Too much information.
This week's Stillwater Gazette column is below. It contains waaaay too much information, so the squeamish should surf elsewhere.
Feeling rather depressed and directionless today. My wife and I watched a half-
hour documentary about the Holocaust last night. It was made in the 50's, almost ten years to the day after the liberation of the camps, and it definitely isn't the feel-good movie of the year. It's important to watch such things, though. My opinion is that this documentary, and others like it, should be required viewing for anyone who feels "White Power" is a cause worth fighting for; anyone who doubts the Holocaust occurred; any nation that feels Israel should be "wiped off the map"; and for brainwashed pawns like Prussian Blue, teenaged blonde sluts who sing bubble-gum pop about Arian supremacy.
I've been called "hateful" for my humor and for my perspective on life. Sometimes I feel ashamed because of this. Periodic wake-up calls like that documentary certainly put my supposed "hate" into perspective, and even if I am hateful at least now I have tangible proof that human beings are capable of behavior that makes them truly hateable.
After my column you'll find something I e-mailed to my pal Jules. It's the late comedian Bill Hicks' perspective on childbearing. There are too many people out there who venerate childbirth, in my humble opinion, and perspectives like Hicks' are important to hear, even if they make you angry. You've been warned.
STILLWATER GAZETTE COLUMN
I don’t know much, but this I can say for certain: Laxatives work.
It’s quite a step for someone like me to discuss this subject in a public forum. My longstanding contention has been that for any relationship to last, even one as impersonal as reader-to-writer, bathroom habits are strictly off-limits. People have asked me to the key to a successful marriage, and without fail I recommend the immediate purchase of a cat and placement of the litter box near the bathroom. That way, any offenses to the olfactory can be easily deflected with a finger wagged at the feline accompanied by a stern “Mittens! Bad girl!”
Mine is historically the Old Faithful of digestive systems. Recently, however, I adjusted my diet to include healthier foods, and to my surprise it upset my rhythm, so to speak. Unwilling to acquiesce to a medicinal quick fix, I decided to give it 24 hours, but no more. After all, the point of my new diet was to lose weight, and given that I hadn’t—you know—for quite some time, I was anxious to shed the ballast.
With no relief in sight the next morning, I took a pill. To my surprise and delight, the mission was accomplished within an hour. My wife and I then embarked on a shopping excursion in St. Paul, and given the load off my mind (and elsewhere) I was able to embark upon the adventure with a new lease on life. My wife remarked on my positive demeanor, but unwilling to divulge details on a taboo subject, I merely replied “I guess it’s because I’m extra in love with you today!”
Then “six to twelve hours” popped into my head. Now why on earth would that random thought occur to me as I shared a pumpkin spice latte’ with my sweetie on Grand Avenue? And why was I feeling a slight cramp in my side which was the equivalent of a child tugging on my shirt sleeve, asking “Are we there yet?” Then it dawned on me that the laxative package said “Usually works within six to twelve hours.”
To my horror I realized that the “success” I’d experienced earlier was simply my body restoring itself to its natural rhythm. The effects of the pill were yet to be felt, and I had a sinking feeling that something insidious was afoot and I wanted—nay, needed—to be home to experience it.
“Let’s head home,” I suggested through gritted teeth, and we did, and never was I so aware of the Twin Cities’ poorly engineered traffic system as I was on this day. Mistimed stop lights, lane closures. Each intersection provided new reasons to encourage my wife to flaunt traffic laws. “Honey, turn left on red, ignore the sign.” “Speed limits are merely a suggestion.” “Pedestrians, shmedestrians.” And so on.
Finally, mercifully, we pulled into the driveway, and to my dismay my wife began exiting the car along with me. “I thought you were going to yoga class,” I said, and she was, but wanted to come in the house “for a couple minutes” first.
