Italics Always Swing To The Right

Most people seem to draw inspiration from their surroundings, from the world, from their friends and acquaintances, but not I. I receive stimuli, but they hardly qualify as inspiration. In fact, going online and reading boneheaded drivel (which has become unavoidable these days on the so-called ‘net’) tends to put me in a bleak mood. Instantly. I try to avoid public forums, Youtube comments, and (most) blogs like the plague, but every once in a while I give in to my constant masochistic urges and, rather than self-flagellate with my homemade cat o’ nine, I browse away. These are the only times when I consider all-out nuclear holocaustic oblivion or indiscriminate genocide against the stupid as a potentially positive development for the human race. Reading the comments of the average ignorant, lazy, selfish, hateful piece of shit internet denizen makes me realize how meaningless opinions have become. As such, I can only conclude that everyone on this shit-hole planet is seventeen years-old. But god forbid if you deny someone their opinion. ‘It’s my OPINION, maaaan!’ Well big deal, asshole. Opinions are about as useful as the logic which informs their naissance (see, I’m like smart or something because I know more than one language and therefor my opinion, unlike yours, matters) and most peoples’ grasp of logic and the art of argument seems to extend no further than that of the average grade-school pupil. But perhaps I’m being too hard on the children. I have faith in the young. Well, I did before 75% of them became riddled with pharmaceuticals because their parents are too fucking lazy (or, in all fairness, overworked) to properly, uh, parent them. But Jesus Christ, let’s defend our wonderful culture until we’re blue in the face or low on ammunition — which ever happens first. I mean, who cares if we’re all hooked on legal drugs… look how cheap flat-screen TVs have become.

I’m successful. Don’t begrudge me my success. I love it. I have nice stuff in my nice house. I have a nice car. I have nice sex toys that I slick up with nice lubricant ordered online through successful businesses which assure me my anonymity, thus maintaining my facade of upstanding Conservative-party-contributing morality.

On my way across town, I cross paths with more than one acquaintance, but I have no time for these people anymore. I avert eye contact, I turn my back to them as I pass; dead to me, every last one of them. Who needs friends? The weak of mind and porous of body. And that’s not me. All I require is alcohol and professional sports — the true drugs of any right thinking conformist; like any good man of the age, I’m a shining example of humanity’s progress towards the evolutionary black hole of success.

I haven’t had a meaningful conversation with anyone other than myself since I was ten years old and I’ve never felt the pangs of love or the eventual heartbreak. I count myself lucky, but luck has nothing to do with it.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling saucy, I imagine my Lexus to be an Aston-Martin Virage. Oh, the fun I have. I sneer at pedestrians, flip them off, mouth ‘fuck you’ against the glass of my climate-controlled bubble and imagine what it would be like to shoot them all in the head with a gold-plated Desert Eagle and watch their brain matter atomize in a flume of glorious red and gray against a backdrop of golden morning sun. These are truly life’s little moments that we should all cherish.

What it comes down to is my simple hatred for mankind. Yet, I’m torn: the things I hate about humanity are the very same things that have allowed me to so easily and readily exploit my fellow bipeds. Sloth, stupidity, selfishness — and those are just the S’s. But I could go on all day about the worthlessness of the average human being and where’s the money in that? Nowhere to be found without an army of politico underlings to do my bidding and where’s the fun in that?

The trick is to accept this simple fact about the species (or, as I prefer, the speces – clever, no?) and move on, avoiding disease and filth as best one can. But learn what you can whilst among the rabble, among the poor. They’re so quaint, aren’t they? With their accents and their Wal-Mart footwear. Some of them weren’t even born here. Crazy world.

But it takes all kinds, and I take from all kinds.

Don’t begrudge me my success. That’d be mighty white of you… fuckface.

Fat Actor’s Lament

I see confused recognition in his eyes.

“You look familiar” he says, hand cupping chin, looking floorward. “TV! That show with that guy! You were, uh…”

Yes? Go on, say it. Oh, never mind — I’ll say it.

“I was the fat guy.”

“Yeah! You played the fat guy!”

No, I did not play the fat guy, I was the fat guy. There was no fat suit involved, no trick camera angles used to induce any illusions of excessive girth. No put-on accent required to trigger audience recognition. It was all me. Sure, I laughed and cried when needed, but my primary function was to fill the screen with flesh. It was easy.

Plus, I got to consort with attractive actresses, slap their asses and crack wise on exercise or lack thereof with no fear of reprisal; I was jolly and that makes up for a lot. The drugs didn’t hurt either.

But no, I did not play the fat guy. I was in character 24/7, but do not think of me as a method actor. My weight was not gained in service to my muse, I was genuinely helpless under the spell of deep-fried foods. My coworkers had the luxury of being able to shed their characters and become whomever they wished as soon as they stepped off set, be it fireman, speed skater or exotic dancer.

Not I.

I was still the fat guy. Fat guy at the liquor store, fat guy in the pool. Fat guy at the strip joint, fat guy at McDonald’s — well, not necessarily, but you see my point.

Being fat was never an act, but I got paid a tidy sum for my girth; I was thespian Kobe beef, but I favoured cocaine over HGH. Fatefully, but not fatally. In the end, it was my penchant for blow that destroyed my career, but not due to my behaviour or any other mood-related issue. The problem was, I lost weight - a lot of weight. Reduced to a chunk of unemployable chubbiness, I was no longer fat. I still had a bit of a gut, but nobody cared; I was no longer a spectacle.

Without my self-contained cloak of flesh, I was nothing. No one wanted me. Why pay a lousy actor of slightly above average weight to wear a fat suit when you can just get a new fat guy?

So I write. I started a publishing house which caters to Harlequin-style romance pulp with a military twist — Purple Prose and Purple Hearts, LLC. And it’s alright.

But lately, I’ve been putting on a few pounds. I go out late at night when sleep is a fantasy. I hit a couple of drive-thrus and scarf some burgers then go looking for photography studios, consumed with the notion of new head shots. I stare longingly at the pictures on display in the front window, fighting the glare of street light against glass, dreaming of that new day when I can again be undressed by the camera and ordered hither and thither in a state of joyous entertainment serfdom.

Bliss.

Then I fumble around for my waist and realize that there is not enough bacon in the world to make this so… and I weep softly, double cheeseburger crushed in fist, hiding my face and hurrying to my curbside conveyance lest anyone see this genuine display of emotion.

But I’ve been spotted by a drunk.

“Hey buddy, you look familiar.”