Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing

My mother always told me that 'Life isn't a dress rehearsal'. That may be so, but whether or not a few people boo, hiss or cheer along the way, once the play is finished everyone fucks off back home and what happened doesn't matter any more. Which is as apt a metaphor for life as it is for those egotistical self indulgent theatrical wankers. Of course my mother did also insist that children should be seen and not heard, the thinking which pioneered my mission to seal children in entirely airtight containers for that very purpose, so she wasn’t all bad. But back to life, back to reality. People are always dispensing their own foul advise on how to live your life, usually because they have lived such crippled and bountyless existences they resort to setting themselves as the standard and blindly pushing others to follow the same path in the hope that they can convince themselves even when every night they crawl into the foetal position in the shower and cry themselves asleep. So why this sudden new interest in living an outstanding life? There was a time period where you were sodding lucky not to be killed or be born a woman and people would be understandably euphoric just to be able to be alive and take a shit in the morning. Times have changed, there might still be a shitting euphoria but our palette has dulled.

I remember the first time I became aware of death, and so of life, it was in my bed. I was lying there, thinking about the universe. The massive, impossible, infinite, fuck you of a universe, and us tiny and isolated in there somewhere. It seemed like a joke, a really bad fucking joke. Like the kind of thing which would just hit you when you were going about your normal day, the enormity and insignificance of everything would just wind you. You were going to die. Why did you even exist, why did any of this exist if you were just going to die? Was this a dream? I cried, I cried a lot. I was eight years old, I was a fucking weird kid really. Now how do people react to this giant cosmic fuck you? They ignore it, they discard the infinite, they remove their own insignificance, they just about do anything they can to make their own life a case of colouring in-between the lines, and they go on believing that. Most people would say that it’s fine to believe and have faith in what you wish, that one should take solace in their beliefs and that life if just a matter of perspective. ‘Most people’ are FUCKING IDIOTS! If life and beliefs are just a matter of perspective then I’d like to see them explain in which ways their foundless beliefs instilled to create a delusional sense of ease, differ from the beliefs of a sectioned and terminally hallucinating individual. Both are reactionary constructs to protect them from hostile ideas and concepts, both believe unquestionably and ignore any evidence which would disprove or shatter their content, yet one is lorded as an acceptable and often praised ‘correct’ life view while the other only receives as many sedatives as his body mass index permits. What a fucking world.

People are entitled to their beliefs, apparently, because they don’t harm or affect anybody. But of course they fucking affect other people, you’d have to be fucking blind, deaf, ignorant and dead to not realise they fucking affect everyone and everything. And that’s not even just the extremists, the most seemingly permissive and beneficial spiritual outlook can still be a massive global fuck over in the sincerest of senses. What’s that? You want to empower your life with go power and live a new dynamic go life? When the fuck in that busy schedule are you going to get around to dealing with the dying children?! You’re not? Because you don’t give a shit that’s why, your lovely belief makes you feel at ease with yourself and stops you worrying about the world. People do fuck all about the world. World starves. World dies of typhoid. World is killed in wars.

Now even in the loosest sense possible a belief system in this day and age, knowing what is going on around us is going on, is just a shroud to make you forget how fucked up everything is and your responsibility to help or at least feel destitute and awful about it. If one more person tells me that things can be looked at in different perspectives I swear I will fucking kill them. Yes one person’s perspective can be different from another person’s perspective, but if you’re looking at a vase that doesn’t escape the fact it’s STILL A FUCKING VASE!

"What are you, some kind of monster?"

So I was minding my own business, sticking one on a clipboard cavalier who dared to have a genuine concern for the needy, the other day when this woman came up to me and asked me that very same question. Now it’s not a question that’s unknown to me, I’ve terrorised the central business districts of Tokyo dressed head to toe in green latex enough to be familiar with it, but it was still a fairly bold opening gambit. Her cold dead eyes seemed fairly insistent on me answering the question, as if she had an entire repertoire of fourth rate extremist bile ready to be acted out. The woman was campaigning for tighter restrictions on paedophiles, because apparently the current crotch manacles just weren’t doing the job. The purpose of the question was to push me into the situation where not signing her petition to have sex offenders serve as active archery targets would mean I was a monster, and who would want to be a monster? Clearly the woman did not know me at all.

Like a diseased wound the woman’s face continued to open in quick succession despite my most earnest wishes for her to shit herself to death. It was roughly half way through the explanation of how the most evil of corrupters should be herded and castrated, because apparently death is too good for someone who commits a crime on a child, that I began to consciously object. Personally I never realised that crimes committed on children actually gave you a x4 multiplier in the punishment stakes, but apparently the act is always more senseless when it happens to the short people. Fuck, I’d probably end up shaking the hand of anyone that made the parents of Little-Sally-who’s-six-now-and-the-teachers-are-saying-that-she’s-doing-really-well-and-we’ve-got-her-doing-after-school-ballet-classes-now-you-know cry. That’s not to say I hate children, which I do, and frankly some of the time I put out imagery which would make Charles Manson sick out his own mind and wash his brain with a rotting dog’s cock, but that doesn’t mean I like to see children suffer for no reason. They have to really deserve it. What my fist objects to is an entire country’s rage being centred on a group of criminals mostly populated by scaremongering, exaggeration and urban myth, purely because it affects their pearly white children. So parents can sleep safe in their beds knowing that their children are surrounded by three inches of razorwire coated Kevlar whilst thousands of adult males and females suffer unprosecuted sexual assaults each night.

Perhaps in my desire to see equality and compassion among human beings I’ve lost sight that accomplishments should be about conviction and blind instinct which is completely unaffected by fact or reason. Rather than a compromised and fair union of views I should just pick a pathos laden minor problem that an already confused and fucked world could do without. Of course that’s a fine action plan to follow if you want a complete division of society and fifty years of total counter productiveness before civilisation eventually caves in on itself when they realise they forgot to do anything about famine and disease. “Society will only progress, when we leave decision making up to the animals.”, a famous quotation demonstrating both that a random and ignorant choice is the only way to remove duplicity and inequality, and that my mother should really have not turned to gin after my father left.

If, and my rectum is screwed up as tight as possible in desire for this not to happen to you, should find yourself tethered to such a irritating, defecating, exhausting little shit of your own, then try not to let it affect your judgement too much. In fact screw not changing your judgement too much, pin down your frontal lobes and stare into the deery glossy eyes of your children and actually think about how much graphic and intolerable violence you’d see reflected in their eyes before you realise that a good father wouldn’t saw a man in two just to get a place in a decent school.

Thank you. I’m Spike Venice, my fee is 10 pounds an hour and your kids were already bruised when you left them with me.