My Buddy Chad

When my fake editor came to me with the chance to conduct a fake interview with Nickelback frontman Chad Kroeger – noted pants-around-your-feet enthusiast and unapologetic photo-op horn-thrower – I jumped at it like a chicken on a dough dish. It was all set. We were to meet at a location within two square kilometers of my then-current position as determined by his record company in concert with a GPS and a microchip tracking device which had been implanted at the base of my neck 48 hours hence. I would receive a call on my fake cellphone telling me where to go.

It rings.

I pick up.

Mr. Williams? says the digitally obscured voice on the other end.

‘Yes, speaking.’

Please proceed directly to the American Eagle at the Pleasantview Mall. Mr. Kroeger will be browsing the sale rack. In the men’s section.

So off I tear, practicing my ‘proper dude’ behaviour on the way. Remember: ‘chicks’ not ‘women’, ‘fag’ not ‘individual whose sexual preference, perceived or actual, threatens my prevailing sense of self.’ What was I so worried about? How hard could it be to get along with, arguably, one of the coolest dudes on the face of the earth? Shit man, just keep it light, I told myself. Talk about how much you love the Light variants of Bud and Coors or how hard you laugh at the doggedly lazy, overextended-to-the-point-of-exhaustion, PCRH (pop culture referencing humour) of Seth MacFarlane. If neither of those work, just ramble on for an uncomfortably long period of time about how much you appreciate a borderline underage ‘chick’ who shows a lot of cleavage.

‘Big, bouncing jailbait boobies are awesome. The way they look under the stress lines of a tight t-shirt. The way they swing to and fro, the way those pesky little nipples protrude at the most inappropriate of times.’

It was all Chad Kroeger could talk about the first five minutes of our acquaintance and he was downright poetic.

‘Dude,’ he said, flipping from one pair of clearance-priced pre-stressed jeans to the next, ‘you know why I wanted to meet here? Shit man, take a look around — but be subtle. Sure, sure. Take it all in. There you go — yeah, you know what I’m talking about: tits and ass, son. T and A. And I know they’re not playing it up because they haven’t even noticed me yet. Right now they’re probably just thinking I’m just some trailer trash wannabe Chad Kroeger, and you know what? That’s just what I want. This way, I can check them out when their shirts sag open when they’re busy picking up the clothes I knock down — like this.’

He drops a pair of jeans, quickly scans for detection, then moves to the full-priced jeans wall with the agility of a cat, motioning me along behind him with a spastic hand of nicotine-stained fingers.

‘Honestly dude, I’d take this sort of tail over your average stripper any day of the week and twice on Wednesday — know what I mean?’

He laughs the hyperactive trill of an over-sugared eight-year-old, feigning interest in the premium pre-holed denims hanging prostate in front of his leering lips, licking fiendishly and snorting through his nose like a butane addict.

He’s crazy, this Chad Kroeger — crazy for the poon-tang.

‘Shit man,’ he says, ‘I’m just crazy for the poon-tang. Ya know?’

I do, and nod agreement in my best ‘dude’ nod of assent.

‘Fuckin’ A, son! Fuckin’ A. That’s what it’s all about. You know that line ‘I love your pants around your feet’? Man, that shit is autobiographical! You know, about me. I really do love chicks’ pants around their feet. That wasn’t just a line, eh. You know why? Cause when they’re around their feet, they’re not between me and the poon-tang. Am I right or am I right? Fuckin’ A, son!’

He drops another pair of jeans then slides to his right, doing a spin move that would make one think ‘Karl Malone who?’ to bring himself in line with the non-pants clearance rack. This guy has got serious moves on the low post of passive sexual harassment and he’s his own John Stockton. He thrusts his pelvis against the garish pastel uniformity of the knit garments, knocking several to the floor, leans back and shakes his mane with the proficiency of a fifth-year MacDonald’s fry cook before straightening up to let out a beastly bellow.

“Aiiiiooow!”

He might have just blown his cover, but he keeps at it, stutter-stepping towards the out-of-season clearance rack.

‘You’ve got to switch between the new shit and the sale stuff, man. Gets them moving through the aisles, plus it seems more, as the French say - naturale, to spread it around randomly. I’ve got it down to a science.’

The sales associates are starting to whisper among themselves, giggling and pointing in our direction.

