s is uncharacteristically crowded tonight. An otherwise sleepy neighborhood tavern on Capitol Hill, once haunted by Kerouac and Cassidy, now typically empty except for a few hopelessly drunk middle-aged assholes crowded around the piano singing, lost in the hazy delusion that they are Elton John or Billy Joel. But not tonight. Tonight the place is so full we have to search for a place to sit. Why? I look around and notice immediately that there’s something wrong with the crowd. Everyone’s either elderly or mentally handicapped or physically handicapped or blind, or black. That can’t be an coincidence. Is this a trap? Are we going to be gassed? It could some sort of modern (and highly comedic) euthanasia chamber. After the wait staff quietly exits, the doors will be sealed and poison gas will be pumped in through nozzles disguised as beer taps. Ordinarily I would approve of this if we didn’t have the misfortune of stumbling in on it.
Michael and I find a small table in a shitty corner of the room beside a large party that seems to have been bussed in from an assisted living center. An elderly woman leaves and shoves me with her oxygen tank. On the other side of us there are four other senior citizens, all wearing big dark sunglasses indoors. Their fashion sense is remarkable. Behind my friend I see three black men heckling a frustrated waiter relentlessly about getting them a table on the patio. He eventually stops listening and vanishes. There’s a flurry of irritating activity. What are we doing here?
After a long time a waiter arrives and gives us complimentary hot wings, then leaves hastily without taking an order or bringing drinks or anything. The hot wings lay in the middle of the table, inert and extremely disconcerting. I didn’t want any fucking hot wings. Then everything clicks into place, makes perfect sense. Everything becomes clear in light of these chicken wings. I realize that all these goddamned people have overrun our hangout for these free hot wings. The lure of free shitty food is what drew all these people together. Had the management of Charley Brown’s bar gone insane? Clearly, this is a far-out business strategy. They have deliberately attracted a horde of poor miscreants into the bar, people who’s principle motivation is to not spend money. What the fuck were they thinking?
I stare at the hot wings. They are covered in spicy fluorescent orange goo. It occurs to me that hot wings are the final insult to the poor and uneducated. What’s weirder is that the jokes on them, yet they still play along. Offering this sort of food should be an insult, and yet they still show up for it and love it. Let’s face it: chicken wings are a bad omen. You know you’ve strayed into a nasty and possibly dangerous neighborhood when you start seeing hot wing places. This is the favored food of the sub-human rabble that breeds in the shittiest peripheral areas of our cities.
Michael picks up a chicken wing and begins chewing the meat off a small bone. Suddenly a transformation takes place. This otherwise intelligent and cultured man begins to look like a fool. He gets the brightly colored sauce all over his hands and mouth. No mere napkin can wipe it away. I dig in too. We have blended in with the muck that surrounds us. The hot wings have made our society’s horseshit ideals about equality a reality. It’s as though we have entered a grotesque medieval picture or peasants with terrible inbred faces mocking Jesus on his way to Golgotha, the last true man left on earth. Michael eats another hot wing. I imagine people living someplace down south eating chicken wings all day and throwing the bones off the back porch until the yard is completely buried under a little hill of nasty chicken bones. Oddly enough, this is a plausible reality.
We come to the conclusion that hot wings must be some kind of conspiracy from on high. Mike proposes that hot wings are invented by the wealthy and elite to keep the poor socially immobile, to repress and humiliate them. The experience of eating hot wings is so inherently embarrassing, so aesthetically uncouth, that it must be a deliberate plan to expose these uncivilized peasants for what they truly are on the inside.
Well, surely that’s all a lot of bullshit. What’s true is that the people eating this stuff and smiling about it are the only ones guilty for it. I’m reminded of Pasolini’s weird movie, Salò. In Salò there’s a houseful of inexplicably compliant slave children being forced by French perverts to eat their own feces. Instead of feces, modern man is being fed other forms of shit: things like hot wings, Mexican soap opera, Fox News, bad music, worse movies, etc.
