Shrill Dispatches From The Bent And Rusty Tubes

I think I’m going Puritan. Everywhere I look I see Degradation and Degeneracy, and a foul slippage into the primordial sludge of Apathy. Oh sure, you say, give us another laugher, Dubious One. Ah, but I insist- I haven’t been only looking in the mirror this time, gang. I have been gazing out across the narrow fissure of All These Bent Tubes, and verily I say to thee it is a Waste Land, with no shining sword of justice to smite the raging masses.

Why? Hell, I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the extra cheese on the pizza tonight, that’s all. Maybe it’s the bad mood from an idyllic workday gone suddenly and irrevocably Sideways, but I doubt it. No, I think it’s the whiff of Playing, of Making it, of Becoming Somebody among hordes of nameless, faceless losers who are doomed to life in pitiful anonymity. And no, of course I’m not immune. What do you think this is, anyway? A stylistic exercise? A noble experiment? A meaningful analysis of the Way Things Are?

No. It’s a half-baked gonzo ripoff, and pointless to boot, but you all knew that right away anyway. I just felt like shitting on anyone with an impulse to become a Mover and Shaker in this nasty, spiteful universe of ours. Yes, wherein to become somebody, you stomp on a road of bones of nobodies, for the sake of another notch in the belt, feather in the cap, or forelock-tugging nod of approval from People Who Matter. Well fuck them, and fuck anyone who wants to impress them, for giving in to the craven and weak impulse of Belonging, of yearning for Acceptance among gangs of life-adulterating whorehoppers. They don’t want You, they only want to use you, baby, and then toss you out on your ass for six months before slumming their way back again for one last screw.

It’s learned behavior, I’ve seen and heard it a thousand times. Thought I’d be immune to its awful effects by now- thought I’d be able to turn the other cheek and immerse my face in a mask of cynical cool, but Noooooooo, my conscience still pecks at my heart like a vulture, clawing away each last grain of immunity until all I have left is a Festering Sore of Wretched Shame, pulsating with the endless beat of Guilt. Oh yes, Guilt. That nagging affliction of the coddled and pretty around the world, that embarassing rash on the body politic of Meaningful Action. Repulsive, of course, but simultaneously contagious, and near-fatal when taken with severity, or imposed by the Pious.

What? What the fuck does that even mean, Mister? Here you are jabbering about Immoral Impulses when you should be fast asleep, preparing your mind and body to get up at Oh-Shit-Thirty along with the rest of the newly-yuppified Masses. That’s right, pal, no eschatological extemporization for you. You got off that bus years ago, and there won’t be another one coming your way until the end- you better believe it.

I know, I know, but I can’t stop. The bubbling hatred I periodically feel for the importunate few has overflown the porcelain yet again, but this time to a disturbingly toxic degree. It’s everywhere, man, and the smell’s starting to get to me. I don’t know what else to do- my colleagues can’t help me, my family just shakes their heads in sorrowful shame, and my friends have long since given up trying to deal with my intemperate impulses. What gives?

Well, yeah, I’d thought of projection, too, but really, I kicked that bastard away a long time ago, and I know his symptoms when he comes around. No, it’s gotta be something worse. I’ve gone through the twelve steps, but I think there must be a few more corollaries in there, or maybe some footnotes that I missed, because Something is Still Wrong and I can’t shake it, for the life of me. I’ll have to come back to it- I have comments to respond to diaries to post and approval to seek and-

OH MY GOD. It IS me. I have been looking in the mirror this time, and there is no fucking blue pill or red pill or any kinda pill that will save me now!!! Ah, Jesus God, how long? How long will my being get sucked away by these vile Tubes, how long until they are forcibly Yanked out and life begins to gush back to me again? Who can say? Not me, and not anyone else either, for that matter. Something is still rotten in Denmark, gang, but the Danes haven’t got long to figure out what it is. If Mr. Jones couldn’t grok it, then flip the switch and hit the big red button, man, cause it’s a mystery to all now.