Sunday, January 28, 2007

Followup: Those cheeky British

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The nice thing about living in postmodern America is the people you meet. I see from my Web statistics that someone from Basildon, England, has stumbled across this Web site. That never would have happened in regular old modern times.

How did I end up on a computer screen half a world away?

I came up in a Google search. The query: "defecate for revenge."

Gor blimey! Who am I supposed to be embarrassed for here?

Besides taking a steaming dump on people's stuff, here are other things people in Basildon, England, often do for fun, courtesy of Wikipedia:

• Go to the Festival Leisure Park ("located in the north of Basildon. ... affectionately known locally as Bas Vegas.")

• Eat at T.G.I. Friday's/Chili's/Pizza Hut

• Ride the bus to various places ("Buses provide a local form of public transport and also connect Basildon to nearby towns that are difficult to reach by rail, for example Billericay and Chelmsford")

• And lots and lots of other things not immediately apparent!

Friday, January 19, 2007

Instruction: Public soiling for purposes of vengeance

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Motive: You have been wronged. You crave revenge.

Plan: You need a simple method of depositing a quantity of your shit somewhere public so the person who wronged you can find it, know it's yours, and be stunned into some mixture of revulsion, embarrassment, regret, impotent rage, begrudging respect.

Step 1. Understand something: Once you defecate on someone's property as revenge, there's probably no going back. In terms of casual, non-lethal vengeance, that's pretty much it. And it's not a thing worth doing if you crap at home or somewhere private and then tote the shit in a hidden bag to the public place and leave it there. It's cowardly. You will only feel better about yourself if you go directly and fruitfully on the person's property. Benefit: It usually gets your point across. and a public revenge-soiling often caps any further discussion or reply. Concerns: Any escalation beyond this level is officially Out Of Hand. You might want to weigh other options beforehand or what have you.

Step 2. Right, so now that you've decided to soil someone's property to revenge yourself, keep this plan on the QT, for Chrissakes. Resist the urge to brag to friends or strangers about how you're going to take a shit on somebody's car or van or at their place of work, or threaten the one being revenged upon with having their stuff be publicly defecated on. It's the same reason why magicians don't explain that in a few minutes they're going to do this cool trick where they make the lady in the sequined bodice appear to levitate using a hidden bar. They just do it, the audience goes with it, and everyone ends up happy.

Step 3. Pick your target. Home? Office? Vehicle? Is there a particular location with shared history and gravity and import vis a vis your desire for revenge? Is there a certain object you think would be worthwhile to receive the full or at least partial brunt of your displeasure? If this object's not already where you want it, is it liftable? Note also: you can use metaphors. Like, let's say you want to shit on someone's piano, but you also want to shit on his front porch. If you can reasonably move his piano to the front porch and shit on both there, go ahead. But more likely it's piano or front porch. You could shit on his piano and leave a note near the shit saying, "Imagine this on your front porch." That'd work, I guess. Or you could simply shit on the front porch on top of a sheaf of piano sheet music or a little toy piano and hope the full meaning carries the resonance you're going for or whatever.

Step 4. Calculate very carefully when you'd like to revenge yourself. I'm talking time of day, date, with or without him/her around. Mostly, you'll want to do this kind of thing by yourself, so it's a surprise. So you'll have to know his/her habits. Calculate wrong and you risk exposure. Unless that's your thing. That could be part and parcel of the whole deal. In that case, extra points if the person being revenged upon actually sees you doing it. More extra points if you stare him down at the time.

Step 5. Do you have the time and place and objects all squared away? Double-check your work, then check it again. You're still well into bail-out territory.

Step 6. Eat. Be creative.

Step 7. Proceed to the place where you intend to divest yourself of your harsh feelings at the time you've calculated. Then be honest with yourself about how good your aim is, make the necessary adjustments, and gauge your target. Obviously, I'm skipping the step where you make sure you actually have to shit. If your plan has made it this far, that should be pretty goddam well understood. Why the hell would you approach your target with the full intention of unburdening yourself of a heap of smoldering rage if you don't really have to go? The human body just doesn't work that way—it's not like giving a urine sample, where the pump's always primed. Trust me. You're going to be very embarrassed if you show up at his office after dark, pick the lock, place that kitten calendar of his on the desk, squat over it, and, so to speak, the mission gets scrubbed for lack of funding. You go home feeling pretty small. Even worse, imagine if you get ballsy about it and say, "That's it, Ryan—here's what I think of your stupid kitten calendar," and right then and there unbutton your jeans and attempt a spur-of-the-moment revenge-defecation, except you don't really have to go, and you end up staring at his jowly, horrified face with your pants down while you try desperately to make something happen. All red in the face. Veins sticking out in your neck. Like you're wringing out the last bead from a gnarled, six-month-old tube of toothpaste. That's not only embarrassing—it's bad for your health, forcing like that. Ask any doctor. And never mind not actually shitting. It's almost worse, I'd guess, if you manage to eke out a tiny nugget. It's like, why did you even bother? Why go to the trouble if that's all you can manage? All that foofaraw for that? Pathetic.

