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.

Five Bad Smells

Or the Top Five Vilest Odours of All Time, if you’re into rankings (aside — my spell-checker is telling me that “Odour” is spelled incorrectly. There it goes again! Parentheses be damned! American imperialism strikes again! I don’t care).

So here it is. In the spirit of the Age and the pointless game show build-ups that seem to have so defined public discourse as of late, I present to you — in no particularly chronological order — a gratuitous helping of commercials!

Or not. Let’s just get into it.

Chicken Fat - I’m talking about the fluid that results from the roasting or frying of chicken. Well, not so much the fluid but the substance it becomes once cooled down, neither liquid nor solid — a blackish sort of burned-on sludge. In open air the smell is mildly unpleasant; not exactly something one would wish to rub beneath their underarms, but not gag inducing. When introduced into a medium of lukewarm, three-loads since dishpan water, however, this little trooper shines. Gradually the water has its effect on the surface of the fat-smeared frying pan, usually while you’re busy drying the previous load of dishes. Upon return to your sink-front post, the aroma comes wafting up from the surface of the brackish brew of soggy Kraft dinner effluent and frozen pizza sink sausage like the first whiff of freshly lit dogshit incense, pummeling your sense of smell, triggering the gag reflex. Sharp and moist, reminiscent of terminal foot odour, but kinda sweet too.

Foot Odour - Obvious perhaps, but a good belt of foot odour can upset even the most settled of stomachs. Despite this, foot odour is perhaps the most socially acceptable of human body aromas, the easiest to laugh off and crack wise about. Why? Feet are involved and feet are funny. What other part of our body do we constantly bring into contact with filth, guarded only by a thin layer of fabric and/or equally filthy footwear? Of course feet stink. They’re always working, always sweating. Constantly shedding dead skin, making their own gravy. Something to be beheld, really.

Deer Entrails - I have not had the pleasure of bearing witness to a deer gutting since I was a boy of twelve, so I’m not entirely sure whether the entrails were solely to blame. Perhaps it was the mere thought of being in contact with a living creature’s insides that made me blanch, but the image of my grandfather reaching inside and pulling the guts of the freshly killed deer through its gaping underbelly onto the dusty concrete of the barn floor put any future plans of mine to hunt in a similar state. I’ve cleaned and gutted fish before and since and those wily water breathers have got nothing on venison for pure stank in the guts department. The kind of smell that makes you weak in the knees unromantically, kicks you in the balls and then laughs.

Ass - Yes, ass smells. This is reflected in the existence of such expressions as “damn dude, that smells like ass!” It is not mere coincidence. You can wash your ass religiously, every hour on the hour even, but it will still stink. Sweaty, confined areas of the human body are impossible to render odourless, especially when they act as a corridor for waste. The French know this, hence the bidet. Us loutish North Americans, however, have no time to bathe our ass cracks in water. We merely take a few swipes with multi-ply tissue until it no longer feels as though the pan is being greased and call it a day. Back to work, burdened with a stank ass within the first few sweat-inducing steps across the office or work site. It’s also notable that someone else’s ass always smells worse than your own. Damn dude, that does smell like ass.

Burning Chicken Feathers - Maybe I’m over representing the noble chicken, but I’m not playing favorites, nor am I trying to infer that chickens are any more disgusting than any other animal, human or otherwise. Like deer entrails, the smell of chicken feathers being incinerated was etched onto my being during childhood and I have yet to shake it. Every year as summer drew to a close, my family would head to the Sussex flea market for three days of sun, rain, secondhand junk and the smell of burning chicken feathers. The flea market was held in a farmer’s field off the Trans-Canada, just outside Sussex, New Brunswick. Nearby, but out of sight, was a chicken processing plant. Every day before supper time, the remaining feathers of a day’s work would be burned up. This happened to coincide with the chicken barbeque on the flea market grounds, thus reminding everyone of what exactly they were feasting upon, chickens reunited with their feathers for a fleeting moment in the air currents above and the noses below. I don’t recall anyone actually getting sick, but if mustard gas is allegedly worse than a cloud of burned chicken feather particles then I’ll have to try it out first and get back to you. But I don’t buy it.