I’m a bit star-struck — unexpectedly so, as I’ve let Kroeger control the interview to this point. Hell, I haven’t even asked a question, so this technically isn’t even an interview. So far, I’m just an accomplice to a voyeuristic pervert with a fetish for teenage flesh. We may need a change of venue, so I strike:

‘Uh, Mr. Kroeger, I think they may be on to us.’

He looks up, alarmed.

‘Shit dude, we gotta run. It may be all fun and games now, but this shit can get ugly. Let’s go! And call me Chad.’

He grabs me by the arm and we make haste towards the door, leaving a trail of downed merchandise and slack-jawed idiots in our wake. Chad’s mood seems to have taken a turn for the worse, though, as he puts the hood up on his garish Ed Hardy hoodie and burrows deep into the pockets of his stylist-approved leather jacket, hunching his shoulders and clearing his throat repeatedly.

“Fuck man, I need a huff.”

“You mean a puff?”

“Nah dude, huff. Gas or, as the French say, l’essence. It’s the essence alright — the essence of my fucking life force, son! Come on, this way. And fucking hurry.”

We turn down a corridor leading into the administrative bowels of the mall, passing beneath a sign emblazoned with bathroom symbols and past a security guard, to whom Chad gives a knowing wink. Stopping in front of the family washroom, Chad takes a furtive glance up the hall to make sure the coast is clear, then in we slip. He locks the door, regains his bearings, opens his jacket, pulls down the table normally used for the changing of diapers and produces a swollen, red hot water bottle from beneath his arm pit. Ingenious, this Chad Kroeger.

“Grab that garbage can.”

I do.

“Put it on the table.”

I do.

Marry me.

I would.

At this point he’s in full control, this Chad Kroeger, but I need an interview. My non-paying, imaginary job depends on it, but he’s busy pouring the contents of his hot water bottle into the waste basket. Gas fumes fill the room. His grin is back.

‘Aw yeah, that’s what it’s all about right there. Unleaded. Premium. Shit yeah! And you know, old school huffers are always going on about the good old days, leaded gas and all that horseshit, but you know what? Don’t believe it. I’ve tried both and there’s no difference at all. Both get you fucked the fuck up, son!’

He licks his lips, shakes his head then runs a quick lap around the room, almost knocking me over. Then he leans over the waste basket, pulling the edges of his hood down to form a crude seal and breathes deep, his back and shoulders heaving with exertion, pleasure, or both. After five or six pulls, he lifts his head and stumbles backward, slamming into the cinder block wall in a splash of leather and testosterone against institutional white. His eyes are glazed, the grin of the easily amused and freshly lobotomized splashed across his face.

‘Doooood… awwwwyah. Dooood…’

He slumps to the floor and starts giggling, gradually working his way into hysterics. Now is the time! I strike:

‘So Chad, where do you find inspiration for your words?’

‘…Dooood… Aye-ah find id in, uh, plaisches. Like uh… like uh.. in a gaz stayshun. Ride-uh?’

‘Right. Gas station. Got it. And how do you feel about critics who say you’re a misogynist?’

‘Mizzz… odge… in itso… that, uh, riiiice, uh?’

His gas-addled brain does not know the difference between a hater of women and an Italian rice dish. They’re not even remotely similar, really.

‘No, that’s risotto. A misogynist hates women. Do you hate women, Chad?’

‘No, uh, way…. man! I fuggin loves them. Or… I loves to fugg them, I mean. Fuggin A, sun!’

He laughs hysterically at this, triggering a coughing fit, gasping for breath, flailing his legs around like a demented puppet and slapping the industrial tile floor like your drunk uncle telling an off-colour joke at the family reunion. Chad struggles to his feet, straightens his jacket up and brushes off his jeans, regaining some semblance of normality before again leaning against the changing table, hovering over the waste basket, staring intently into its depths like a sex tourist through a coin-operated sex telescope.

‘I mean, really though. I love chicks. Ya know? And it burns my ass when these fucking assholes talk shit like that about me. Listen, I love chicks. I’ve gone out of my way to learn the names of almost every one I’ve banged over the past three weeks. This is the new Chad, son! I don’t write those ballads to get laid. Do you think I’d need to? Come on! I write them because that’s how I feel about stuff. You know? Like how I feel about, like, kids and family shit like that. Shit that matters.’

With this he leans into the waste basket again and draws heavily, sucking those fumes deep into the black, tar flecked recesses of his lungs. Then, a knock at the door. Chad looks up, fighting the blissful urge of crumbling oblivion, legs shaking, hands clawing at the changing table.

