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| See -- that's the weird thing -- I found out you can in the wrongest, most painful way possible.
There I was, listening to the Benzerganian Brothers, Vitor and Demeter, describe how they were going to crack open the bones of their enemies and suck the sweet marrow dry before they fucked their children. How they would violate the children while they gargled the raw meat of the intestines of those who crossed him. How no child would go unfucked and how no part of the body would go undevoured. Even the bones would be ground into a fine powder and mixed with salt and garlic to garnish certain dishes.
In front of the diplomatic attache from the United Nations, no less.
And that's when it happened. I saw it. The slight widening of the eyes. The parting of the lips. The quickness of breath. The attache had fallen for the Benzerganians -- both of them. Simultaneously. One of her legs shifted slightly underneath her controlled business skirt. Her posture melted right out of dismissive. I watched as she fell helplessly and uncontrollably in love with the cannibalistic, paedophilial tyrants of this inconsequential eastern european hellhole. Both of them. Her gaze shifted from one to the other, adoringly, full of a powerful attraction.
So I shot her in the side of the head and told the Benzerganians I thought she was going for a gun. They were, like all dictators, living in a state of heightened paranoia, and so dismissed the entire incident.
Believe me, it was better her for that way. The love of the Benzerganians is far, far worse than their wrath.
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| So a few years back I'm drunk at a Cornell party, getting ripped, torn, and to' up. It happens. I was particularly bender-ish because of a rather violent break-up (December is the month for that, it seems) and headed far out of visibility. My sheets weren't out in the wind, they were out in a goddamn hurricane.
My friend Paul, who is a special kind of douchetard, ends up showing me these pictures he took at this one orgy he was at. I was not terribly impressed, but Paul kept trying to get me to take one as he was spreading them around the party for purposes I can only imagine were exhibitionist, gloaty, and drunk. Plus Paul was just a bit of a fuckwipe who did retarded weird things in general...as all college students are. So I take one of the pictures to get him to shut up with the full intent of burning it later, perhaps in a voodoo ritual in the hope that he'd be one of the many to succumb to Cornell's intense suicide statistic.
However, before I do this, I end up drunkenly slipping outside on the ice, cracking myself a good one on the side of a bridge, and getting hauled off to the hospital for what turned out to be a rather gruesome concussion. I end up in the Tompkins-whatsis hospital, in a big bad blurry haze stuck in some random room with -- of all people, one of my sociology professors and some random dude. My sociology teacher, Professor Gheste, introduced himself as having ruptured his spleen or something godawful, and the fellow next to him was a Christian speaker from Patrick Henry who had come up for a debate with one of the Atheism Now! groups or whatever, who had also gotten some condition. As it was the holiday season, they were talking family, and soon they were showing me pictures of kids, wives, and Mister Patrick Henry won't shut up about how they're a blessing from the Lord and whatnot, and my head hurts, and I don't care to listen to sentimentality and what's quickly turning from "faith" into "creepy religious mania about blessings".
So, I reach into my pocket. Oh yes. Bring out the picture Paul had given me. I point to the girl recieving a rather vicious anal pounding and say that's my sister. The fellow recieving a team blowjob from some eyeliner-soaked girls was my uncle. My father and mother are the ones on the staircase who look like a contortionist's red room show. So on. Mister Patrick Henry has gone completely white and looks nearly like he's going to puke out his stomach lining and die -- and Prof Gheste is laughing crazy hard, as I continue to explain the deviancy and delight as if they were mine own relatives. As this goes on, the Professor laughs so hard, I notice he's bleeding again, as he's tore open all his sutures. Nurses arrive, there is a big huff, I'm transferred rooms, and so it goes, so it goes on.
This year, I'm sitting in my old room when my mother comes in and hands me a card that came in the mail; I open it up, and it's a Christmas/Get Well fusion card. Tacky; got a bear in a Santa costume on the front in a hospital bed with a thumbs up. And the inside reads.
"Dear Mister Vaccerelli;
Heard you were in town, just had to say;
thanks for keeping me in stitches, asshole.
Merry Christmas.
Professor Sophann Gheste"
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| Or something like that.
