Kill A Turkey For Me, Ya Swine!

Kill A Turkey For Me, Ya Swine!

What's so funny abour peace love and turkey death?...Gratefully not-dead...parents suck...white people suck...David Lynch's Fowl...family matters...grace...aloneness is next to godliness...booze is my friend...thankful

I honestly don't feel too much of an attachment to holidays, but it makes sense to set aside time to remember the stuff you have to be thankful for, and if you can do it on a day off work where you have an excuse to eat and drink as much as I have so far today, that's a pretty good time to be a human being.

I have a lot to be thankful about. I'm reasonably healthy, I get to do something I really love once a week with some great guys, I have some really good sick fuck friends I can share my more depraved thoughts with, my love of alcohol hasn't got me or anyone else killed yet, this Genesis CD I'm listening to kicks ass, and I have an amazing daughter who loves me and brings true satisfaction into my life during the times I have with her.

Good stuff, and there's lots more as well. But you can only blog about that for so long before you think, "Hey, I need to bitch about something, because what the fuck else is writing good for when you've had an entire 12-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and half a dead chicken and you're off work for a day with time on your hands?"

So let's get on with some of that shit.

I'm rethinking my position on random acts of violence and general frontier justice after a trip to the store today for more beer. (I started drinking at 11AM, and it never ceases to amaze me that while after a long day at work, the act of drinking in the evening slows me to a crawl; drinking early on a day off pulls my brain cells into focus and I get LOTS of shit done around the apartment.) I witnessed something so stupid, so thoughtless, so full of self-important SHIT, I wantd to pull out an old-style revolver and do some kind of John Wayne on this ignorant cunt.

Kids, kill your parents. I know it's not "socially acceptable", and you might spend a long time in prison, but look at it this way - you've made more space in traffic for others who aren't as fucking stupid as the shitbags who brought you into this fucking world.

It was like something out of a bad SNL sketch. Stereotypical bloated redneck mother, with a shopping cart full of trans-fat-riddled snack items and 3-for-a-dollar mac and cheese, asserting her Godlike Rights Of Parenthood on some poor kid of about seven who has the misfortune of being born into Middle America in these, our first years of the 21st century.

You better hope Darwin was right, motherfuckers, because if Gawd Almighty took the time to create each hair on the head of THIS sack of shit, we are COSMICALLY FUCKED.

Cunty The Cheese-Doodle Cunt was aimlessly looking through rows of carbonated sugar water when Junior saw something attached to the side of the racks. They like doing this in grocery stores - randomly putting cheap-ass toys in places they don't belong, so that your kids will go apeshit over a plastic shit-object while you're trying to buy strawberry jelly to lick out of your significant other's snatch once the little fucker has gone to sleep, thereby reducing the money you have left over to buy the lite cheese to put on your otherwise deadly midnight snack.

Now, I don't know these fine upstanding rednecks, and I don't know the back-history of toy-whining of the kid in question, but here's what I observed:

1.) A distractable staring-into-the-distance bloated sack of trailer shit posing as a mother (and hey, I've got about 60 pounds to lose myself, so there ya go) who was UTTERLY IGNORING the child at her feet until it opened it's mouth to interrupt her glazed-eyed gaze at shit that'll fuck her metabolism even more in the ass than she already has.

2.) A small child who merely ASKED for a toy. I saw no serious sense of panic or unreasonableness in this kid, no "gimme gimee gimme", not even loud about it. He ASKED A QUESTION. "Mommy, can I have that?" And that was IT. I've seen kids go nuts in stores over shit they don't need and turn into whiny little fucks about it - this kid was NOT in that category. At least not in this particular situation.

3.) The afore-mentioned cunt, COMPLETELY over-reacting to what was nothing more than a request.

The kid (rather cute little booger, I must say) seemed ready for the results even before his cunt mother turned around and...WHACKED THE FUCK OUT OF HIM ON THE BACK OF HIS HEAD.

"NO! You're not getting a fucking toy! Shut up!"

Wow. Mighty impressive there, Mother Teresa.