‘Dude’ he whispers, “what the fuck?”

‘I don’t know man, I don’t know who -

‘SECURITY! OPEN UP!’

‘Aw shit dude! Or as the French say, merde!‘

Chad’s eyes are wild, he stumbles back from the table, produces a lighter from his jacket and… whoosh. Everything goes black.

I wake up in a field with second degree burns and the taste of gasoline in my mouth, feeling as though I’ve been violated somehow. But it was all worth it. Aw yeah, dude. It was alll worth it!

Ed Hardy Designs: 8 Steps To Perfection

1. A herd of stray dogs are brought in off the street and force-fed a diet of Appetite For Destruction album art chased with cans of Budweiser, Big Macs and several bags of sequins.

2. The animals are funneled like pigs to the slaughter into a room the size of a small warehouse whose floor is covered with pre-fab handbags, bargain-bin hoodies, knock-off Chuck Taylors and various and sundry fabric swatches in every colour you could possibly think of… if all you can think of is black and white.

3. Interns armed with cattle prods then herd the dogs onto a giant carousel in the middle of the room and lock them into place with (extremely humane) restraints before retreating to the safety of the splatter shield.

4. A giant red switch marked ‘creativity’ is flipped and the dogs begin to spin… and spin and spin and spin, faster and faster, trying desperately to stay upright, slamming into one another, trying desperately to keep their meals down, but legs buckle, eyes widen and the tell-tale heaving of design™ begins in earnest.

5. The lead intern sees this and, being a trained professional with a fashion design diploma from an online ‘university’, slows the carousel down to the proper speed for maximum dispersion. This has been determined by someone smart by using math and stuff.

6. The dogs, spewing forth a glittery torrent of suburban parking-lot couture, earn their hypothetical paycheques, coating the textile tripe with that look so desired by the thirteen-year-old in us all. Or the small-town coke dealer in us all. Or the mid-life crisis, extreme sports poser in us all. Or the d-list celebrity in us all. Or the… well, I could go on for days, couldn’t I?

7. Their job done, the dogs are euthanized by being dropped one by one from an invisible sky hook into an (extremely humane) wood chipper as the fresh designs are dried by a jet engine running on the blood of innocents and the ground-up bones of former sweatshop kids before being swept into an adjacent room by a squad of spritely street urchins whistling a jaunty tune.

8. The merch is then pushed by a bulldozer into a string of shipping containers bound for the mythical land of retail and freedom where it will be marked up by ∞% and sold to you by some fashionably lazy, smarmy know-nothing hairdo with a television accent and more chemicals in their system than Lake Ontario.

Doing Coke With Billy Mays

Having produced a cut-off drinking straw from the pocket of his crisp blue shirt, Billy Mays smiles broadly at me through that insanely well-groomed beard, his pearly whites lending an otherworldly glow to the confines of the storage closet, throwing the mops, buckets and various cleaning products into a dignified relief normally reserved for furniture covered in velvet. Or leather. Or torn vinyl. How did it come to this? Five minutes previous, he had been bent over a pocket-sized mirror cutting a portion of his considerable stash into six decent sized lines, the smell of Oxi-Clean still heavy in the stuffy, damp air. I had watched in rapt awe as he sprayed a liberal amount of the wonder cleaner onto the surface of his mirror then polished it to a high sheen with a pocket-sized Zorbie, all the while lecturing me in booming tones on the superiority of Oxi-Clean in comparison to the sundry products scattered at my feet.

Here I am, about to ‘blow lines’ — as he calls it — with my hero, TV pitchman Billy Mays.

He puts the straw to his left nostril, bends to the mirror and hoovers up a line, then switches the straw to his right nostril and makes another disappear. Rubbing his nose and snuffling, he lifts his head, shaking it like a dog shedding water, then grabs me by the shoulders and screams,

“Hi! Billy Mays here with benzoylmethyl ecognine! It sounds classier when you call it by its chemical name!”

I grin and shrug, trying to look impressed.

“Here, do some. It’s good shit, man!”

He hands me the straw and grabs me by the back of the head. This is not what I had in mind when he asked me if I wanted to ‘party.’ I thought we were going to smoke a joint, but I guess that isn’t Billy’s style. I pry his hand away and take a step back from the battered card table. He’s grinning like a madman now, rubbing his face and chanting ‘Oxi-Clean, Oxi-Clean, OXI-CLEAN!’

