Archive for category Here’s Why I Dislike You So Much
Summer is just around the corner, which means a bunch of mindless automatons (often referred to derisively as Americans) will be burning their feet on scorching hot sand and wallowing in polluted, filthy water in order to have what the kids today call “fun”. The hotter it gets, the more people crowd into these mini-hells in order to soak up as much skin cancer as they can. Beaches are like giant moron magnets.
The beach is the single worst place in the world. Every last one of them. When I was a kid, we’d occasionally go to Jones Beach. If you got there by about 5 AM, you’d be one of the lucky people who go to get into Beach 6. It was everyone’s favorite because it was a short walk to the water. If you were any later than that, you’d stumble through a stretch of land resembling the Gobi Desert in order to have the rare treat of spending the day rolling around in dirt and washing it off with salt. I still swear I once saw a Jawa buying an ice cream sandwich from a vendor somewhere around the 11-mile mark of Beach 1.
If I wanted something a little closer to home, there was always Glen Island, made famous for its rare ability to attract used syringes, putrefied squirrel carcasses, tires and tennis balls. Demotion Hammer fans probably know what I’m talking about because I believe the song “Infectious Hospital Waste” was inspired by a trip there.
Of course, there was always Orchard Beach, a vile place that always smelled vaguely like horse vomit and Muscatel. Orchard Beach had a lovely, post-apocalyptic type ambiance that always made me feel like I was on the set of one of the Mad Max films.
What amazes me is the willingness people have to spend gobs of money to plunk themselves down in the middle of some miserable tourist trap surrounded by screaming children, drunken college students and kvetching adults under terribly uncomfortable conditions in order to what…relax???
Fork over hundreds of dollars to get on a crowded plane next and sit six centimeters from some chronic halitosis sufferer. In order to fork over hundreds more to stay in a shoebox sized room with LeRoy Nieman paintings and HBO. In order to burn your skin to the point where it peels off of your body. In order to take selfies that no one except for stalkers and the NSA care to see. In order to find what passes for happiness in this sick, decaying world of ours. In order to dream the same futile, ridiculous dream for 50 more weeks until you can repeat the unpleasantness again if you don’t drop dead first.
But, hell, who am I to ruin someone else’s obscene, twisted fantasy? You want to be a lobster colored version of Walter Mitty? Go ahead. You like the sensations of hot filth and wet slime all over your body? Have at it. You want to pass off discomfort as joy and feculence as beauty? Be my guest. Only don’t talk to me about it. As a matter of fact, just don’t talk to me. Not until winter anyway.
In my ongoing refusal to take any “enlightened” debate about American culture seriously, I’ve been working on ways to extricate myself from discussing American Sniper with anyone.
The trick is to say something so outrageous that the person who has sucked you into the discussion will dismiss you as being completely insane or will simply have nowhere to go with the conversation. They will then awkwardly switch topics and begin frantically discussing the weather or the inflation level of the average NFL football.
Often, if done correctly, the person will simply move on to hassle someone else, repeating the same canned, hackneyed monologue about how people today hate good old fashion American heroism or how George W. Bush is about as smart as a bag of kidney stones.
You will have done the only thing that a sane person can do to survive the onslaught of the only product this nation is capable of producing anymore…useless, illogical opinions. Then, you can devote to focusing your mental energy on truly important questions, like who will play drums on the next Megadeth record.
Feel free to use these:
“People say that American Sniper guy was an evil guy and a killer and whatnot, but personally, I think his clown paintings are beautiful.”
“You think being a marine sniper is stressful! You should try coaching high school basketball.”
“Speaking of American Sniper, have you ever seen Gigli?”
“You know, if guns were illegal in Iraq, none of this would have ever happened.”
“You could tell when you were watching Bradley Cooper in that A-Team movie a few years back that he was an actor cut out to make important films.”
“They should make a movie about a hipster sniper. He could carry a ferret with him at all times and hum MGMT songs while he shoots people.”
“American Sniper is probably Leni Reifenstahl’s greatest film!”
“Did you catch the Jessie Ventura cameo?”
“Do you think Clint Eastwood is ever going to do another film with that orangutan?”