The kid started bawling and howled "But Moooom!!!"

Now, I ask you, if somebody twice your size just whacked you in the head, what would YOU do?

"Don't talk back to me!" ANOTHER whack.

Raging rivers of bipolar fuckyouintheassness trying to break down my ability to hold back...

This scene continued for at least 90 more seconds, and the kid - who no longer was allowed to get ONE word out - got hit FOUR TIMES.

I slowly and painfully walked past this shit, desparately wanting to throw some kind of support behind this kid and tell his fuckfaced mother just how much of a thoughtless selfish TWAT she was, but I managed to not do it, because I knew nothing I'd say was going to help ANYTHING.

Some people would say, "Yeah, and it was none of your business." Go fuck yourself. If you saw two adults somewhere and one of them started wailing away on the other on the back of his head, you'd call the cops. When parents do it to kids, that's just "discipline."

Fucking idiots. i hate people who think this way. I know it's not "nice" to hate, but fuck you. Some people are fucking stupid hypocritical shitbags.

I got the fuck out, unable to rationalize ANYTHING going through my brain, because I mostly just wanted to turn the table on this bitch, grab a two-liter bottle of shitty soda, and beat HER on the back of the head until she learned a thing or two about what it means to be violently publicly humilated. But I don't want to go to jail.

I did knock three bags of chips into the end of the aisle as I left, though. Fuck knows what that means, but I had to do SOMETHING.

Now let me clarify something here - I'm not against certain forms of discipline, I'm not even against whacking a kid on the back of the head if he did something that DOES call for such extreme measures. Hey, we've all been there. Sometimes you see a little bastard that makes you wish child-beating was in the public domain, and you could line up behind 40 or 50 of your closest friends and take turns beating the fuck out of the little brainless cocksucker with a baseball bat. We all know how that FEELS, even though we never want to admit it. Some kids are fucking retards with no sense of right or wrong or respect for anything, and sometimes it's not even the parents' fault. (Although in 99.9% of all situations, I bet the big person in question fucked up SOMEWHERE along the line.) So pound the little fuck until he shuts the hell up. See if I care.

But let's be serious - how often that does happen? REALLY? Be honest now.

OK, three times a week if you shop the way I do, $20 at a time, but I'm trying to put some gravity on the other end of the teeter-fuck-totter here, guys and gals.

Parents can be assholes. Period. End of story. Not all of them, and plenty go the other way and turn into over-sensitive douchebags who won't do a fucking thing about the fact that their kid is an annoying little prick. We all know that.

But In the past week, I've heard two people (both of whom are really into Jesus and Toby Keith) say that "nobody disciplines their kids anymore" or some shit like that.

Even people who otherwise are very intelligent and insightful say stupid shit like that. One of my heroes, Bill Maher, has regularly made incredibly over-arching bullshit statements like that on his shows, and it makes you wonder what the fuck people who don't even have a kid think they know about the details of child-rearing. They don't know SHIT. Fuck them. Shut the fuck up and talk about something you KNOW a little about, assbag.

Well, maybe they aren't "disciplining" in YOUR trailer park, Tex Fuck-knob, but the cunthair I saw today is NOT an exception to a rule.

Parents, learn a thing or two about subtlety and what works in each particular situation, and don't be simple-minded assholes with three pre-arranged reactions to your children - that's nice, shut up, and WHACK. You fucked, you went the nine months, you showed up at the hospital - but your responsibility does not end there.

CHILDREN ARE NOT PROPERTY. They are human beings, and very likely their relative lack of experience in the world has them unencumbered by the years and years of bullshit that you are operating out of. You have to maintain control and be the boss, but you DON'T have to be some kind of fun-cop squashing every little thing the kid thinks or does just because you don't happen to LIKE it. Maybe you don't know everything, eh? Maybe if you LISTEN to the little bastard instead of assuming you are fucking right about every fucking thing on the fucking planet, you might fucking LEARN something, you fucking fuck. Imagine that. Somebody out of school learning some shit? Who knows, it might even work, it certainly hasn't been tried in most parts of our country.