What constitutes a couple minutes for my wife changes on a daily basis, and of course this day it meant well over a half hour. She rearranged the junk drawer. Filed her nails. Played with the cat (the very cat I hoped to blame for what was to transpire). Finally, I became Popeye: “That’s all I can stands, I can’t stands no more!” I locked myself in the facilities, and my vow to shield things digestive from my spouse was broken in a big way. Old Faithful became Mt. Vesuvius, and all because of a pill so tiny it would have fit on the head of a pin. It could have kept; I don’t know—a hundred, maybe a thousand—angels regular for all eternity. The havoc it wreaked on my 140-pound frame was breathtaking, in many senses of the term.
To her credit, my wife didn’t say a word. The cat didn’t get blamed. The marriage remains solid (other things aren’t quite yet) and I am wiser. Maybe the key to a successful relationship isn’t denying the things that make you human, but rather acknowledging them with a shrug of the shoulders and the reassurance that those who truly matter not only go through the same things, but know you do too. And love you despite.
Pity I had to give the cat a complex to come to this realization. Sorry, Mittens. Good girl.
BILL HICKS' PERSPECTIVE ON CHILDBEARING
But where did this veneration of childbirth come from? I missed that meeting, I'll tell ya' that. "Oh, childbirth is such a miracle. It's such a miracle." Wrong. No more a miracle than eating food and a turd coming out of your ass. You know what a miracle is? A miracle's raising a kid who doesn't talk in a fucking movie theater. There's your goddamned miracle. If it were a miracle then not every nine months any ying-yang in the world could drop a litter of these mewling fucking cabbages on the planet, and in case you have not checked the single-mom statistics lately, the miracle is spreading like fucking wildfire. Hallelujah!
Trailer parks all over America. Fillin' up with little miracles. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!
"Look at my little miracles!"
Thunk!
"Fillin' up my trailer like a sardine can. Look at them."
Thunk!
"You know what'd be a real miracle? If I could remember your daddy's name, goddamn it."
Thunk!
"I guess I'll have to call you Trucker Junior. That's all I remember 'bout your daddy, was his fuzzy little pot belly riding on top of me, shooting his caffeine-ridden semen into my belly to produce my little waterhead miracle baby child."
Thunk!
"There's your brother: Pizza Boy Delivery Junior."
Thunk!
"There's your other brother: Exterminator Junior."
Thunk!
"There's your other brother: Will Work For Food Junior."
Feeling rather depressed and directionless today. My wife and I watched a half-
hour documentary about the Holocaust last night. It was made in the 50's, almost ten years to the day after the liberation of the camps, and it definitely isn't the feel-good movie of the year. It's important to watch such things, though. My opinion is that this documentary, and others like it, should be required viewing for anyone who feels "White Power" is a cause worth fighting for; anyone who doubts the Holocaust occurred; any nation that feels Israel should be "wiped off the map"; and for brainwashed pawns like Prussian Blue, teenaged blonde sluts who sing bubble-gum pop about Arian supremacy.I've been called "hateful" for my humor and for my perspective on life. Sometimes I feel ashamed because of this. Periodic wake-up calls like that documentary certainly put my supposed "hate" into perspective, and even if I am hateful at least now I have tangible proof that human beings are capable of behavior that makes them truly hateable.
After my column you'll find something I e-mailed to my pal Jules. It's the late comedian Bill Hicks' perspective on childbearing. There are too many people out there who venerate childbirth, in my humble opinion, and perspectives like Hicks' are important to hear, even if they make you angry. You've been warned.
STILLWATER GAZETTE COLUMNI don’t know much, but this I can say for certain: Laxatives work.
It’s quite a step for someone like me to discuss this subject in a public forum. My longstanding contention has been that for any relationship to last, even one as impersonal as reader-to-writer, bathroom habits are strictly off-limits. People have asked me to the key to a successful marriage, and without fail I recommend the immediate purchase of a cat and placement of the litter box near the bathroom. That way, any offenses to the olfactory can be easily deflected with a finger wagged at the feline accompanied by a stern “Mittens! Bad girl!”
Mine is historically the Old Faithful of digestive systems. Recently, however, I adjusted my diet to include healthier foods, and to my surprise it upset my rhythm, so to speak. Unwilling to acquiesce to a medicinal quick fix, I decided to give it 24 hours, but no more. After all, the point of my new diet was to lose weight, and given that I hadn’t—you know—for quite some time, I was anxious to shed the ballast.