“Wouldn’t it have been awesome if Clint Eastwood made the whole film exactly the same way, but instead of having Bradley Cooper play the sniper, he used the orangutan?”
“My only problem is the movie lacked diversity. Sure he killed 160 people, but they were pretty much all the same race.”
“The movie poignantly displays man’s quest to preserve his humanity in the face of having to make life or death decisions in the service of his nation. It speaks to the deepest and most powerful emotions a person can possibly experience. Have you played the Xbox version yet?”
“You want to talk about a talented sniper! I hear the sequel to American Sniper is going to be about a marine who hit a moving, guarded target with 2 shots from almost 3 football fields away in a building three stories up. The future of the Free World was in his hands and his performance was flawless. His aim was so good that, to this day, most people fail to believe he was capable of doing it alone.
His name was Lee Harvey Oswald.”
(thanks to R. Lee Ermey, Gustav Hasford and Stanley Kubrick on that last one)
In America today, guns are often confused as a symbol of masculinity and power. This misconception has been brought about through years of exposure to media images of powerful men with guns defeating Native Americans, Russians, Terrorists, and Orcs. People in this demented nation of ours spend millions upon millions of dollars a year that could actually be used to improve the lot of themselves and those around them in the faint hopes of appearing to be what they are not. But that is beside the point, because I’m not talking to them….I’m talking to you.
Yeah…you. Sitting there on your couch reading this right now. Not somebody else. Not the other guy. Don’t sit there thinking this is some abstract, philosophical exercise that you can remove yourself from while you sit back in judgment of some fictional, moronic cross-section of the American public. It’s not. I’m talking to you. Directly. I can see behind the absurd little lies you tell yourself in order help avoid the painful truth that you are the guy on the beach who gets sand kicked in his face by people like me. The reason you own a gun is because you are a weakling.
Sure, I’ve heard all of your arguments. “The Second Amendment says that I have the right to carry a gun.” You are hiding behind some document that some dudes in wigs wrote 2000 years ago. Everybody who owns a gun is a constitutional lawyer (except when it comes to, you know, the other 26 Amendments). Do you know how utterly hysterical it is to watch you switch from doing your Stallone impression to pretending to be James Madison? “Yeah, I’m a tough guy, but I got smarts too!” (read that last part in your best Fredo Coreleone voice) Put down your law books and we can see what’s up, Tough Guy.
“But, it’s just for hunting.” Sure. You bought that military grade A4 assault rifle that fires 80,000 rounds per second at Walmart so that you can stop a deer from trying to get away. Ah….yeah…that’s it. The truth is, you bought it because you know that if it ever came down to it, I would beat you like a rented mule. That little survivalist fantasy you keep conjuring up in your mind is simply a distraction from the simple truth that you are afraid to catch a beating from me.
I look at Wayne LaPierre, the little geek who runs the NRA, and my first thought is, “wouldn’t it be fun to push his face into a vat of french fry oil at my neighborhood McDonald’s”. If I had that guy in a room for 15 seconds, I’d have him singing the Soviet National Anthem and screaming “Obama in 2016”. Another one of those pasty, bloated old guys who think that having the ability to shoot up a room full of strangers makes people forget that he looks like 140 pounds of whimpering, soft serve ice cream. I’m right here, Tough Guy. Anytime you want. As much of a cowering little baby that LaPierre is, he’s not even half as sad as you are.
“Oh, but I need it to protect my family.” Way to hide behind your children, Ace. See, I’m not a threat to your family. Just you. You are scared that I’m going to drag you through the town square from the back of my Lincoln while all the kids laugh and throw rocks. The sheer volume of humiliation that I would heap upon you is why you’re up at 3 o’clock in the morning trying to figure out if it is legal in your state to own a bazooka.
“But, Obama is coming to get us!” Do you see how silly you sound? All these movies you watch cater to this depressing little fantasy that you are so powerful and cunning that the government actually cares about anything you do. Obama doesn’t care whether you have a gun or not. As a matter of fact, Obama doesn’t care about you at all. He lives in some insulated bubble in Washington, surrounded by hundreds of Secret Service agents, old rich people and really good chefs. Are you really so deluded as to believe that Obama would take a second out of his day to punish some coward sitting behind a computer keyboard typing nasty things about the Kardashian sisters on a Facebook thread? Obama is not your problem…I am.