Most of these shitbags are religious in some way, which makes the irony more fun. Jesus - who was into weird liberal shit like tolerance, forgiveness, second chances, and looking beyond oneself in an effort to better understand others - today used as some kind of extension of an Old Testamebt-derived one-dimensional sense of Authority and Power to keep in line the weak and helpless among us. These parents are the most pathetic overgrown children imaginable, who have to compensate for their failures and lack of self-respect by taking it out in violence on their own children, who possibly would choose abortion as an option if they knew they could have had that instead of having to endure a life of fear and loathing at the hands of self-righteous, simple-minded trailer-dwelling JESUS FAGGOTS.

And I am "immature" for liking dirty jokes and wanting to have buttsex with 17-year olds. Go fuck yourself.

I'm glad to be making beautiful noise with good friends on weekends and being near my girl, but I'm really not a fan of living in the middle of a high concentration of Jesus-based shitbags with Git-R-Done hats and the intellectual curiosity of a deformed gibbon. I know it's not politically correct to make broad generalizations about race, and I also know that on an individual basis, most people I come into contact with are pretty reasonable, but fuck it - white people suck. Find my inconsistencies and hypocrisies within that statement at your own leisure, my freshly-scrubbed liberal friends (and your two-baths-a-week Larry The Cable Guy-alike conserva-fuck counterparts) but be very aware of a simple truth that few of you care to accept - MOST STEREOTYPES ARE BASED TO SOME EXTENT IN TRUTH. Sorry. I didn't make the rules, I just observe them and come back to report my findings. Feel free to modify these meanderings, but think them through first. Maybe then we'll ALL learn something. I'm willing to take the time to consider further input - are you?

I brought a chicken home last night. Given the story I read in Larry Flynt's autobiography (An Unseemly Man, taken from my library along wih a couple Barclay James Harvest remasters early in the week, and goddamn I love my library) I found myself somewhat hesitant to let the poor bird in my home while I also had access to alcohol, but no chicken-fucking was to be had. I just jerked off the normal way and thought about the 17-year old Waffle House waitress I've had my brain bent by twice now. Insert yer own Bill Hicks references here.

I'm pretty fucking funny when I'm drunk, I think...

I have forever had my view of cooking whole chickens ruined by David Lynch. I can't help it, once I pull the sorry little headless bastard from Frank Purdue's death-plastic like some de-feathered miniature rotisserie-ready Laura Palmer, I HAVE to play with it a little, jiggling the little legs and wings like it's dancing in that scene in Eraserhead. Between this display of personal neurosis and the demilitarized-zone-like state of my dangerous kitchen (who the fuck wants to clean it?) it's no small wonder that I'm single and cocksucker-less on this holiday Thursday, as my family enjoy themselves hours away. I'll see them Saturday. Right now, I don't give a shit for Thanksgiving, I just want to take my day off and eat a lot of chicken (Mom's making turkey when I go up Saturday, so I'll wait on that feathered-species a while longer) and drink shitloads of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Bushmills while everyone else watches fucking football and celebrates the anniversary of the one time we were nice enough to share a meal with those red people before we handed them our smallpox and stole their land.

But no, I'm not THAT fucking cynical, I just think it makes for better writing. The hoiiday season is amongst us, and yay for that. It's good to have an excuse to be with family and friends for a day, and these moments are necessary, proper, and well. I have no quarrel with the basic human need for that kind of contact with loved ones.

But our capacity for over-seriousness and blind devotion to a tradition we barely even know enough about is something I feel the need to punch several gleefully dark little holes in with my jizz-soaked fuck-needle like the destruction of many an overfilled balloon, and...

Goddamn, I MUST be drunk. I don't write shit THIS ridiculous after testing laws of the land following a night of hops-drenched bass-raping gigs. Ahhh, sweet alcohol. Brings to mind a quote of some drunken note:

"The most important thing to remember about drunks is that drunks are far more intelligent than non-drunks. They spend a lot of time talking in pubs, unlike workaholics who concentrate on their careers and ambitions, who never develop their higher spiritual values, who never explore the insides of their head like a drunk does." - Shane MacGowen

An utterly biased and unscientific opinion perhaps, but there is a kernel of truth somewhere at the bottom of that bottle. Think I'll have me a go at finding it.

