I only call you “fuckers” because you fuck so good.
Weird.
I know. Go check out the great Jesse Jarnow on the state of the taper in the 21st century. Spoiler: it involves computers.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Month: November 2018 (Page 3 of 9)
- Dominatrices.
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Beeves.
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Elvii.
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Misters Clean.
The Thanksgiving table has long served as a rhetorical battleground for Americans. Whether it’s gossip about that cousin who chopped off his own leg and used it to beat his children with, or Aunt Gladys , who thinks she is a Transformer named Poonclutch, or other moral, political, or ethical topics, wars have always been fought over the turkey and cranberry sauce. However, this year is different, as Trump has turned America into vast wasteland that Samuel Delaney would look at and say, “Too dark, man.”
We have been advised by the David Brookseses and the Bret Stephenseses that civility is the cure for our ails, and that “differing opinions” must be tolerated. Family is, after all, the most important thing. Perhaps if we just listen harder. Perhaps if we try to see the other side as human instead of thunderfuckers who enjoy torturing gay brown children by hitting them with cheap ladders, then…and only then…will America regain the moral status that we have been assured it had at one time.
This advice is, quite frankly, the steamiest pile of bullshit since Scottie Pippin dropped a deuce on a frigid Chicago morning, and serves only to make the white man whiter and manner. Although Democrats made strides in the 2018 election, Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez was not appointed Grand Emperoratrix of the First American Soviet, and therefore gays and Puerto Ricans will most likely be made illegal within weeks. Being Progressive doesn’t just mean buying Michelle Obama’s book and subscribing to ContraPoints on YouTube. True Progressivism requires direct action.
If you can do so safely, you have the obligation to murder and consume your racist relatives this Thanksgiving. Statistically, at least one person at the table deserves to be turned into yummy, stuffing-stuffed dinner due to his or her inappropriate beliefs. Their mindset may not be palatable, but their loins and flanks certainly are. If you’re worried about blowback from Grandma, then you’re a coward who is–in every way–worse than Trump; kill and eat Grandma, too. Yes, she will be tough and stringy, but God (who is a woman) made crockpots for a reason.
How much longer must we sit in cranberried silence as Uncle Bungle prattles on about leprosy-infested caravans making their way into our Walmarts? Why suffer while Cousin Hephaestus refuses to call the turkey by its chosen pronoun? There are knives everywhere, dammit, and the ovens are already pre-heated. Kill these people. Eat these people.
And that’s what Thanksgiving means to me.
God, you look old when you stand next to him.
“Leave me alone.”
You on a date?
“No, I’m at an award show. Shawn and I are just friends.”
Friends with benefits?
“No.”
Friends that like to tickle each others’ ballsacks?
“No.”
Coochie coochie coochie.
“Is that the ticking noise?”
Yes.
“We don’t do that.”
I notice that even though Shawn’s taller than you, your hand is on his shoulder and his is on your back. Is that a dominance move?
“It is not.”
Is he your pup? Do you two engage in silicone-based genital plumping? Do you make him sleep on the floor and call you Master Noodles-And-Beef?
“You truly, truly need to get off the internet.”
Why is he glowing and you’re so greasy? It can’t be the lighting, because you’re in the same light.
“Can we be done?”
Wanna get into that shit?
“No, I just hate you.”
We’re not done.
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Hate you so much.”
…
“You’re on with John.”
“Hållo. Describe everysing you did today. Leåve nossing out.”
“Who in God’s name is this and what the hell kind of accent is that?”
“I am Karl Ove Knausgård, and I have decided to write about you, John Mayer. This morning, I awoke at 0612. The baby was fussing in her room, not crying or even babbling, but making low murmurations. What could they mean? Are they infantile poetry, and by this I ascribe intentionality to her sounds, of meter and rhyme as though these could exist in the pre-verbal world of this infant, this child I have created. I am barefoot and quiet as I enter the kitchen which my wife, a failure of a cow, has left in disarray from the previous evening. The balcony is there and so is my packet of Pikk cigarettes. There are 14 left within the soft paper-and-plastic wrapping with the outsized warnings printed upon. I regard the warnings as I do my daughters burbling. Perhaps they mean something, and perhaps they do not. I piss off the balcony and steam rises from the wet parabola, as it is May and therefore the temperature is below 10 degrees. Inside the house–”
“Excuse me.”