“Okay, okay. Just calm down Billy-boy. I can do it myself.”

I’m going to have to if I plan on sticking around here and not committing murder. So, I bend to the mirror and do the deed. Billy is pleased. He celebrates with two more lines. Then the talk begins and Billy’s a natural. We cover everything from Voltaire’s anti-Turkism to whether the ‘27 Yankees are the most overrated team in baseball history to the merits of the female buttocks in a pair of tight jeans vs. a tight skirt. It goes well until I bring up Vince Offer. Billy bristles. His eyes redden a deeper shade of scarlet and he gnashes his teeth, grabbing me by the shoulders again.

“What did you just say!?”

“I said, what do you think of Vince Offer?”

I shrug his hands off and step back, but he comes at me again, grabbing at my shoulders, his hot, garlic breath forcing it’s way up my clogged nostrils. He’s pissed.

“You mean Vince ‘Heywood Jablowme’ Schlomi? That’s his real name, you know. Fucker. That little weasel. Thinks he can beat me at my own game. Me! I’m Billy fucking Mays! Who the hell is he? No one. Some limp-dicked hooker beater with shitty kitchen appliances and too much goddam hair product! Fuck Vince Schlomi! That’s what I think of Vince motherfucking Offer. Fuck him with a fucking Sham-wow wrapped in sandpaper!”

I shove him back and jump into a defensive stance, fists raised, ready for some Billy Mays action. Sure, he looks tough, but I’ve got a year and a half of kick-boxing under my belt and a headful of cocaine. So does he, but he’s 50 years-old. Maybe I should go easy on him. Maybe we should talk it out. God knows we’re both in a talking mood.

“Listen man, just calm down, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just curious. I mean, he’s the only other salesman anywhere near you as far as popularity goes. I mean, you guys are celebrities. Right? It wasn’t a value-based statement. I mean, it wasn’t judgmental. Hell, Billy, you’re my hero — not Vince Offer. I own a Zorbie, not a fucking Sham-wow. Okay? And when my oak toilet sheet loses its sheen, I’m reaching for the Orange-Glo. Right?”

He relaxes somewhat and the grin returns.

“Yeah man, I know, I know. Shit. Are you trying to wind me up? Cuz it’s working. But listen, me and Vince, right? We’re people, right? I’ve got fucking feelings, man. So does he. Probably. I didn’t ask to be no goddam celebrity, I just work hard at what I do. Which is really the only thing I know how to do. And I’m not a real celebrity. I’m not even on par with Octo-Mom. Listen, the most press I’ll ever get is when I fucking die or if I get caught with kiddie porn. That’s just how it is for a b-lister. Hell, I’m a c-lister on a good day. But you know what? Who cares? I’m filthy rich, I’ve got a huge house, a beautiful wife and more drugs than I could ever need. What else could anyone possibly want? Huh!? Tell me!”

I return his grin, wipe my brow and collapse to the bare cement floor, content in the fact that I’ve just had the one conversation I wanted to have before I die.

“Nothing Billy, nothing at all.”

Harper’s Island

I don’t watch much television lately: I only have one channel. Two if you count Radio-Canada, but I don’t since I only understand roughly 38% of what I hear on there and, luckily, my cognitive functions only respect the majority vote. So I watch Global, but let me be perfectly clear about this: I find their prime-time programming trite and boring, their everything-else programming to be garbage and, worse yet, their “local” news to be staffed with what appear to be Albertans, with their tacky Texas-lite fashion sense and honking, adenoidal accents. Plus, I can’t stand having to see Kevin Newman’s face every fifteen minutes. Peter Mansbridge, now that’s where it’s at (unless you happen to be Wendy Mesley). I never thought I’d miss the oft overwhelming smugness of the Mansbridge in full effect as much as I do — those dulcet tones breaking the news of horrible events, always delivered in the manner best suited to the material, always softening the blow with a certain je-ne-sais-baldness. But most of all, I miss the way he drawls out Geeeoooorrrgge Strombo’s name in that half-mocking, half-affectionate, all-hilarious nightly outro on the National. Say what you want about the Mansbridge, but these are all qualities sorely lacking in Kevin “Receding Hair Line” Newman. I’m sorry, but if you’re going to gain any respect in the world of primetime network journalism, you have to commit, son. None of this half-assed shit. Bald thyself now!

But where was I?