I enjoy being alone on days like these. Family stuff can wait a few days. I miss my daughter a lot, since we're going a bit longer between visits this week (she's a couple hours away with her mom's family) but frankly, our time will come. Right now, I need this bit of aloneness to settle my brain some. I feel that I am coming to a burst of over-activity, with a very full December of gigs and work and the need to stay ahead of the bills I've finally got a small handle on in the past few weeks. I am ready for this to a point, but I don't want to end up like one of Uncle Hunter's jackrabbits, burning out the circuits on some winding Indiana state road at 2:30AM, all energy expended in the few hours previous in an attempt to woo some inebriated MILF with the Power Of My Rockin'. (TM)

Talked to Mom a while ago, and it sounds like I missed a good day up there, but like I said, I'm happy to be here alone. Still, I missed the biggest family gathering on my Dad's side in years. They're not good at getting together anymore, and aren't even bothering for Christmas. Lots of cousins who I've only very recently tried to connect with were asking about me and Katie. Damn. We'll shoot for next year. I've gained more respect for my Dad's family in recent years - now that I realize most of them are more interesting than he is - and I regret that i ignored them for so long in favor of Mom's side, who are really far more fucked up and neurotic.

Our singer copied me a CD of the Pink Fairies. Good raw geetar-grinding '70s rock. Current listening.

Some things find their place in different ways at different times. A couple nights ago, Jeff Buckley was singing for my pain at being alone. Today, I cranked up Grace and rejoiced in my solitude, in the sense that somebody understood, in the knowledge that eventually it'll all come together in some weird random way, just like it always has. My faith in things I can't see is at its lowest ebb. But my faith in one pertinent wide-awake observation - that my basic instincts somehow prevail even in spite of the stupid shit I often put in front of their filter - carries me through. I am learning things I have no memory of knowing as a child - confidence, hopefulness, fearfulness - and I am becoming more like the child I once was in the process. I see that mirrored in my daughter. Her love of life and her insatiable thirst for fun, knowledge, and that wonderfully blurry line between absurdity and importance is fucking inspirational. She doesn't really even know it, because she's headfirst in the middle of it and having too much fun to analyze the way us old fucks do. I know I have things to tell her and teach her, but I want to do everything I can to be awake to her own observations and knowledge. My ideas about being a father have been radically altered in most respects since she was born, but the main thing I knew even before that remains unchanged - I've allowed myself to join everyone else in this stupid pretend excuse for a society in forgetting what it means to be a child, to not only have that sense of wonder and excitement, but to revel in it, to drink it up and charge through the playground of life in search of more, more, fuckin' more.

But with her help - and hopefully as much of mine for her - I can remember. I feel it sometimes. When I'm laughing with her at some impossibly goofy construct we've come up with ("You're a ketchup-head!") When I'm gleefully and viciously stacking Frippian dissonances on top of Roadhouse Blues with a white Strat copy. When I choke on my tofu-burger laughing my fool ass off to Sarah Silverman or Patton Oswalt or Doug Stanhope or Bill Hicks. When I write a drunken paragraph and spend three minutes re-reading it and cackling with mad-scientist mirth at some deranged twist of the language I've come to love fucking with so truly and stupidly.

When I'm all alone on a Thanksgiving evening and don't give a shit. Because I'm alive. I'm well. i'm drunk as an irish wedding. I'm as full of inconsistencies as I am truth, yet I love, love, fuckin' love it, because this is what I find so rich and joyous in this absurd Ives-on-meth composition I call my life.

Thankful as a frat boy alone in a whorehouse with unlimited credit. My God is this universe we're engulfed in and inseperable from, and on this November 23rd, 2006 I give thanks to it for somehow combining atoms in such a way so as to allow me to write this stupid shit in hopes that somebody out there gets a laugh from it.

Happy Thanksgiving, you fuckers. I love you all.

Love,
Dougie

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