With no relief in sight the next morning, I took a pill. To my surprise and delight, the mission was accomplished within an hour. My wife and I then embarked on a shopping excursion in St. Paul, and given the load off my mind (and elsewhere) I was able to embark upon the adventure with a new lease on life. My wife remarked on my positive demeanor, but unwilling to divulge details on a taboo subject, I merely replied “I guess it’s because I’m extra in love with you today!”
Then “six to twelve hours” popped into my head. Now why on earth would that random thought occur to me as I shared a pumpkin spice latte’ with my sweetie on Grand Avenue? And why was I feeling a slight cramp in my side which was the equivalent of a child tugging on my shirt sleeve, asking “Are we there yet?” Then it dawned on me that the laxative package said “Usually works within six to twelve hours.”
To my horror I realized that the “success” I’d experienced earlier was simply my body restoring itself to its natural rhythm. The effects of the pill were yet to be felt, and I had a sinking feeling that something insidious was afoot and I wanted—nay, needed—to be home to experience it.
“Let’s head home,” I suggested through gritted teeth, and we did, and never was I so aware of the Twin Cities’ poorly engineered traffic system as I was on this day. Mistimed stop lights, lane closures. Each intersection provided new reasons to encourage my wife to flaunt traffic laws. “Honey, turn left on red, ignore the sign.” “Speed limits are merely a suggestion.” “Pedestrians, shmedestrians.” And so on.
Finally, mercifully, we pulled into the driveway, and to my dismay my wife began exiting the car along with me. “I thought you were going to yoga class,” I said, and she was, but wanted to come in the house “for a couple minutes” first.
What constitutes a couple minutes for my wife changes on a daily basis, and of course this day it meant well over a half hour. She rearranged the junk drawer. Filed her nails. Played with the cat (the very cat I hoped to blame for what was to transpire). Finally, I became Popeye: “That’s all I can stands, I can’t stands no more!” I locked myself in the facilities, and my vow to shield things digestive from my spouse was broken in a big way. Old Faithful became Mt. Vesuvius, and all because of a pill so tiny it would have fit on the head of a pin. It could have kept; I don’t know—a hundred, maybe a thousand—angels regular for all eternity. The havoc it wreaked on my 140-pound frame was breathtaking, in many senses of the term.
To her credit, my wife didn’t say a word. The cat didn’t get blamed. The marriage remains solid (other things aren’t quite yet) and I am wiser. Maybe the key to a successful relationship isn’t denying the things that make you human, but rather acknowledging them with a shrug of the shoulders and the reassurance that those who truly matter not only go through the same things, but know you do too. And love you despite.
Pity I had to give the cat a complex to come to this realization. Sorry, Mittens. Good girl.
BILL HICKS' PERSPECTIVE ON CHILDBEARINGBut where did this veneration of childbirth come from? I missed that meeting, I'll tell ya' that. "Oh, childbirth is such a miracle. It's such a miracle." Wrong. No more a miracle than eating food and a turd coming out of your ass. You know what a miracle is? A miracle's raising a kid who doesn't talk in a fucking movie theater. There's your goddamned miracle. If it were a miracle then not every nine months any ying-yang in the world could drop a litter of these mewling fucking cabbages on the planet, and in case you have not checked the single-mom statistics lately, the miracle is spreading like fucking wildfire. Hallelujah!
Trailer parks all over America. Fillin' up with little miracles. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!
"Look at my little miracles!"
Thunk!
"Fillin' up my trailer like a sardine can. Look at them."
Thunk!
"You know what'd be a real miracle? If I could remember your daddy's name, goddamn it."
Thunk!
"I guess I'll have to call you Trucker Junior. That's all I remember 'bout your daddy, was his fuzzy little pot belly riding on top of me, shooting his caffeine-ridden semen into my belly to produce my little waterhead miracle baby child."
Thunk!
"There's your brother: Pizza Boy Delivery Junior."
Thunk!
"There's your other brother: Exterminator Junior."
Thunk!
"There's your other brother: Will Work For Food Junior."
posted by Admin Worm at 10:05 AM
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