Thursday, January 04, 2007

I do not take, nor have I ever taken, shit from The Establishment

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People have wondered where I've been lately.

I've been busy not taking any shit from The Man.

It takes up much of my day.

First, I have to wake up whenever I goddam well feel like waking up. I have my alarm set for the crack of Fuck You o'clock. Then I have to piss in The Man's corn flakes. Just to get that tight-ass riled up first thing in the morning. I often find, while I'm chuckling to myself over breakfast, that The Man has pissed in my corn flakes, too, just by being around and trying to get me to conform to his rules.

I dump the corn flakes, as I said, if I poke through and find the milk's a little yellowish, and I make a new bowl, and I eat the corn flakes with a dessert spoon, not a soup spoon, because I can't stand Society telling me what utensil I have to eat my corn flakes with.

Then my wife and I sit and talk about what we're going to do that day, whether it's shopping or making a chicken or whatever.

Sometimes I do some light cleaning, sometimes not. If I feel like it, not before. I'm not going to let The Establishment tell me when the tub needs scrubbing. I decide that, based on my own rules. And you know what? There are no rules.

I've been a little lax on the cleaning lately. So what? Dog takes a crap on the sisal rug, I'm supposed to get rid of it? Who says? You know how difficult it is to work moist dog crap out of sisal?

The Man would just love for me to sit there with a small handheld brush and a bucket of Pine-Sol and some paper towels, and then spend half a day letting it dry instead of using that time to work on Dan. Getting some Quality Dan Time. Sure—I'm supposed to sprinkle it with baking soda like a chump and vacuum until the fibers are clean. When I want to, you killjoy, you leech. That's when I'll do it.

I try to carve out a few hours every day to stand outside on my lawn and give anybody passing by the finger. If nobody passes by, like if it's during the day when most of Society's sheep are at work or school learning how to be bourgeois robots, I'll give the finger and twirl in all directions like a sprinkler, to indicate the world at large. This coincides, on the odd day, with the mailman. If I'm fast enough, I'll take the mail from the box, wipe my ass with it, and try to hand it back. But most of the time he's a couple of houses away by the time I get the belt unbuckled.

My wife and I eat lunch in front of the TV. Sue me. I don't have cable, though. The cable company is where The Man lives, so I won't kowtow to his demands that I plug in like a goddam zombie into whatever sick mental oatmeal he wants me to watch. So we pop in a movie. Something about people who don't give a shit about Mr. Big's rules, like "Die Hard," or "Predator," or "Die Hard 3." John McClane and Dutch are the kings of not taking any bullshit from Society, and so they are OK in my book. But some days I feel like watching those kind of movies is just what The Establishment wants me to watch, so we'll switch it up with "Pride and Prejudice," the one from A&E, which is the best version out there.

There are other chores I have to do. Like I'll write out the bills. I'll take the check for the mortgage and not put my account number in the Memo field, just to be an asshole. Or—and I'd love to see the looks on their faces when they see it—I'll sign my name all sloppy. You want decent penmanship? Screw you. I utterly refuse.

I'll spend a couple of hours catching up on the day's news online, not because I care frig-all about what The Suits Of The World are up to, but because I need to recalibrate my Bullshit Detector by reading up on current events and such.

All this sticking it to The Elites takes a while, and before I know it I have to get ready for work. I don't like going, but I go because it's an opportunity to remind some more people how conforming to their expectations goes up my ass sideways. Plus, I get to remind them how trapped they are with this fake bullshit of Rules and Regulations that some faceless puppetmaster called Decent Society is imposing on their ability to be free. Like "The Matrix" before it got all sucky with the second and third ones.

Commuting home from work is where I really get The Man's panties in a hard, painful knot, when I rock out to the radio. If I feel like it. If not, there's NPR. But if I feel for whatever reason that I need to give The Man a purple nerple, I'll plug the iPod into my Toyota's stereo and treat Society with utter disdain by rocking. Anything with a distorted guitar works OK, as long as it's loud and the people making it aren't some Corporate Stooges. I.e., Aerosmith no, AC/DC yes.

It doesn't even have to be when you're driving. Like, if you're at home and you need to stick it to The Man in a hurry, because you're busy with errands or whatever, just crank the rock for a few minutes. Some Skynyrd or Motorhead. Ted Nugent. What have you. Squares hate that, and what squares hate I like because I hate squares.

But it's best when you're driving, because then you can wave your dick, metaphorically, at the speed limit and sing along with Journey or whatever as loudly as you want without the neighbors getting all bent out of shape and threatening to send The Cops over to put a stop to you when you're just trying to express yourself freely. So that's how I spend my commute from work, just barreling down the road when the sun's coming up, yelling, "That's right, Steve Perry—I won't stop believin'."

I won't ever stop believin'.

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