Global sucks, right, and I probably shouldn’t kick them while they’re down but I can’t help it. You see, they have a show called Harper’s Island. I’ve never watched this show, have absolutely (overused word? I think so) no idea what it’s about, nor any desire to change this. The thing is, I’ve gone about inventing my own story for Harper’s Island. It’s quite simple and it can play out in my head whenever I want, no mere slave to network programming, no more suckling at the teet of sponsors. Here’s the premise: Steve Harper, the casual, fictional version of Prime Minister Stephen Harper, owns an island. How? Well, he’s an economist. Those guys know shit about eekanahmix. Do you know how much money someone like that makes? I have no idea, but this one makes enough to own an island. It’s not a huge island, per se, but it’s big enough to make quite the entertaining spectacle of watching a bookish, socially awkward man hunt (mostly) innocent people with a high-powered rifle and anything else at his disposal. Ten lucky contestants – each week! Steve likes to keep busy, but it’s no walk in the park. For one, the island is haunted by the ghost of Chuck Cadman, who works to thwart Steve’s every move by appearing to the prey, warning them every time the soft blue menace settles in for a headshot. Then there’s the kidney stones: every time Steve makes a kill, he is bent double by crippling abdominal pain, leaving him prone to attack. Well, prone-er. Most of the contestants are invalids, former shut-ins and bad children. That’s right, KIDS! And you better smarten up or you’ll be making a trip to Uncle Steve’s island. Not that you won’t have a fighting chance. In the name of fair play, the prey are, shall we say, riled up a bit prior to their release into the wild. Get their blood pumping, a warm-up. A frenzy! The invalids are withheld their emotional and physical validation. The RC shut-ins are ruthlessly denied Mass For Shut-Ins while the non-RC shut-ins, who aren’t really bothered by this, are slapped around by hired goons. And the kids? Well, they get a glucose-fructose iv and a headfull of Sunset Yellow FCF. Then, just as the melee is reaching it’s violent apex, the doors are thrown open to the outside and everyone stops dead for exactly one second, a siren sounds, causing the havoc to resume, and four mounted RCMP in full regalia arrive to herd the prey into the forest with aid of sharpened-pool-cue lances. No tasers here, bro.

Then the fun begins.

Steve, a true connoisseur of the hunt, does not go for any Cheney-style turkey shoots. Granted, there’s always those four or five confused prey who end up milling around outside the compound walls after the Mounties leave — usually Maritimers looking for hand-outs, or at least that’s what Steve tells himself so he can sleep at night. They’re the first to go, plucked off one by one. Sometimes he does it from inside the compound, sniping from the roof under cover of dark with the aid of an infrared scope. Sometimes he lets Jason Kenney do it. Other times, when feeling like more of a man of the people, Steve’ll go outside and get up close and personal with a gold-plated Desert Eagle and a claw hammer. After that it’s into the woods, Steve’s very own Forest of Arden, but with a lot more killing and a lot less courtly love. This is no comedy of manners, people — this is a bloodbath! Harp — that’s what his friends call him, well, they’re actually the editorial staff of the National Post, but that’s the closest thing he has to friends — stalks his prey like a red-eyed beast whose blood runs Tory blue, like your mother’s horny, alcoholic divorcee friend stalks fresh meat at the local country bar on any given Wednesday through Saturday night. Like someone who really likes killing things and, boy, does he get some killing done. Even when the specter of Cadman shows up, Steve just throws an envelope of cash in his general direction, tells the ghost to eff off and continues on his way, shrugging through the flora and fauna, brushing burdocks from his sweater. Headshot here, child dashed on the rocks Piggie-style there. Then it’s back to the compound for milk, egg salad sandwiches and bible study.

Now that’s what I call TV!

You can have your Big Brother, your Deal or No Deal, or any other number of shows designed for halfwits. Me? I’ll take Harper’s Island. There are no winners, no losers and no annoying douchebag hosts. Nor is there any Mansbridge.

But I can deal with that. I can deal with that for Uncle Steve.

How Many MC’s?

‘How many MC’s must get dissed

before somebody says don’t <beep> with Chris?’

- KRS-One

Chris likes hip-hop. Chris loves hip-hop. He quotes the above passage, uncredited, twenty times a day. Like a verbal tic. Like some pathological mission statement. Until recently, most evenings would find the lad down the pub, busting his rhymes — well, his rhyme — to a less than appreciative crowd since, after all, knowledge reigns supreme over nearly everyone, with the emphasis on ‘nearly’ swaying personified in that of our dimwitted hero.

