I Promised I Would Blog About Murder

Right, so – murder. Murder murder murder. Bad thing that, murder. The Senate assassinated Caesar back in the day because they just couldn’t handle how smooth he was at conquering and stuff. Kind of like how you’re jealous of my well-formed sentences in that secret love letter I wrote to Jojo. Do you want to kill me then? Of course not. We aren’t savages.

The question does arise however; how do you handle the instinct to kill? That killer impulse, the primitive blood lust. Everyday it’s gnawing on the inside of you, desperately searching to be free, to be unleashed on the people who deserve it, who deserve your brutal wrath. Or not. You could be clean, good and wholesome. Good luck with that.

In old times, not last week or something, I’m talking centuries ago, people could just die on any day. Life expectancy was like 42 or something in the Middle Ages. That could be historically inaccurate but how do I know you’re a history teacher? So you could just wake up on your birthday or Tuesday and die. And because you were expecting to die in a barn or at the river at anytime, murder was more commonly practiced. You had a problem with grandma, you took her out, with a sword even. Some guy insulted your upbringing in the swamp, you handled that situation honorably with an axe at sundown.

Wars were fought every second month, and this lot of people intentionally murdered another lot of people, often over some crops, a beautiful princess, or for Birmingham. Men were conditioned to kill. They desired to grow up and be shot in head with an arrow for the King or Duke or Pope or Turkey. These were the guys that got all the chicks. Interestingly enough, they all died fighting in vain before reproducing. This resulted in less than optimal breeding partners; like accountants, engineers and sociology majors, being your great grandparents. Their weak genes being passed on explains your unglamorous demeanor today (sorry).

Peasants were slightly oversensitive and prone to violence

All people, men especially, are born with an insatiable thirst for glory on the battlefield. Our entire civilization is built on the murder of people who were stubbornly standing in the way of the ideals and mechanisms that shaped our current mediocre society. We showed the hippies. Something in our jeans genes compels us to be warriors. In the modern context, there exists no formal way to appease that appetite. Naturally, and we are especially great at this, we have discovered some discount substitutes.

Ever since you were born by accident, you’ve been in competition with everyone around you. Everyone in school wants to beat you up. We’re all so perversely competitive all the time. There’s no war, no fight for survival, so – what do we have instead? People try to outdo each other in Pokemon trivia, playing ping pong at church and repairing telephones. Everyday stuff.

School fights have evolved

There exists an infernal disco in our minds at most times. Other times it’s a silent, brooding anger. Sometimes it bubbles over into an outburst at your mother over a lost sock. Sometimes you supplement with Austrian torture porn or violent video games. Or that one Manson song in your playlist surrounded by all the other usual boy band offerings. It’s the reason why head shots in Battlefield are so satisfying.

Atleast you can shoot Unicorns with a bazooka on Playstation

In fact, all modern technology is the bastard child of military efforts to discover new ways to kill each other. How many ways can you kill a man with a microwave? Think about it. It’s a death machine.

After a while, all the milk-tossing isn’t enough, the persistent internal screaming gets too loud, and Miriam loses it. Miriam surrenders to the barbarism, having been conditioned all her life by The Vampire Diaries to have absolutely zero respect for the sanctity of life, she runs you over with her 2011 Toyota Corolla. Murder, Son. It happens. Because killers are what we are by nature, and everyday it’s becoming less mainstream to do it, to kill. Civilization has left so few people to massacre and even fewer excuses to dismember them recreationally. But don’t do it.

No matter how bored/great-with-nunchuks you are. If TV teaches us anything, it’s that, if you do a murder, Horatio or The Mentalist will catch you in next week’s episode.

Downhill From Here

The worst thing is to be run over by a car driven by someone you went to high school with, outside the bus stop where you start your perilous journey to work every single day. Now you have 20 inch thread marks across your leg to match the scars that serve as a constant reminder of your inexperience with a trampoline and/or tequila. Worst part is she doesn’t even recognize you. No, that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that she stopped, and she looks like what
Madonna would’ve looked like had she been the love child of Beyonce and that lady from the Valentino adverts. Her tone is condescending. She assumes she’s older than you. Like a priest sweet talking an altar boy, she feigns sympathy. She smells like a thousand Parisian bakeries on fire. Then she touches your knee. You’re not prepared for this, and then suddenly you wake up.

That’s your dreams now. The 22 minutes of sleep you are rationed to per night are spent. Time to lie awake for six and half hours and worry. It starts after a hard day of being irrelevant and unsightly. Somehow you stagger home to noise, fish fingers and a second helping of disappointment. You may be thinking things will get better. You can grow, you can learn, there’ll be sunshine. I’m here to reassure you that it probably won’t. In fact, it may get worse.

Rationally, you’ll say, we’ll evolve. Evolution is garbage. Ignore the resemblance between your grandfather and the lead actor in Planet of the Apes. On close inspection you’ll find we’ve progressed just an inch away from The Primordial Ooze, if there was ever such a thing. Terrorists want to blow you up. Rappers want to swear at your Mum. Teenage girls want to shackle you to fatherhood. What’s their urgency anyways? Does menopause come early now? It’s probably the fifty growth hormones they inject into chicken. Speaking of chickens, I hate them. The whole point of eating meat is to kill something worth killing. There’s no honor in killing a tiny, flightless bird. You could step on it. Unlike, say a sheep, which you have to chase through a field carrying a knife.

My net tolerance for vegetarians is very low, probably negative even. They are a waste of sharp teeth. You are supposed to eat the animals. I’m sure even Jesus had a penchant for roast goat (yum). There’s limited uses for a cow otherwise, and if you don’t reign their population in by eating them, they’ll be in your yard challenging your cat for territory, which is an entirely awkward affair you should strive to avoid. I maybe will understand if you’re a vegetarian by religion, but not by being some counter-cultural, pan-sexual hippie. There’s a lot of that nowadays – young people who inhale latte’s and despise food for being too meh (more on the plague of young people in another post). The skinny, chic ultra-socialites who compound you with guilt every time you reach for a sandwich. “I hate when people die for food!”, they say. Without food you will die. I know. I saw some pictures. Ironically, they are the ones who shared it on Facebook  The pictures of the unfabulously skinny African children who you can feed with one Like. What power. Make no mistake though, Obesity is a thing. A big thing.

I saw a guy so fat, men stare at his chest. At some point he must have looked down and asked, “Where the hell are my toes?”. Eat as much you like. Just burn the calories. I found I get quite a workout from hating things. You may be wondering if gaining weight could emphasize your personality. Let me throw a shovel at your head right now. There’s a tremendous euphoria that comes from being in shape. Let me also dispel the theory that woman have of big-sized guys. The one of them being fluffy, fun, nice and misunderstood. I can honestly say, from years of experience monitoring obese people as an unofficial Government unsanctioned intelligence agent, that most of them are bitter and generally horrible. And why not, they are obese in a shallow, image-obsessed society. It’s like being a white guy in a taxi rank. The problem stems from bad parenting (as do most issues). Daddy shuts noisy-annoying-fidgety offspring up by shoving cake in his face. Years later and he still numbs the neglect with more cake.

Fat Level: American

Well whatever. Whatever you are or want to be, it’s all the same. Life is a surreal existence that parades in front of you all the the things you want, all the things that will kill you. It’s your choice how you want to di – I mean live. The issue is that you have a tendency towards poor choices. Look at your haircut.

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*Get out