Archive for October, 2012

All’s Well that Ends Well

Posted: October 14, 2012 in MiB Hates Us All

I want you to close your eyes. No, not literally, dumbass – how the hell do you expect to read the rest of this piece if you actually close your eyes? Some people… I want you to figuratively close your eyes and imagine yourself as Batman. Not the Batman in the cape with the batarangs and the repressed sexuality and Alfred – but Bruce Wayne the orphan, sitting in the rain, holding his mother’s pearl necklace… Pretty sad, ain’t it? Hold that thought.

This past Friday marked the final day of a chapter in my life – the final day of school. Well, almost – I still have to actually go to school, in school uniform, with my hair cut and my shoes polished to school regulation standards to write my final school exams, so in actuality it was like the 2010 World Cup of final school days. You know, a large hullabaloo about a huge change without the “change” happening at all. But you know what, I actually felt some semblance of sadness at leaving this great educational institution. 13 years of schooling tends to grow on you over the years. Just like scabies. (See, that was a joke. Please don’t come after me for “tarnishing” the esteemed name of St Jiminy’s. I LOVE the College. I have all its albums. Who needs another visit from the Baldstreet Boys? Not I, rabbi.)

As this was an occasion of considerable significance , what with St Jiminy’s finally being able to bid us farewell and send us out into the big bad world, it was obviously organized as an occasion that would be special. An occasion that would be remembered by those attending forevermore.

They decided to do this with an extra-long chapel service which I am certain was a final “Fuck you” to the Muslim boys. Nevertheless, I am pleased to report that I enjoyed it, if only because this event marked the final time that I would ever hear “Make me a channel of your peace”, ever. (I personally prefer the fruit hymn, which can be found in the Songs of Fellowship hymnal – #785 – and which has ecclesiastical lyrical beauties such as “SATSUMA later or you will see” and “His BANANA over me is love”. Sure, His “BANANA”. Classic stuff from a previous altar boy.)

Now, you may have gathered from my writing that I’m not a sentimental being. The last time I shed a manly tear was when I thought Batman died at the end of The Dark Knight Rises, and the time before that was back in ‘Nam. We’re talking about sad tears here, not tears of joy or Tears of Joy – a song so bad that it actually induces tears of pain. But this lack of a lack of emotion will become clear momentarily.

Secondly, as the self-professed modern-day  real-life equivalent of Sherlock Holmes, I notice things. Lots of things. Things that other people don’t usually notice. For example, if a person has several callouses on their hands in certain positions, then one can infer that this person possibly plays stringed instruments. If another person’s pink nail polish on their left hand is a little sloppier than the polish on their right hand, then we can infer they are left-handed, and if this person is a man, then we can almost certainly say that he is gay. Finally, if some Snorlax is walking around with a dazed look in his eyes and a dribble of drool trickling down his chin, I think we can easily deduce that we should stay the fuck away from said lunatic, lest we be eaten.

Anyway, something that I noticed during the Communion of this service that particularly interested me was the sheer pride on every parent’s face when they saw their son. It’s something special, that pride. Something intangible, almost ethereal, yet very very real. I have a hunch that if you were to ask a parent to explain that feeling of pride, they wouldn’t be able to – perhaps the closest feeling is hitting a great golf shot or kicking a douche in the balls or, I don’t know, spiritual enlightenment? I’m just spitballing here.

This was the thing that stood out to me on a night filled with bad jokes and great speeches and blog-bashing and chocolate dessert.  And for a cynic like yours truly to be amazed by something so emotional and raw and unprotected – no barriers, no shades, no shower curtains – well, that’s something. I came to the life-changing realization that parents love their kids unconditionally. Well, seem to love their kids unconditionally – there was a lot of Jesus’ blood being passed around, if you know what I mean.  I guess, at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter whether you’re an astronaut or a pregnant teenage Liverpool supporter who is high and drunk and tasting colours or even, Buddha forbid, the President – your parents still love you. And you should love them.

Unless they forget about you whilst playing Starcraft and leave you to die. Or pimp you out for a minivan. Or force you to don a suit of armour and duel you “to the death”.

Then maybe you should go all Kratos on their ass. Just saying.