“–my coffee is making itself. I have pressed the button to begin the process, but otherwise am uninvolved. The beans have come from Ethiopia, a country I have never been to, but–”
“HEY!”
“–mean to visit one day. Excuse me?”
“I have literally no idea who you are.”
“My presence here is a sop to the more literary of the readers.”
“Uh-huh. I’m gonna pass on the whole thing. Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Brad Pitt?”
“I’m sure it has nothing to do with my success. I am one in a long line of Norwegian diarists to find worldwide fame.”
“Gotcha.”
All the other Rock Stars would take their eyeglasses off before they went on stage; you know the old saying: Boys don’t fuck asses if they wear glasses. But the Dead didn’t give a shit.
I can’t explain what this is besides heavenly dumb.
*Not Safe For Fucking Anywhere Or Anyone
Fuck Thanksgiving: I declare it Tuskgiving. Dinner will be two years late, cost four million bucks, and cause the family to break up.
Okay, Enthusiasts, contest time. Got a new, fun question for all you Rock Nerds out there: What song’s verse should have been its chorus? You know how Rock songs work, right? Opening bit, verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus solo, chorus, rehab. And the chorus is supposed to be the most exciting part. Your verse, that’s your log flume; and your bridge, there’s your bumping cars; but the chorus? That’s your rolly coaster right there. The chorus is what puts asses in seats, but sometimes things get all topsy-turvy in the recording studio and all the boner gets put in the verse instead of where it belongs.
An example:
Hear the verse? It’s all propulsive and forceful and nipple-hardening–there’s a Passion Killer on the loose, for fuck’s sake!–and then the chorus hits you like a swirling toilet of Queen-based harmonies. Where did Passion Killer go? Did Jeff Leppard ever get to touch her? She was the only one about whom he could make such a claim, at least according to Jeff, and I think we can trust a man wearing leg warmers over him leather trousers.
Another:
Quell tragique, mon Enthusiastiques! They build up such momentum during the verse–dig that crazy wah-wah pedal–and then the chorus hits WHAM like a brick wall of boredom. The verse could be a tune off an early Mott the Hoople record, but the chorus is cribbed from a late Air Supply album. Also: holy shit, these guys used to be the Bay City Rollers? Learn something new every day. Usually, the something is more useful, but we work in the dark in this life. Also also: white Gibson double-neck PLUS Rickenbacker bass for the win. Also also also: I can’t tell if the lead singer is cute or if he has Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.
Your task is in front of you, and I know this is a toughie, but goddammit I believe in you.
And I believe in America.
Hey, Pig. Whatcha doing?
“Aw, you know the ol’ Pig. Drinkin’ my wine an’ singin’ the blues!”
Sure.
“Don’t got too much t’ be blue about, tho! Got me a free shirt.”
You’re at Duke, huh?
“Harvard o’ North Carolina! That’s what ev’rybody keeps tellin’ me, anyway. I don’t know too much ’bout that. The ol’ Pig never did take too well t’ school.”
Weren’t much of a student, huh?
“Couldn’t see no need for most of it! Brought me down, man! I go to history class, an’ the lady’s tellin’ me all about Napoleon. I got my own problems! Let Napoleon take came o’ hisself! Wouldn’t mind meetin’ that Josephine chick, tho. Heh heh.”
She was something.
“My math teacher tried t’ tell me that Pythagoras got a theory! I told that ol’ teacher that I got a plenty o’ theories, but I don’t bother teenagers with ’em!”
Good point.
“Only one I liked was Miss Worthy. Taught me Second Grade. Fine woman! I would show up early jus’ to bang out her erasers!”
You had a little crush on her?
“Yes, I did! So I gave her my rap!”
Did it work?
“It most certainly did not!”
Can’t win ’em all.
“No, but I show up f’r every game!”
You’re the MVP, buddy.
“Most Valuable Pig, yes I am.”
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