Too drunk to stand, he takes the mic. Rather, he tries to take the mic — every five minutes of every Wednesday night hip-hop extravaganza peopled mostly with university students too young to have ever heard Big Daddy Kane and people looking to have sex with university students too young to have ever heard Big Daddy Kane. Chris would count himself among the latter, although his rhyme scheme would lead one to believe that his preference for sexual partner would probably have to have a child or, at the very least, be with child.

Here he goes.

‘How many MC’s must get dissssed!?
before sumbuddy says dohn fuck wit Chrissss?
don’t fuck wit Chris motherfucker!
Leave you with a black eye motherfucker!
I’m a bad motherfucker, motherfucker!’

And so on, until he either falls off or gets dragged off stage, pitched unceremoniously to the wet floor fairly shining with broken glass and bodily fluids, his patterned hoodie soiled with the sheer joy of it all. He loves his hoodie. It makes him look like a meth dealer or a half-assed mall skater/snowboarder. Whatever, man. It’s his ‘fit. He wears it with pride. Ignorant pride. Suburban, WASP pride. The pride bestowed upon the idle and shiftless by well-heeled, well-intentioned but ultimately inept parentage. The sort of pride that gets one such as Chris through his twenties with little more to show for his ‘efforts’ than a string of misdemeanors, a couple of OD’s and a hangover that will last for the rest of life. But he’s got one hell of a home-remedy.

His folks love him.

‘He’s a good kid.’

He only beats his woman when he’s drunk, after all. Hell, he even held the same job for two whole years one time. Good kid, that. And he doesn’t smoke crack, just blows the occasional rail. If we can keep him away from serious trouble, we can reward all his hard work with a business of his very own. A retail operation of some kind, bankrolled with our savings. Until then maybe we can ship him off out West where there’s enough easy work and soft-ish drugs to keep him occupied for the next few years. The difficult years. Hell, times are tough. Right? Honey? Times are tough for kids these days. Our Chris, he’s a champ. He’s the best.

He’s not a rapist. He just likes rough sex. He’s not a loser, he just plays the wrong games. Hell, times are tough. It’s tough being an upper middle-class Caucasian. He’ll come around. God, I hope he does. We spent enough money on hockey gear and road trips and video games and sneakers and clothes and booze and cops and judges and lawyers and food. He owes us. The little fucker.

He owes us.

But still, he grabs that mic. Still, he spits those lyrics on a Wednesday night. Still, he beat a bitch ass when she get outta line. And he drinks and he yells and he bitches and he whines. He freaks it. Grabs the mic and cold tweaks it. Son. So you know you better run, cause when Chris is on the mic motherfuckers get done. And you know it. But still you can’t show it. He grabs that motherfucker and he stone cold owns it. Motherfucker. And if you got beef, you can go ahead and grind it, form it to a patty in a pan and cold fry it.

Bitch.

And I’m a get mad pissed,
but how many MC’s must get dissed?

Do It For The Children

Sit down, sit down. And how are you today? Great, that’s just great. Wonderful, even. Have a good weekend? Super, just super. Now, I just wanted to have a word with you about the management program you’ve shown interest in and maybe gauge where you’re at developmentally-speaking. We both know you’re a good worker, but there’s much more than hard work involved when it comes to management and I think you know what I’m talking about. Yes, two words.

Volunteer work.

Volunteering is a very important part of the culture here at SoulDestroyingMultinationalCorp, as you well know. We feel that taking an interest in the community is more than just a nice thing to do; here at SDMC, we see volunteering as a responsibility, a vital component of our brand image — an image, I might add, that has been polished to a high lustre by hundreds – no, millions – of hours of volunteer service by management and underli – er, teammates alike.

Now, you have made it well apparent through your work ethic that you are both a go-getter and a self-starter, a team player who values hard work, even harder currency, and knows how to kiss just the right amount of ass so as not to come off as an outright ass kisser. In other words, you, my friend, are management material. The only problem is, I do not see much volunteer history on your resume. No, sorry — serving coffee at union meetings does not count. In fact, doing anything union-related actually counts as negative volunteer hours, so you had best pipe down while you’re still ahead.