© 2012-2013 All Rights Reserved


Cyanide and Happiness

Posted: October 6, 2012 in MiB Hates Us All

[Decades of scientific research and large quantities of blood, sweat and other bodily fluids have conclusively proved that writers write. Some write poetry and some write prose and some write novels and some tweet, which doesn’t count. Some write well. Others write Twilight. As a self-proclaimed writer and aficionado of words, I too have dabbled in more than simply bleeding out my own views onto the blank page – I write short stories, one-act plays and the occasional haiku. And so, since the wounds have not yet healed from the latest bashing I’ve received for my opinion, I give you instead a literary piece from the dark and dirty recesses of my mind: Cyanide and Happiness.] 

Cyanide and Happiness

It was a cold sprightly morning in the middle of May and I had just settled down with a glass of cheap Scotch and the bottle of cyanide when they arrived and told me that my brother was dead and the first thing I muttered was “Well-played, you sonuvabitch.” The second thing I said was: “How?” “Auto-erotic asphyxiation,” said they. “Damn,” said I, “That’s better than what I was going to do. He did always have to beat me at everything.”

It is at this point that I feel I must take you back to a conversation that happened between my brother and me several days before this hilariously harrowing news, whilst we were sitting in a Jacuzzi drinking expensive Scotch on my brother’s expansive estate.

“Brother,” said I, “you are insufferable and I would like to inform you that I hate you completely.”

This did not seem to faze him in the slightest.

“Brother,” said he, “you are a failure. Grow up, and simply accept that I have won.”

“I have,” I said. “I’ve accepted it completely. Somehow, for some unfathomable reason, God has decided to favour you whilst He laughs continuously at my failure.”

I paused here to drink some Scotch – it was very good Scotch.

“I wrote novels,” I continued, “and so you wrote masterpieces. I married a beautiful young woman; you married two beautiful young women and stole my wife to spare. And so, here you are with a Jacuzzi and nubile nymphs and good-tasting whisky whilst I must live in a shack and try to drown my sorrows in used motor oil. It’s just not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair.”

“Clichéd, but I must concur. Life is not fair – which is why I have decided to take my own, in true misunderstood-genius style.”

It was here that I saw a glint in my brother’s eye, but I disregarded it as the Scotch.

“This seems rather interesting, for a change, ” he said. “How and when do you plan to do it?”

“Cyanide,” said I. “Cyanide and happiness on next Tuesday –  our birthday. I thought it might seem more dramatic. Also, I’m bequeathing everything I own to my goldfish, Gary.”

“Very good,” said he. I felt somewhat uneasy, and I could see the stirring of a malicious idea behind his amber eyes, but I thought it was the Scotch once more.

It really was very good Scotch.

– -xxx–

Now, in light of my brother’s recent passing, I realised what those malevolent glints meant and cursed myself for not thinking that he would have to best me at dying, too. His funeral would be held tomorrow; they had told me that it was the literary scandal of the century.

“This,” I ruminated to Gary, “blows.”

Then, whilst I was watching Gary circle his glass bowl and occasionally knock into it, it hit me: a brilliant, masterful epiphany of Machiavellian magnitudes. I knew how I was going to finally best my brother – I was going to commit a spectacular suicide at his funeral tomorrow, and with the press and the media and my ex-wife there to witness it, it was sure to be a riot. It was going to be brilliant. It was going to be splendiferous. It was going to be worth dying for.


The funeral was a glamorous affair, with chanting choirs and pitiful music and white roses hanging in every alcove of my brother’s magnificent mansion. I tongued the tiny cyanide pill in my mouth, mentally rehearsing my moment of glory. I had decided that the deed  must be done after the priest had sung my brother’s praises in a pretentious eulogy – that seemed fitting as the perfect moment to steal his thunder. I could imagine the instant now, and tongued the pill ever the more frantically.

The instant came soon enough. The priest stood next to my brother’s cherry-oak coffin, and the congregation stifled their shallow sobs momentarily. The priest began, and I stared into the coffin at my mirror image, smug even in death. It was as if he was still mocking me – well, I thought, we’ll soon see who has the last laugh.

