Thursday, August 04, 2005

In Which I Ruin Free Speech For Everyone

So it turns out that my good buddy Scott Sala, shitheel-in-chief of Slant Point, whose life and work I so tenderly summarised earlier, has installed a comment screener following a spirited back'n'forth involving yours truly and one of his less evolved visitors. Apparently he hasn't seen the funny side of any of the comments I have submitted for his approval since, for which I can only blame myself.

It's a doggone shame. I really thought I was in with a shot at the top spot in Scott's hilarious caption contest this week. It's a picture of Al Gore just standing there! How could that not be funny, huh? It's just a case of sitting back and waiting for the "I invented the internet" jokes to roll in. Anyway, I'm sure the winner will be a solid gold comedy classic and, as I'm sure you'll agree, the competition over there is pretty tough.

The one thought that claws at my conscience the most in this time of darkness is that I must surely have caused great offence to Scott for him to have taken this drastic step, for in the past he has shown himself to be quite lenient on some his rowdier contributors. Consider the commenters on this post, who received naught but a gentle admonishment from our boy, akin to a maternal finger-wagging or a light rapping of the knuckles:

Posted by: Anonymous on February 17, 2004 06:08 PM

No no, thank you. A couple of old school classics come up next:

Posted by: Anonymous on February 18, 2004 07:36 PM
the only good queer is a dead queer

Posted by: Anonymous on February 18, 2004 07:37 PM
God made adam and eve not adam and steve

Adam and Steve! I must remember that one next time some o' them crazy gayfolk force me to take a husband. Next up:

This is disgusting that we even talk about it.
The want to marry, no problem there is a place for it.
The place we call Mental Institution.
And as per they were born this way. Well if your dog has rabies
You shoot it before it bites you. :)

I was nearly disturbed by the violent tone of that last fellow's intolerance until I saw that happy smiley face at the end there. Thank heavens.

Well, I guess I'll have to put the whole experience down to the difference between, on one hand, disagreeing with someone's ideas outright, and simply objecting to the manner in those ideas are expressed, on the other. If only I had've done some more queerbashing, then maybe we'd still be friends.

Anyway, the point of all this is that the Department is shutting up shop for a week and a half, while the staff take off to go camping in Scandinavian terrain. Browse the archives, foul the place up with abusive comments, or just fuck off. Oh, and I'm taking the fucking drinks cabinet with me you fucking little pukes, so don't even think about it.



UPDATE: Thanks to penis_waffle, in the comments, for this...

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

You Are What I Say

Mean, petty, rodent-faced, fake science peddling, bogus doctorate having, shit prodding, tongue gawking, guilt-trip inducing, shrill voice having, dangerous bullshit spouting, self-promoting, self-obsessed, self-aggrandising, creepy fucking scumbag.

My results are so fantastic - I'm sorry to sound immodest, but it's true - I wanted to take that to the masses. This woman - me - who is completely, brutally, totally honest. People like that. I'm real.

- "Dr" Gillian McKeith "Ph.D"

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

I'm Not Wearing Any Underwear

“At first”, he said, “sitting there by the railings surrounded by the devout and the incredulous, I thought, ‘He’s waking up'. It seemed plainly obvious to me. You know how you might just open one eye and take a look around before deciding to get out of bed? You know?”

I nodded, looking up and trying to hold his gaze for as long as I could stand. His eyes were wild, wide-eyed and wet. I looked back at the cup of coffee cradled between my palms. A full minute went by before he spoke again.

“I wanted Him to see me sitting there when he woke up. I wanted Him to see me waiting. When the people come, I thought, and when the time is right, He will address us. And we will be saved, all of us. All of us who sat up with Him and watched over Him in His slumber - even those who laughed, because something kept them waiting there, something more than curiosity. They laughed because they were scared, and they were scared because they believed.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder, and I could feel him shaking.

“Like I believed,” he said.

Another silence. The steam rose from my coffee and I clasped my hands tighter around the oversized mug, trying to keep warm. Why was it so damn cold in here?

He rose from his chair, turning his back to me.

“And those poor sick children, the way they looked at Him, so hopeful. The old people, the mothers with their disabled sons, all with that same indescribable look. Decades of hopes and dreams and unanswered prayers right there, raw and exposed, on everyone’s faces. And yet, on His face, just that one eye. That one cold, dispassionate eye.”

Those last three words hissed through his clenched teeth, as chilling as the air in his one bedroom flat. Facing me again, tears streaming down his cheeks, spittle flecking his trembling chin. Unsteady, he wiped at his lips.

“You know what I realised? Huh? You know what it was that occurred to me as I sat there?” Shouting now. “That other eye was never going to open! Do you know how I knew that? Do you?

Swallowing hard, and unable now to take my eyes off him, I shook my head.

“He was fucking mocking us! The sick! The lonely! The lost and the abused! All of us nothing more than entertainment, and that one eye another cruel fucking trick played on us, the faithful. That ultimate audience, that conjuror’s dream! The con artist’s dream! That one eye, that one lethargic eye, was the trickster’s sly wink at the hapless mark who knows he’s being duped but can’t help himself.”

Approaching me now - suddenly more animated, more confident in his steps - he raised an arm and pointed straight at me.

“And you! You with your reason and your science and your smug fucking cynicism! Who mocks you? Who denies you your prayers? Who keeps you waiting, repaying your devotion by denying for as long as possible your only reward?”

I was on my feet, my chair upturned on the kitchen floor and the mug lying handle-less in a pool of still warm coffee. He was calmer now, broken and sobbing, but still I edged backwards towards the door. He righted my chair, and sat down.

“This world”, he said, burying his head in his hands, “is fucked.”

I slipped silently out the door, closing it softly behind me. He sat in his cold apartment, and waited to die.