You see — and this is just between you and me — no one here actually gives a shit about the people on the receiving end of our bankable volunteer hours. I mean hey, look at me, I might donate flavour crystals and old floppy disks to the local English as a Second Language school but I’ve never lost any sleep over starving Africans. I mean really, Africa isn’t even a real country, is it? Certainly not. Sure, they might have a flag and an anthem, but… well, do they? I really don’t know — No no, don’t answer me; that was a rhetorical question. Anyways, where was I?

Right, volunteering. 

Volunteering sends a message. What message is that? No — stop trying to answer me. Do you want to be part of the management team or not? The message volunteering sends is this: “I am willing to work a few extra hours here and there without expectation of monetary compensation.” This is the most important message one can send if one wishes to be considered for the management team. Now, wait just a minute now – you wipe that smug look off your face. You think you’re better than me? I’ve given twenty years of my life — the best twenty years of my life, to this company. How long have you been here? A year and a half. Indeed! I bet you don’t even have a drinking problem yet. In fact, I’d be willing to bet you have a happy home life, a wife who loves you and children that don’t cringe at the mere mention of your name. Ha, I’m right, aren’t I? I bet you can even remember every moment from last weekend, no – every weekend from the past five years! I bet you’ve never even drank a quart of rum in five gulps and blacked out on the sofa for twelve hours when you were supposed to be watching your kids. Huh? Not so smug now, are you? Ha.

Now get back to your pod. I’m disappointed, but I’m not going to let you ruin my day. I just bought some new plexiglass polish for my twenty-year service cube and I want to try it out before I have to go to the airport. Yeah, that’s right: I’m volunteering tonight. The assistant VP of upper eastnorthwestern regional marketing and logistics, beta division – no, not like the VCR – is coming in for a sales-lead powwow and I get to pick him up, maybe grab a bite to eat, few drinks and, if it goes as well as last time, maybe squeeze in a massage later on. I’m getting quite good, you know. Upper management says I have the hands of a much younger man. I credit the booze. It’s a preservative, you know.

And once and for all, wipe that goddam smug look off your face!

Where There’s Smoke

“That’s not what I’m trying to say.”

“Seems obvious what you’ve trying to say. You hate firemen. You’re anti-fireman.”

“No no no, what I’m trying to say is that I’m anti-fire.”

“Same thing.”

“It isn’t even remotely the same thing. You don’t get it.”

“Oh I get it alright. What I don’t get is how you can stand there and call yourself an American and then slander our poor firemen. I don’t see you out there fighting, putting your life on the line for our nation.”

“All I said was that it’s too bad that a family of four was burned to death in their sleep. Fire is destructive, it kills indiscriminately. How can any sane person be pro-fire?”

“Destructive? Fire keeps me warm at night. Fire keeps my lights on. Fire puts food on the table. Fire keeps thousands of firemen gainfully employed. You want to take food away from their children? From my children?”

“You’re a moron.”

“You’re a liberal.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Well you’re an intellectual.”

A Fist Before Dying

There is no kind of freedom and liberty other than the kind which the market economy brings about. In a totalitarian hegemonic society the only freedom that is left to the individual, because it cannot be denied to him, is the freedom to commit suicide.
– Ludwig von Mises

~

Man, there sure is a lot of people dying these days. More than usual, it seems. I mean, I don’t claim to be an expert on the matter, but the fact of it is that people die everyday. Anyone ‘d know that. And that’s every single day, understand. Death is not lazy. She doesn’t have benefits or a pension plan. Perpetual work. Good thing too, considering how many people are dropping dead lately. Oh, but I should explain myself. I don’t mean to assign death a female quality out of spite, I’m just a bit old fashioned. Cars, death, and boats are women. Always have been, always will. Don’t ask me why, that’s just the way it is. But if I was to guess, I’d say it’s because cars and boats are sort of sexy-like with their sleek curves and sensual indulgences. Much like womenfolk. But death? Well, shit. I should just shut up while I’m ahead.

It’s not that I feel about death the same way I feel about women and cars. Well, maybe it is. All I know is that since I started noticing how many people it is that have been dying lately, I’ve been happy again. For the first time in a long time. Probably since that thing with the markets. Then everything turned to shit. Well, I don’t think of it as shit, but that’s what everyone else is saying. Never was much of a surprise to me, but then again, I never had much faith in a system based on a roomful of angry little men in blazers shouting and gesturing wildly at each other. But what do I know? 

‘Course, I got eyes all the same and I been noticin things. Always have.

