Numbers are imported. So: I talked to Sheika for ninety-three minutes today on the phone. If I were to name one of the few people who're almost entirely on my wavelength she would pretty much be at the top of the list, even though I only participate in list making in dirty-passion-as-for-play and I would probably have to find a word to replace “wavelength”--since its associations destroy my stomach lining. The girl says stuff like, “I’ve been having these dreams about . . . .but that’s only because I’ve been doing a lot of speed again . . .” Why we synergize so well. How to explain? Here’s a shot in the wavelength dark: within the first three minutes of our conversation, we were discussing why, from time to time, it is difficult to masturbate.
At one point we laughed for a good five minutes over the happenings of the previous New Years we spent together in Calgary at the Green Fool’s masquerade ball, during which I nearly broke my nose because I stag-leaped into a glass wall some asshole had closed in the inner entrance, for some reason. The sad part was: I wasn’t even that drunk at that point, I just took my glasses off because they had fogged up entirely when I came inside to the heat from the cold smoking pit and I couldn’t see. The surreal part was when Sheika, wearing army pants and a tank-top, dragged me through the masked and sequined crowd, all the way into the one-person woman’s washroom and we proceeded to sit on the cold, concrete ground, laughing our asses off behind the closed door, while massive amounts of blood trailed from my nose onto, well, everything. It got even better when some of the sequined, female party goers that had been waiting for the washroom started to tap on the locked bathroom door while saying, “Is she all right?? There’s blood on the door.” And Sheika, barely breathing from laughter, opened the door, discretely poking her head out to say, “yes, she’s . . . .fine.” After slamming the door shut again she reported that there were “two perfectly parallel streams of blood" left by my two nostrils, from the door handle to the floor. She described these with her hands. We are both looking forward to this coming New Years.
I brought up one of the current Vice articles: The Vice Guide to Killing Your Parents. I reiterated for the millionth time that the perpetuation of political correctness is a hypocritical asslicking stronghold of the previous generation and it’s one of the main reasons why we’re so brainwashed into thinking we have no culture of our own. Sheika, dearest Sheika, responded with the following quote that I loved so much I just had to devote an entire paragraph to recording it: “Yeah. I mean, if I’m not doing something that’s shocking you, then I think I’m doing something wrong.”
And though I agree with most everything the article has to say, I still exist in an endless whirling pool of ironic subjectivity (to uhh self identify) and over extended metaphors that forever confuse the purpose and original intent of my everyday wardrobe so at the same time I also see the hypocrisy and inherent irony of the article’s existence/basic concept. Do I need to explain this? If you read this blog and need me to explain that particular concept to you then you probably shouldn’t be reading this at all. Not that I’m trying to be exclusive, I’m just telling you not to waste your time. Stop analysing me. Not that it can’t be done, it’s too easy to do, in fact, the thing is is that there’s just no point. Unless you are fucking me or have great aims to fuck me in the future. Then and only then should you waste your time in such a circular way. Trust me, it's worth it. I don't deal in entendres. & simmer, strike out.
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From the article, I specifically and most fully agreed with the following. Mostly because I dated the fuckwad I dated for three years and had living, constant, day-to-day proof of it all, point by point:
INFIDELITY
They started that whole “free love” thing because the men were really horny and wanted to put their dinks in everything. Then, for some reason, they got married—but they wanted to fuck more so they invented wife swapping and swinging. Or they just cheated. When you’re rich, spoiled, and horny, cheating isn’t even a question. It’s just what you do.
POSTMODERN CRITICAL THEORY
What the fuck do they teach in college these days anyway? Education used to be about science and math and, if you were feeling really artsy, maybe English. Then the boomers got into Marx and Che and being a fucking loser and now it’s all about new math and critical theory, which is really all about making up a fancy new language that makes everyone who didn’t go to college feel dumb.
Back when boomers were in college, engineers were literally harassed by potential employers in the hallway. Even people with English degrees could start at $65K editing memos. Today a college degree means less than a high school degree did 20 years ago. No wonder. College is a joke.
One time I was in school and we were talking about Hemingway and The Sun Also Rises and I go, “But I just read an interview with him about that book and he said he didn’t intend that at all. He said the book was about how boring and shallow that whole scene was,” and the professor says, get this, “It doesn’t matter what the author thought. Our analysis goes through the author.” What? Now Hemingway doesn’t know shit about Hemingway? Another professor we had was literally the head of the Canadian Communist Party and he told us that it was OK to have an abortion, are you ready for this? “Up until a year after the baby is born.” Apparently monkeys have more human characteristics than 11-month old-babies, ergo the babies aren’t really human so fuck it—kill them. The fact that humans are human didn’t seem to be a factor.
College today is little more than a boomer soapbox. Interest in math and engineering has plummeted so far since the 70s that we’re now on equal footing with Eastern European losers like Lithuania. Shit, the only people we’re still beating are South Africa and Cyprus.
JACK NICHOLSON
Where Something’s Gotta Give sums up what the boomers think of themselves today, Five Easy Pieces shows us where they got it. This is the movie where Jack Nicholson is a cool working-class tough guy who’s secretly posh and can play piano real well. This is what they’re all about. Boomers are rich white college kids that hate rich white people and wish everyone was down with the oppressed. The really revealing thing about this movie is the tangent it goes off on following Nicholson’s libido. This is what they really care about—their genitals. Like all shameless and greedy idiots, the hero wants to fuck the pretty girl and ignores the fact that she’s his brother’s wife. She doesn’t seem to care either. They never do. Just like that other movie he did a year later with Art Garfunkel where they are both secretly fucking Candice Bergen. Shit, all boomer movies are about infidelity. Look at Woody Allen. It’s just a bunch of pathetic old pieces of shit intellectualizing the fact that they want to fuck everyone and can’t deal with the consequences.
MARX
Last year we told you how the German Marxists taught boomers to yell “Nazi” and “racist” anytime they’re losing an argument but do you know why they were so easily brainwashed by this Marxist propaganda? Because it made their parents really fucking angry. The pre-boomer generation were covered in blisters from digging and scraping their way out of the working class and understandably went ballistic when their affluent and unemployed offspring told them what it is the working man goes through. No spoiled brat can resist making steam come out of his father’s ears, hence an entire generation of incredibly wealthy capitalists teaching the world the merits of socialism. As Andy Milonakis says, “You gotta be rich to hate money.” Of course to dare to point this out means you are secretly in cahoots with Republicans. No, we hate you both equally. The Left is too stupid and the Right is too uptight. Today there is no difference between neocons and liberals. They are all one thing: baby boomers.