And then the priest said something unusual. “It is unusual”, he began, “but the deceased has asked that his will be read out here and now before he is buried. It is short, consisting of only one line, and is highly curious, but a testament to his love and brotherhood.”

Typical, thought I, looking once more at myself in the coffin. This moron has found a way to delay my death, even as he lies rotting. I was frenetic now, verging on hysterical; mere milliseconds away from my moment of glory.

“The deceased,” said the padre, “has asked that all of his possessions – including his houses, villas, Ferraris, jets, wives, mistresses and first edition signed copy of Venus in Furs – immediately, upon his death, be transferred into his twin brother’s possession without any discrepancies whatsoever.”

He turned to me and smiled.

In my shock, I swallowed.

© 2012-2013 All Rights Reserved

So here’s the thing…

Posted: October 4, 2012 in MiB Hates Us All

Firstly, mucho appreciato to all of the readers of this fine literary blog that read the pieces, enjoyed them, commented on them and promoted them – especially the ladies. The response was overwhelming – it turned out to be far bigger and better than I expected – if not viral, it was certainly bacterial. Or fungal – come on, you can give me fungal. So kudos to you, dear reader. Go on, give yourself a pat on the back. Wait, did you really do that? Yowza, someone has some attention-issues… You should see someone about that. Personally, my therapist says that it helps to vent the loneliness and frustration out via “harmless” words instead of parading the streets with a bottle of Smirnoff and a panga and straight-up decapitating people. I’m just kidding. I don’t have a therapist.

Secondly, I regret to inform you that I was visited for the second time in a week by unsightly twins in assless chaps brandishing leather whips and supersized nutcrackers this time. I am unable to comment on who these twins were or the status of their hairline or what heinous acts they performed on yours truly, but I’ll leave that to your imagination. Words were exchanged. Fingers were crushed. I was waterboarded, multiple times. And against my greatest efforts, I succumbed once more.

The result: the revolutionary and sensational post on “You-Know-What” regarding “He-Who-Has-No-Mane” has been temporarily removed. Any further updates will also be put on a temporary hiatus – just for the next week. It’s not that I don’t have material. It’s not that I’m petrified of what might happen if I do create new posts – Ancient Zen philosophy of “Who Gives a Fuck”, remember? It’s simply a matter of timing – and now is not the right time.

If this depresses you as much as it depresses me, don’t reach for that katana to honour-kill yourself just yet – like exercise for the fat and hair extensions for the bald and cyanide for the Liverpool supporters, there is hope. Simply cast your eyes to the left of your screen and click the button that reads “Follow”. This way, you’ll be automatically updated via email when I decide to once again unleash my awesome wrath upon society. Easy, right? Isn’t technology great? What will they come up with next – robot bees? Seat-less bikes? Dragon dongs? The possibilities are endless.

So yeah, that’s the deal. A crap one, no doubt, but one with a zarconium lining nonetheless. I’d like to extend my deepest thanks to all of you readers once more. Who knows – maybe one day this humble blog might have Penguins and Puffins and Emus on my doorstep begging for my writing to be published full force, which may mean much money and fame – ladies…

Until then, it’s been a slice.

Unfaithfully Yours,

© 2012-2013 All Rights Reserved

Consider the Lobster

Posted: October 3, 2012 in MiB Hates Us All

Consider the Lobster. A relatively large marine crustacean, most often depicted as red in cartoons and the like, a creature with five pairs of legs which include two large pincers, mostly bilaterally symmetrical and often considered rather stupid. An unassuming, unremarkable creature for the most part. Except for the fact that it tastes so damn good.

O, the lobster, a delectable delicacy, highly prized as seafood, economically important and also prepared for the gullets of humans by being boiled alive. Yes, we humans in our wanderlust to simultaneously fulfil our hedonism and cause as much harm whilst doing it are not simply content with eating the unborn living of fish and fowl. Nay, we have decided that the best way to eat this creature is to boil it alive until its flesh is tender and up to cookbook standards for our consumption. Not only are we not satisfied that we are killing the damn thing and eating its innards, we must ensure that the lobster knows that we are its Overlords and that it has displeased us and that it will therefore be boiled alive and consumed mercilessly. Either that or we did so because it had a really nice tail.