I’m an observant sonofabitch, I am. I see things everyday. Most of them is real, too. I see them on Newschannel 4. That’s where they show all the news that doesn’t matter anymore. Stuff like people dying in large numbers, football scores and other stuff I usually don’t bother with. Lately, though, Newschannel 4 has been all death, all the time.

‘Course, they never call it by name. They use that flowery language so often favoured by politicians and newscasters. Like “passed away.” “Lost” was the first choice, but it seemed better suited to small scale death. Death with a small “d”, if you will. Capitalized death is a whole different animal. “Five thousand people were lost today” sounds pretty bleak, but ”five thousand people passed away today” is positively heartwarming in comparison. 

None of it sounds right if you ask me. Just doesn’t sound right. Doesn’t roll off the tongue the way “three strikes… yer out!” or “all things come of thee oh lord and of thine own have we given thee” does. Doesn’t feel right. Makes you feel as though you should apologize without knowing why or what you’re sorry for.

But I guess I don’t really care. I know how I feel and I won’t be told differently. Told what to feel, that is. Most everyone seems alright with it, but maybe they don’t know any different. It was that way long before things got bad. No one cared or noticed then, so why should it be different now?

And maybe I should do something about it, maybe I should go outside and grab the first person I see and give them a good hard shake and scream into that blank stare until I get some kind of reaction. Sometimes I find myself on the way downstairs. Sometimes I’m halfway out into the street when I come to my senses, like waking up in the middle of a sleepwalk, disoriented. Sad that it was all just a dream, but grateful for the exercise.

There’s never anyone one outside anyway. So I drag myself back up the stairs, put on the kettle, sit down infront of Newschannel 4 and start observin again.

But someday, oh someday I’m gonna do somethin. For now, though, I’m just too happy to care. But maybe someday I’ll do something. Maybe before I’m lost or passed away.

Maybe before I die.

The Cassette Played Poptones

I can’t forget the impression you made, you left a hole in the back of my head.

~

Friend or foe? Can’t decide. Let’s go for a drive. Do I like you or do I hate your guts? Who knows. Let’s go for a drive. A drive sorts everything out, but context is everything; When your driver speaks in short sentences, they could be the last you ever hear.

Keep an eye on the passing scenery. This is key. If you see rolling hills, farmland and livestock and haven’t been invited on a camping trip, there may be trouble ahead. Is there liquor on your driver’s breath? If you see warehouses, industrial fencing and the orange glow of oil refinery flares in the early morning mist and haven’t been invited on a post-modern camping trip, there may be trouble ahead. Is there cough syrup on your driver’s breath?

Let’s go for a drive. I will surely kill you, but let’s make a day of it.

Now, say things loosen up a bit and your driver seems carefree, happy even. It may just be the third plateau of a DXM high kicking in, but this drive might bode well after all. Maybe you’ll hear the funniest joke ever. Maybe you’ll get a hand job in the bushes behind the paper mill. Maybe you’ll learn how to properly tip a cow or use bolt cutters. Maybe it’s all a ruse.

Let’s go for a drive. I’ll keep your guard down with niceties, then shoot you in the back of the head when you least expect it.

Of course, there are ways to avoid such an outcome. Use your memory. Have you wronged this person recently? Have you made them look a fool infront of someone they respect? Have you inflicted physical pain on their person? Did you laugh about it later on whilst running it over in your head? Have you been up for three days doing meth?

These are the warning signs, so stay prudent. Keep conversation light. Stay away from politics, religion or any UK vs. US The Office arguments because there are no winners, only losers — ones who still live in their mom’s basement and spend most of their free time rearranging their collection of rare Starting Lineup figurines featuring players who have been suspended for a drug violation at some point in their career. Is there merit in this?

Is there merit in any collection?

Let’s go for a drive, figure it out, and I may just add you to mine.

D.

I know a guy who does hydromorphone
because he isn’t into brand names
and he doesn’t use a needle, just a twenty dollar bill –
which he says pays for half of one useful little pill.

But it takes the edge off the d-N-methylamphetamine

He grinds them up and savours that burn.
He gets high and watches snuff films.
He gets high and plans parades.
Or so he says.

But it takes the edge off the 3,4-methylenedioxymethamphetamine

’shrinkwrapped nihilism suits him best,’
observed a former friend,
who too saw things through a haze of shit
and enjoyed a good piss in the wind.

But it takes the edge off the benzoylmethyl ecgonine

and if his family hate his guts
then it suits him just fine.