One’s also got to consider that refusing the chicken wings makes a statement too. We saw that all too clearly during the recent presidential campaign. The candidates had healthy solid diets, but didn’t dare refuse to eat any nasty fried fat chunks put in front of them in the name of “local fare.” This is because one who’s too good to eat shit is clearly the enemy of the people. The discerning mind is not an egalitarian mind.
The hot wings are just the beginning, my friends. Tell me how good they taste. Yum.
8/14/09
Charley Brown’s
Denver Colorado
Michael and I find a small table in a shitty corner of the room beside a large party that seems to have been bussed in from an assisted living center. An elderly woman leaves and shoves me with her oxygen tank. On the other side of us there are four other senior citizens, all wearing big dark sunglasses indoors. Their fashion sense is remarkable. Behind my friend I see three black men heckling a frustrated waiter relentlessly about getting them a table on the patio. He eventually stops listening and vanishes. There’s a flurry of irritating activity. What are we doing here?
After a long time a waiter arrives and gives us complimentary hot wings, then leaves hastily without taking an order or bringing drinks or anything. The hot wings lay in the middle of the table, inert and extremely disconcerting. I didn’t want any fucking hot wings. Then everything clicks into place, makes perfect sense. Everything becomes clear in light of these chicken wings. I realize that all these goddamned people have overrun our hangout for these free hot wings. The lure of free shitty food is what drew all these people together. Had the management of Charley Brown’s bar gone insane? Clearly, this is a far-out business strategy. They have deliberately attracted a horde of poor miscreants into the bar, people who’s principle motivation is to not spend money. What the fuck were they thinking?
I stare at the hot wings. They are covered in spicy fluorescent orange goo. It occurs to me that hot wings are the final insult to the poor and uneducated. What’s weirder is that the jokes on them, yet they still play along. Offering this sort of food should be an insult, and yet they still show up for it and love it. Let’s face it: chicken wings are a bad omen. You know you’ve strayed into a nasty and possibly dangerous neighborhood when you start seeing hot wing places. This is the favored food of the sub-human rabble that breeds in the shittiest peripheral areas of our cities.
Michael picks up a chicken wing and begins chewing the meat off a small bone. Suddenly a transformation takes place. This otherwise intelligent and cultured man begins to look like a fool. He gets the brightly colored sauce all over his hands and mouth. No mere napkin can wipe it away. I dig in too. We have blended in with the muck that surrounds us. The hot wings have made our society’s horseshit ideals about equality a reality. It’s as though we have entered a grotesque medieval picture or peasants with terrible inbred faces mocking Jesus on his way to Golgotha, the last true man left on earth. Michael eats another hot wing. I imagine people living someplace down south eating chicken wings all day and throwing the bones off the back porch until the yard is completely buried under a little hill of nasty chicken bones. Oddly enough, this is a plausible reality.
We come to the conclusion that hot wings must be some kind of conspiracy from on high. Mike proposes that hot wings are invented by the wealthy and elite to keep the poor socially immobile, to repress and humiliate them. The experience of eating hot wings is so inherently embarrassing, so aesthetically uncouth, that it must be a deliberate plan to expose these uncivilized peasants for what they truly are on the inside.
Well, surely that’s all a lot of bullshit. What’s true is that the people eating this stuff and smiling about it are the only ones guilty for it. I’m reminded of Pasolini’s weird movie, Salò. In Salò there’s a houseful of inexplicably compliant slave children being forced by French perverts to eat their own feces. Instead of feces, modern man is being fed other forms of shit: things like hot wings, Mexican soap opera, Fox News, bad music, worse movies, etc.
One’s also got to consider that refusing the chicken wings makes a statement too. We saw that all too clearly during the recent presidential campaign. The candidates had healthy solid diets, but didn’t dare refuse to eat any nasty fried fat chunks put in front of them in the name of “local fare.” This is because one who’s too good to eat shit is clearly the enemy of the people. The discerning mind is not an egalitarian mind.
The hot wings are just the beginning, my friends. Tell me how good they taste. Yum.
8/14/09
Charley Brown’s
Denver Colorado
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