Sunday, April 19, 2009
There you are, things are kind of plodding along, a little bit bored perhaps, but you’re not exactly miserable, you relax into a world of your own. A sufficient period of time has passed since you were last bamboozled by an idiot who’d read a dictionary too carefully and briefly tricked you into thinking that this somehow equated to an impressive intellect, you’re almost finished hemming the frayed edge of your dignity. An important task as your dignity is pretty much all you have to keep you warm on cold nights, you sad little wank stain, oh I’m sorry, dignified little wank stain. There is a difference. You go ahead and tell yourself that.
This, my dear reasonably clever and well-bred friend, is where you are at your most vulnerable, especially if you were never exceptionally attractive or owned athletic prowess, because those who are pretty, lithe and fast envy you and they want what you have. God knows why. Here’s what you need to know: your loving parents are liars and you are doomed. Contrary to what everyone has ever told you, your intelligence, wit and eloquence will never ever be a boon in the happiness stakes and is very unlikely to yield success in any way. Nonetheless, you have reached a point where you feel unfazed by frivolity, exuberance and ugly people’s hedonism. You’re feeling ok, because as you know, you’ll never feel great, that is your goddamn fucking forfeit, you soft clever-cunt.
So there you are, your peers quietly respecting you, doing things that amuse you and you are able to think fondly of people and things generally. Metaphorically wading around in some agreeable shallows, looking at metaphorical shells, using your metaphorically naked toes to squeeze the metaphorically warm, wet sand under foot. Maybe even feeling a little bit pleased with the uncomplicated state of your self-imposed exile into quiet contemplation. Be the fuck aware!
Because there, right in front of you on the soft sand, like a cuddly sea urchin, is a Serseri Ummik.
Serseri Ummik, my bespectacled, straight A friend, is the adult equivalent of the hottest stuff at high school. Oh yeah, these little mother-lickers love you, as soon as they’ve peeled their leotards and gym kits off and realised they’re not tall or skeletal enough for a cat-walk, or quite good enough for the Olympic team, they seek you out like culture-limpets.
Take a close look at it. This is what the beautiful people really look like now, even you are prettier than Serseri Ummik. My advice? Circumnavigate, a bitch is a bitch and a jock is a fucking jock, even if they did read an arse-ramming dictionary. Fuck them!
Serseri may seem endearing from a distance, after all this time; with the sad eyes, all limbless and vulnerable, know this: it will kill you once it gets all close. The travesty is that you will accommodate, even pick the little motherfucker up. You can’t bloody help it, you pathetic, blind cretin. I implore you to look closely at it now, you absolute fool, because this is what you will end up with: an arse, that talks bullshit to you with a gnashing poop shoot, propelled towards you with flagrant sex, that it slaps you round the brain with, with such speed, frequency and vigour that you lose your capability for a rationally considered course of action.
You have three options here, totally dependent on who and what you are:
1. For the academically gifted:
Oh dear! The pretty sexiness isn’t even for you; it is for pretty sexiness itself, like some post-modern theory gone right up its own arse (nowhere else it could go, let’s face it). Enjoy that paradox, you stupid clever-fuck! Actually, I bet you will.
2. If you’re bright, but went to a (ex) Polytechnic:
Like some backward ZZ Top video/John Hughes film where the underdog (which is you, you spoddy cunt) does NOT eventually prevail.
3. If you cannot comprehend any of the above:
You are a happy, self-satisfied fuck-pig that will eventually propel the human race forward into a new era where intelligence is a drawback, and you will pop out, or alternatively generate, a load of violent, ugly, ignorant, or otherwise impared fuck-piglets that look good in a leotard but can’t string a sentence together or will ever have an original idea.
Good riddance to the miserable ones and good bloody luck to the limbless fuck-pigs of the future: may your bellies be full and your genetalia be sore.
Mia Tagg 2009®