I Wanna be a Pirate
I want to be a pirate. I have grown tired of a life endlessly mired in reality and common sense. I want to slice the seas in a Spanish Galleon manned by salty rogues. Perhaps, if I am fortunate, a monkey on my shoulder.
I want to raid passing cruise ships. I want to pull up beside one of those Disney liners, cannons pounding. I want to make the poor bastard in the Mickey suit walk the plank. If they want, I would let the seven dwarves join my crew. Always room for small fellows who know their way around a pickaxe.
Yo-ho-bloody-ho
The Devil and the DLC
The pigfuckers are at it again. I watch them as the blood seethes through my temples and my eyes mist over with red rage. I watch their spines liquefying and oozing from every available orifice. You can see it in their faces. Those faces- ruined by the excesses of lobbyist lunches and failed, broken inertia. Look closely, you can see the tattered remains of their souls peering helplessly out of their moist, dead eyes. Some horrible Lovecraftian beast from a million years past has latched itself onto their collective brainpans. It huddles there, hungry and sinister. Look closely, dear reader. Do you see its dagger toothed grin? It has tasted the cerebro-spinal fluid of the modern American Democrat, and it likes what it tastes.
I wonder sometimes why the Democrats bother showing up. They do little enough to bring balance to politics in Washington. They slump low in their seats, wallowing in their own impotence. They have come to know fear. They have tasted its copper tang. They've forgotten what life was like without that puke in their mouths. Never before have I seen a group of grown men so attatched to the idea of failure. I'm Irish, I know well the heady allure of the lost cause. Yet, I cannot fathom the sense of going out of your way to become one. Not like the Democrats have.
Across the aisle, their mortal enemy stands firm, gloating. They are led by a creature named Karl Rove. Rove is not human. You doubt me, because you have not taken the time to look. He proudly wears the doughy face we easily recognize as that of the quiet man who lives down the street- the one with the immaculate lawn. The one who never married, who lived with his mother his whole life. The one who engenders rumors of homosexuality- barely spoken, only whispered, but universally recognized. But beneath that mask is the leathery hide of a lizard creature. Colored contacts mask the cold, yellow eyes that stare out at the world with a glare of pure evil. Pure greed. Deep in a compound beneath the Washington Monument is his lair. Row upon row of bodies lie in artificially induced comas. They lie waiting for him to come. And feed. He likes the babies the best- their warm flesh still tender and succulent. His hunger is insatiable. He will spend hours down there- choosing the tastiest morsels. And as the newborn blood drips down his scaly chin, he stares upward, peering through the layers of concrete and dirt and sod. And an inhuman howl of pure lust issues forth from his bloodied lips. And he lays in wait for the coming of the dawn, and another chance to humiliate his enemies.
Perhaps someday, a hero will come. Like something from mythology- a Democrat willing to stand up and lead the charge. A titan, breaking loose the shackles of the DLC and stepping proudly to the senate floor. On that day, perhaps, his brethren shall actually stand up for something. They shall find their spines solidifying yet again. They shall feel the warmth of the long dormant sun upon their pasty cheeks. And that day, that day dear readers, the creature called Rove shall be driven back into the pits from which he emerged. That day, the milquetoast demons shall find the flavor of Democrat fluids has become decidedly sour.
Perhaps that day, we shall have government again.
I guess this means we're a team
A friend of mine sent me the address of your blog; she thought it was interesting. I do too. That's why I posted the comment to your first post.
Actually, I thought you'd just laugh, rather than sending the invitation to be on your team. I didn't know what a team was either. I'm not generally what's known as a team player, and my guess is you're not either. But as long as we're here, let's share a few details of our lives.
I'm 54, which is probably about 30 or so years older than you. I've been divorced twice, and I have two lovely children, both of whom are heroin addicts. I have Stage IV breast cancer; median survival post diagnosis is about 2 years.
And yet I'm happy. No, really. Right now I'm eating chocolate (not good for my diabetes); this afternoon I learned the basics of Sufi dancing, the kind the whirling dervishes do. I first put paintbrush to Bristol paper about two months ago. I have little talent, but I'm having a lot of fun.
When I found out my cancer had metastasized, I retired onto Social Security disability. I suddenly received 5 or 6 awards for the work I'd been doing, which I thought was a bad sign. You never know, though, I may surprise everyone.
I could probably say some motherly things to you, but I don't think I will. You know you write well and you think well. I suppose that now that we're a team you'll be able to see my blog, if you couldn't before. You may decide to take me off your team.
Your name's not really Jimmy, is it?
When you are a child, they tell you your life is full of possibility. And you believe them. You believe them because you know they are right. And they are- as a child, your life is full of possibilities.
What they don't tell you- what the bastards never mention- is that possibility can go either way. It's the fine print that fucks you.
Sure, when you're a kid, it is always possible that you could be the guy who discovers the cure for cancer. Of course, it is equally as possible that you will be the poor bastard mopping up after the guy who cures cancer after he leaves the porno shop viewing booth. Possibility- she's a bitch.
Life is a series of choices, each one affecting your eventual outcome. What really screws you is that you never know which choices are really going to impact you. Your college choice might mean little in the grand scheme of things. But one day you decide to have the chicken instead of the beef for dinner. The chicken gives you food poisoning so severe that the girl you are about to propose to ends up watching in horror as you shit yourself in the middle of the Dairy Queen, loses respect for you and starts sneaking around with the swarthy guy from her gym who swears he's gonna be a film producer and suddenly they're running off with your life savings and your mint condition Spawn #1 and you have to move back in with your parents, who, by the way, never much cared for you but managed to hide the fact while you were young but now they don't have that kind of patience and you realize that every childhood memory you ever had is a complete sham and you end up locked in your garage with Counting Crows blaring on the radio as you're gleefully sucking in carbon monoxide and insisting that "This'll show 'em all!"
Not that I'm bitter.
Or maybe you like a bit of symbolic imagery. The moments in your life are like forks in a path in the middle of a dense wood. You cannot see where either direction will lead, but you need to make a choice. Do you take the easy path, with its even surface and cheerful woodland creatures? Or do you take Frost's road less traveled? Or, like me, do you look at the two paths and say, "Wait a minute- what the fuck am I doing in the woods? I hate nature!" I do, by the way. I absolutely hate it. But I guess that's not the point.
You know, you start out in a nice middle-class suburban home. You have loving parents, access to good schools and a mind full of possibility. Suddenly, one day, you're the Unabomber. And that's when you realize- possibility has gone and screwed you again.