I wanted to weigh in on the DearRicky response entry; really not to propagate Ricky's endless drama machine (though it will function as that, but fuck it, all of god's chillun got shoes), but to attempt to stamp his rationality passport back to Self-Awareness Land, even as he intentionally and repeatedly throws said passports into the refuse bin and goes back to claiming he's refuted everyone and annihilated them and crushed them and whatnot. Big talk from a baby in a wheelchair, it seems, but that's a cheap shot and I'll try to keep those under control.
The basic stuff about Ricky doesn't bother me at all. The constant attempts to add pretty girls by cruising Xanga, the ridiculously soft-pedaled sappy entries about his deep enamourment with the psychology behind his love for women, (though if you pay attention, it's rarely his genuine love for the kind of women he describes, it's all about how it makes him feel, I'm just saying) which rationally leads anyone with enough brain cells to fire against each other to do the math and realize he's obviously a sad sack who wants women to pay attention to him but doesn't realize intelligent women can smell that ten entries away, even if they act charmed for the sake of pity. Little busted-up sick man in a chair wants to act like the pretty girls love him for his unblemished soul. It's cute, really. There's a lot of obvious nurse jokes to be made, like the -- right, trying to stay above that. But like I said, none of this really bothers me, there are a good chunk of guys doing a Jesus-y version of that on revelife, and idiots on datingish trying to sensitive their way into appreciation, and whatnot. It's not a new gimmick. Hell, it's not even a gimmick, it's a fucking antique.
I don't mind Ricky's flip-flopping about racism and racist humor and whatnot; whereas he can and will make racist statements for comedic effect and then make, for example, broadly ignorant claims of black culture in the name of Human Beings Are People Too (I mean, not knowing the general cultural difference between nigger and nigga? what the fuck, have you not actually talked to a black person in your goddamn life) and flip-flop back and forth from all of that, turning from the Defender of Righteousness to the slapstick, clownshoes, aw-shucks-guys-I'm-a-makin'-fun-of-Asians-and-I'm-Asian, I'm makin' Holocaust jokes to prove I don't hate Jews, which kind of fucking degrades any credibility, because it's all obviously him trying to have his self-righteous cake and eat it too, after yelling at the frosting for being insensitive. I do find it weird that a man who isn't black who gets so defensive on any topic of race would deliver such scathing commentary towards the minutiae of black culture, if he's not demonstrating some racism himself. If he felt it necessary to devote the time to criticize all black people who say "nigga" and state they are all self-loathing racist idiots, surely he must have been prepared to face a bit of argument on the topic, but instead there's no penetrating that babyfaced illogical exterior and his seemingly willfully misinformed offensively racist idealogy! No, in fact, arguing with him just proves that you're racist, or self-loathing, or an idiot. Just like black people who say nigga. Crazy!
Maybe I'm getting it all wrong, though. After all, he always states at the end of his entries he's incredibly right and there's no point arguing since he's smarter and more capable of writing in big letters than the rest of us. While typically he's full of so many straw men arguments that the Wizard of Oz would have to put in for a class action requisition just to get that many brains, and mostly it seems like he's gone deep-end all-caps madness wherein he just end up screaming out a din of repetitive anti-rape, anti-racism, anti-whatever-he-thinks-girls-will-like-more statements rather than forming any clarifications beyond unrepressed bile, who knows? I'm stupid, according to him. I can't make a damned claim otherwise. Apparently I comprimised my values to write that entry baiting him, though he obviously missed the point of the entry by a few state forests worth of trees.
But ultimately, it's not the obvious needy-for-the-ladies-to-like-him flaws, the drama-seeking behavior, the annoying tunnel-vision arguments on god knows how many topics, but moreso the fact is...he's so fucking disinteresting now. When I first encountered DearRicky, he had a couple of funny entries up. A couple retarded ones, but I mean, shit, this is Xanga, we've all got a few retarded entries scattered between the good stuff. No, he could actually write funny stuff, rather than post the same old baby pictures with loud unfunny captions inbetween being Shouty McWheelchair Man & The Crazy Thought Control Agenda. No, I'm just kind of pissed that someone who proved he was capable of once in awhile producing the occasional good momentary chuckle is now reduced to accusing people of being parisites and haters, make hilarious statements like "I don’t require justification to validate myself when I already am", and formulating illogical, poorly argued repetitions of the same strong retaliation after strong retaliation which -- here's the kicker -- will, eventually, alienate all of the softhearted idiot girls he so strongly seeks to engender an attraction to him and his beautiful, wonderful, righteous soul and his crusade to scourge the entire world of anything who could hurt these delicate girls he adores so much.