But hey, I don’t blame you. I love lobster. It’s like prawns on steroids, only better. And who’s to say that lobsters and crustaceans and other living creatures feel pain, anyway? Well… lobster lovers love their lobster so much that they have actively commissioned scientists to determine whether the lobster and its brethren actually feel pain (when being harmed). In what must be conclusive proof that marine biologists have completely run out of things to do ever since Stephen Hillenburg created SpongeBob SquarePants, these scholars of the sea have conducted much research into actively injuring crustaceans by rubbing sodium hydroxide and acetic acid onto the antennae of prawns. And then, you know, straight up stabbing them. After which they administered the unfortunate impalees some painkillers and an order to call them in the morning. Yes, this is what the pursuit of knowledge has come to: harming living creatures to see if they can feel pain – just so we know before eating them anyway. The crustaceans did feel pain, by the way. In other news, the Sun is a star and Liverpool suck and 1 + 1 = 2.

The reason I decided to impart my wise and wonderful opinion on such an obscure but very socially relevant topic is that this notion of lobsters being boiled alive for optimum consumption seems… a little harsh, don’t you think? Even by Osama’s standards. Too soon? Fine, Hitler’s standards then. It speaks volumes about our current status as a social species, what with all the people crying and dying and all the people making them cry and die and all the people stopping the crying and dying and all the people saying “That’s a very bad thing that you are doing. You should stop that. Oh no, I won’t stop you, cause I’ve got… a thing. But still. Bad oppressors. Go sit in the corner”.

But wait, you say, those are the people in power. Those are the people with power. They are the ones that are doing… things, but I don’t oppress anyone. Sure, I might enjoy a little “choke and stroke” every once in a while, but I will never intentionally harm another animal, let alone a lobster.

Yeah, but you see, that’s where the plight of the lobster comes in. Lobster-eater or not, it’s a metaphor for our social programming. You don’t care about the lobster, because it’s a lobster. Let’s put this in the context of school. Think about the lady that cleans up the classroom every day after the students leave. If she dropped dead at this instance, would you care? Probably not – because in our minds, she is the Person That Makes The Classroom Clean. She exists outside of our social circle, our LobsterSphere (I call dibs on this term), so to us, she’s not really a person. She doesn’t really exist. And the same thing with her LobsterSphere: if you dropped dead right now whilst reading this (which is the best way to die), she wouldn’t give a damn. Neither would anyone in China or Burma or anyone else whose LobsterSphere you do not inhabit. But if someone within your LobsterSphere died, such as your mother or father or Thai pot-dealer, you sure as hell would care. You’d care a lot.

Those who exist outside of our LobsterSpheres are not people to us. They are humans, sure, but we don’t really know or care about them and they about us. We each have a certain amount of people, a core-group, whom we do care about. Ten people, maybe twenty. That’s all we can manage. Think about it this way – which would affect you more: 60’000 people dying in a tsunami in Indonesia, or your mother dying at home? Logic says that 60’000 deaths are worse than 1 death. 60’000 times worse, to be exact. But logic falls to pieces when you enter the LobsterSphere.

But enough philosophy; let’s get back to the lobster. In light of all of this, at the basest level, this shows that in order for us to enjoy quality marine meat, we have to torture the poor beast in the process of preparing it. Now that’s just sick…

Hey, I’m all for meat-eaters and meat-eating. I love meat. One of my favourite sayings is by Tom Snyder: “If we’re not supposed to eat animals, how come they’re made out of meat?” Classic stuff. Right up there with “Eating ain’t cheating” and “Sucking ain’t f…”, well, you get the idea. But I just thought that as human beings, who are known amongst man and beast for our humanity, we might just show a little more respect for lobsters and their lobsterity... I don’t know. Who cares? At the end of the day, it’s just a fucking lobster.

[The title for this post was gleaned from the David Foster Wallace essay of the same name. I thought it sounded unusual, so I “borrowed” it – and although I haven’t read his essay, I’m sure it’s very good. Almost as good as this one. The LobsterSphere concept was greatly inspired by David Wong and his work. Right. I think I’ve covered everything. Copyright infringement can go lobster-stab itself]

© 2012-2013 All Rights Reserved