Thursday, March 31, 2005
Two great tasks face all aspiring despots, tasks fundamental to any sane society's basic functioning and prosperity. Any good man, any noble man, any man of the first order realizes that it behooves him to silence the women and frighten the workers.
Anyone who isn't a woman is aware of the need to silence them. Once free speech is permitted among the fairer sex, a cacophonous din of chicken-cackling renders all higher functioning useless, all productivity impossible. This would not be the case if women were capable of expounding upon philosophy, geometry, or world affairs, but tethered biologically to a chronic state of emotional retardation, all they can talk about is being women. And apart from the obvious worth of their wombs in generating more workers, there is nothing remotely interesting or useful about being a woman.
Once the women have been silenced, once they are lying prostrate to receive our precious bodily essences and bring forth a fresh crop of compliant workers, the next great project of the first-class man is to terrify these workers with threats of hunger, homelessness, and imprisonment. All attempts of labor to organize and rise above their naturally benighted state must be immediately smashed using the twin fists of scab labor and roving gangs of hired thugs who appreciate the wisdom of their benevolent overlords.
With the women thoroughly silenced and the workers sufficiently frightened, then, and only then, will peace and happiness shine throughout the land.
Posted by jg @ 10:22 PM PST []
Friday, March 11, 2005
The scariest thing I’ve ever seen on television are those Zoloft commercials with the sad-faced little bubble moping along under a cloud until it gulps down a couple Zoloft and is suddenly doing a cha-cha line with other unreasonably happy zombie bubbles. The commercial’s soft, brain-choking totalitarianism ranks it right up there with the scariest thing I’ve ever seen anywhere, that Cold War-era cartoon with the lovably dopey Bert the Turtle counseling children about how they should "Duck and Cover" in the event of a nuclear blast.
They say the Unabomber was crazy, but he made sense when he warned that mass-prescribed mood-altering pharmaceuticals are evil precisely because they force you to tolerate situations which you’d naturally find intolerable. If your brain is squirting chemicals through your bloodstream that make you depressed, it’s usually for a very good reason. It means there’s something DEPRESSING going on in your life that needs to be fixed. Taking a Happy Pill only lulls you into sleep while you’re headed for a brick wall.
A few years back, I let a jailhouse doctor talk me into taking Paxil, thinking I’d feel better about my wife and mother rotting from cancer while I faced twenty-five years squeezed in a box with incurable psychopaths. Two tablets daily, little pink tombstones I’d pop in my mouth, swallow, and then open wide to show Doc I’d been a good boy and taken my meds.
Within days I was waking up to the sound of screams. It’d take a half-minute before I could tell the screams were coming from inside my head. It was the only time in my life I’ve had auditory hallucinations, and I’ve dropped more acid than a dozen psychedelic rodeo clowns.
I felt like a puppet, as if the drug had reached its hand all the way up my spine and wrapped its fist around my brain. And forget about being able to jerk off. I’d flap around like a sweaty fish for an hour before finally giving up. Gimme back my depression. Gimme back my orgasms.
A few days after discontinuing the Paxil, I could feel clarity dripping back into my brain as if my sinuses were unclogging.
I’m insane in the sense that, sure, I could murder someone for accidentally stepping on my foot, but I’m not so fucking nuts that I’d ever believe what psychiatrists tell us. If you even consider taking psychiatric medication, you’re totally fucking crazy.
There are two types of madness in the world: mine and theirs. I’ll stick with mine.
Posted by jg @ 03:36 PM PST []
Tuesday, March 1, 2005
When people ask me what I do all day, the answer is always the same: "I feel sexy." From the moment my pet rooster cock-a-doodle-dos at sunrise until late at night when I don my nightshirt and beauty mask, I bask in the fulsome stench of my rawbone sexuality. I sniff my armpits and mutter aloud, "Hoo-wee! I smell a sexy, sexy man!" I look down at my wondrous peeny-ween and think to myself, "Not only is that a sex organ, it's a sexy, sexy, SEXY organ!" I've placed mirrors in every room with which to arouse myself. I snap endless photos of me and my body parts, e-mail them to myself, then jack myself raw while ogling the results.
I hate to wear clothes, but sometimes the pressures of our Victorian society demand it. Yet even then, my smoothly shaven testicles nudge up against my boxer briefs, and I'm turned on all over again. I could wear an astronaut outfit, and still my irresistible pheromones would pierce the vacuum-sealed armor and waft through the air like dandelion petals, delighting everyone they greet with the warm sensuality which I fortunately enjoy with every living breath.
Before you scoff, please note that I did not always feel sexy. But now that I do, I will never let you forget it.