Meh.
So, anyway, there's my thoughts. Ricky, you're a shithead, and I'm glad I spend less time arguing with internet folks over nothing and out in the real world having fun, getting laid, and getting my walk on. Oh, snap. Yeah, that was a cheap shot. A real cheap shot. The kind of cheap shot a vile, assholish reprobate with no redeeming values would make.
But then, I never claimed to be a nice man.
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| "Steve!"
"Whoa, voices in my head. Shit. I'm schizo now. Fuck. I had my whole life ahead of me."
"Steve, this is God."
"Great, schizo delusions. Now I'm really fucked."
"No, really, Steve, this is God."
"Are you going to tell me all women are whores and I should kill them?"
"No, no, I've played that out, Steve."
"Then...uh...what?"
"Steve, I need you to build an ark."
"...seriously?"
"You think God jokes about ark-building, Steve?"
"Stop saying my name so much, it's creeping me out. And I thought you didn't put on repeat performances."
"It's not a repeat performance, I'm just...revisiting the classics."
"Well. What kind of ark?"
"Steve. Stop humoring me because you think I'm a delusion and you need pills."
"Think of it this way, o Lord; long family history of mental illness, and I'm about at the right age for manifestation..."
"This is a manifestation, Steven. Of the Holy Spirit. I am that I am."
"Don't you have any new bits there, Popeye?"
"Look, I created the known universe. You're not supposed to give your Creator lip when he charges you with a holy mission."
"Or what? You'll smite me? I just lost my job. Wait. Was that you?!"
"Kind of. I need you free up on time to build the ark."
"You son of a bitch!"
"Look, you were going to get fired in two years anyway after you were falsely accused of embezzlement. I saved you a lengthy trial that ruined your career. I'm a benevolent God."
"I...shit, the predestination paradoxes."
"Don't overthink it. I hate when people do that."
"I'll bet. So what's the ark instructions? What am I supposed to do?"
"I haven't really thought this through, honestly."
"...what?"
"Yeah, it's been a long week up here in Heaven...just felt like screwing with someone. Gotcha."
"...what?!"
"Yeah, I'm not God. Just a minor seraph. The name's Cahethal. I'm the angel of agriculture."
"The...the angel of agriculture?"
"It's a boring job. Why do you think I'm slumming out and using the God-line to communicate with mortals?"
"So you were just fucking with me."
"Yeah. Gotcha!"
"Well...if you're on the line, can I ask you some questions? I mean, some of the real questions."
"Sure. I got a few. Lay it on me, Steve."
"I've only got two questions. The first one, is what really happened in the Garden of Eden?"
"Wasn't an apple or a tree. Turns out it was God's favorite pig. The Serpent of the Sun instilled in Adamu and his wife a desire for bacon. No lie. So Havvah suggested they catch it and cook it, and Adamu chopped down God's favorite tree and cooked the pig. God was pissed. I think the chopping down of the tree is where someone got confused and messed up the whole story. Tree, then apples...you know how it is, telling stories, word of mouth, all gets cocked-up."
"...really? Holy shit."
"Yeah, there's a lot of mix-ups. My favorite? Thomas the apostle's real name was Argeiphontes. His mother gave him a Greek name for his swiftness. He loved running as a kid. He re-incarnated as a track player, recently, I believe. Still. I guess "doubting Argeiphontes" doesn't have the same ring."
"Holy fuck, this is some weird shit. Blowing my mind here."
"What's your other question, Steve?"
"Well...what's it all about? I mean, the Great Big Why? Why people? Why thought? Why free will? Why all the wars and pain and chaos and doubt?"
"Oh. You know, not that I don't like humans and all, but it's not about you. It's about teaching koalas to love again. Everything else is a by-product of that. Those koalas are stubborn, though. They're barely at the 'like you, like you' stage. Baby steps, it seems..."
"..."
"Anyway, I gotta get off the line; Raziel wants to call some TV psychics and give them aneurysms. Keep it real, Steve."
"...uh."
"How's it going, Steve?"
"Koalas."
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