Your little comedy act is over. Just remember, the next time you buy that copy of Guns and Ammo at the newsstand in order to show what a big man you are, I’ll be there. The next time you swagger out to the range to go kill a bunch of cardboard cutouts of Bin Laden, I’ll be there. And when you are sitting around the locker room pretending to be Mr. Expert, bragging to the fellas with all those fancy expressions like “muzzle breaks and recoil compensators”, so proud of yourself that you used the word “aught” in a sentence, I’ll be there too.
No matter how much you spend on weapons, no matter how many times you practice that thing that Clint Eastwood does with the side of his mouth in the mirror, no matter how many tough talking, pro-violence idiot politicians you support, you can’t avoid me. Don’t you see….I’m inside of you.
Chances are, if you own a dog, you have these notions in your head about how you love your pet or how it’s part of your family. You think of your dog as your companion. What you have to understand is that the reason you think this is that you are an awful human being. A total and complete monster. You are not completely ignorant of this fact, you just happen to be engaged in a gigantic game of pretend with the entirety of our culture. I’m not going to tell you not to feel bad about it either. You are guilty of a miserable, disgraceful thing and it’s about time that people start telling you the truth, instead of letting you dance around in that little bubble that you refer to as reality.
This strange dog fantasy you are experiencing has been nurtured by the fact that our culture tends to hide its greatest cruelties under a veneer of nostalgia and manufactured love. You turn on the television and there’s another dog bouncing around with respect and great reverence for its master. You look on a Hallmark card and there’s another stupid looking dog performing some humiliating show for your entertainment. Getting its nose caught in a cookie jar or cuddling with a kitten or accidentally tracking mud on the new carpet with an “aw shucks” type dog grin. AWWWW…look at that, the dog surrendered its dignity again. Don’t you just love when it demeans itself? Isn’t that cute?
Maybe you think back to when you were young and that special animal filled you with the warm feeling of home or family or some other absurd illusion. And maybe, just maybe, the dog really did love you, too. But I doubt it. Look at it from the dog’s point of view. Its entire way of life has been annihilated. It has no freedom. No self-determination. We’ve bred all of the characteristics and will out of it and turned it into a hollow shell into which we project memories and myth. You are its ticket to survival. Better put on a hell of a show.
To the loving owner, the dog is moving, highly symbolic furniture. They are a showpiece meant to express unspoken facets of the person’s identity. Kind of like a table. In truth, it is nothing more than sick product of an insane society that revels in debasing anything that cannot speak for itself. If dogs truly understood their lot, they would bite every human they came in contact with. Of course, if they did that, they’d be exterminated immediately. No opposition to our hegemonic pet fantasy can be tolerated!
I saw a bumper sticker the other day that indicated that you should neuter your dog so that you don’t have to euthanize a bunch of other dogs in the future. A big, goofy Labrador sat on the person’s front seat. That person probably thinks of themselves as a kind, loving pet owner. I imagine they have conned themselves into thinking that these two actions are the only possibilities. But, can we seriously consider anyone compassionate who thinks that castration or genocide are the only two conceivable actions when discussing a living creature?
Whether you treat your dog well is beside the point. Maybe you let him run around outside and give him treats all the time. Maybe you scratch her belly and heap upon her massive amounts of affection. Maybe you take care of him when he is sick. None of this matters. The autonomy of a living thing is all that means anything. It has been systematically stripped of that through decades upon decades of love and adoration. We have killed its spirit with kindness. You may love it, but it has never been given the honest choice to love you back. It cannot leave or dislike you without existential peril. It is not your pet; it is your captive.
Dogs are the ultimate nightmare scenario. Life without choice. Life without will. Being paraded on a leash. Being entirely controlled and objectified. Broken, not just as an individual animal, but also as a species. Our victory over dogs is so complete that they have become our culture’s mascot. Children laugh and pull on their tail. We dress it up in sweaters and cute little outfits to impress other people. We go so far as to delude ourselves into thinking that they are our “best friends”. But, they are not. Friendship requires mutual consent from both friends. The dog has never been given the option to consent. It has been given its place and it will stay there.