That the world today is run by commercial empires and evil capitalists is something even that weird bloke down at the local pub who never wears a shirt, is able to realise without much effort, and so most of us have lulled ourselves into a cotton candy reality where we think we just have to live with all the ads, banners, posters, sounds, shrieks and flashes that are crammed into our every orifice day and night. Ads are wonderful after all, right? We've all experienced how a little shopping can cure the bubonic plague and poverty, changing your brand of cat food will make your wife more sexy and loving, changing your hair colour will make you slim and forever running around on some beach with tons of young, scrumptious, half nude men, and buying a new car will save your marriage and the environment.
Seeing as you are most likely reading this on your computer, unless you're just some freak that prints out all the blogs you read and take them with you to bed at night, you too will have noticed the hysterical, blinking neon orgasms that pop up on the sides of what you're trying to focus on. Who in their right mind can concentrate on a boring text about prerural deconstruction issues in Videberg-styles when there's a hot, half nude woman luring you into a membership at the Bird Watchers Association, or some hypnotic whirling spiral makes you buy the new shades with a built in mp3-player. Watch out for those offers that seem just a tad bit too good to be true. Getting one pair of free woollen socks if you say yes to take in three Mongolian princesses and marrying them is not a particularly good deal… If you're a woman.
Many may not think ads on TV is such a bad thing, seeing as it gives them a chance to run to the toilet, beat their wife or walk the dog, but there are only so many times I can wee in one hour. The worst part about TV ads though, is the volume. I know you've experienced what I have. It's a late, calm, sleepy winter night, you and your partner are lounging in the sofa, clawing each other like there was no tomorrow, whilst watching a shitty romantic film about "life" with a lot of crying. All is quiet, the only sounds protruding the silence is the mellow squeals of your neighbour ritually slaughtering a goat. Suddenly you both jump, your bodies are elevated and smashed against separate walls by the intense volume of the commercial break on the screen cutting out the terrible, but calm tuba solo of the film. It's like going from a harp number to Gene Simmons on sewing machine oil and lemonade.
Like the man you are, you know it's your job hauling yourself across the floor, to the sounds of your loved one's hysterical sobs, throwing yourself forward to grab the remote and turn down the volume, but even though you just saved both your lives, the only thing you can think of is that you won't get any tonight. And it's all the commercials fault.
Once, I went to my local cinema, and sitting there in the dusky dark waiting for the terrible mind raping experience of some Hollywood flick to start (I have my weak moments, like all the rest of you lot), AFTER having paid my 100 NOK / £ 10 / 5 $ / € 12 and being bled for another violation buying a bar of chocolate. During the intense ad marathon before the film started, there was an ad for the cinema itself, marketing possible private clients in the room, it informed us that "Nobody minds ads at the cinema - Advertise at Bergen Cinema".
Yeah… Yeah… People LIKE sitting 20 minutes in a dark room with strangers learning about chewing gum and sanitary pads. There was only so much I could do not to pull a Hulk there in the dark, jump up screaming, ripping off my shirt and spilling my precious chocolates into the afro of the person in front of me, foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog whilst running down the isle up to the big screen, falling onto my knees and screaming "why, god? Why?!"
Ok, I didn't do any of this, but leaving the cinema afterwards, I was cruel enough to NOT throw my waste in the bin. Take that, Bergen Cinema!
For those of you who have been deprived of contact with the opposite sex since birth, your first and foremost contact with ads is when you check your mailbox every morning (you know, the box outside your door, you modernistic bastard). No matter how well you know that death trap your mailman has left for you, you know you have to open that box to get your new issue of "Better Boobies Exclusive", and every time it's the same. Once you open that lid, brochures and fliers shoot up and out, smacking you in the face and burying you in a ton of pornographic ink fuse and diabolical paper, and none of your neighbours can help you, because they are all suffering the same fate. To help myself, I've put up bright stickers, approved by the Mail Service naturally, that say "No ads, please", or "Only addressed mail", but it never helps. Now and then an inattentive, or just pure evil mailman ignores the thirty stickers completely, and when I think I'll be safe checking my mail, in reality my hand is soon caught in an ad bear-trap when I put it in the mailbox, and I thrash around on the ground in a brutal death roll, thinking that that mailman will surely die for this.
The same thing happens a lot when I take the bus. Now, the only thing you can do on a bus is stare. And think. But when one of those things are taken away from you, you get angry, and you start writing about it online, like a sad degenerate. Like when the bus passed a parade of nude people protesting. Everybody on the bus were all eyes and mobile cams, but I, I was staring into a gigantic poster telling me how wonderfully fantastic this new phone company was. Ads stopped me from seeing naked people. Nothing makes people angrier than missing nudity!
Despite the hostility many show towards commercialism, working with commercials is still pretty popular. Even my own father got a job in a media and ad company a couple of years back. My first reaction was naturally shock, disbelief and a short trip up on the roof threatening to throw myself onto the spiked iron fence below, but when I had been tricked back down with candy and flattery, I tried to look on the bright side of it. I even visited my dad at work to meet his new colleagues, they were all very nice, too nice indeed, because they invited me to join their morning meeting, and I knew it was too late to escape when those huge, iron bolted doors were closed behind me and the Circle Master lit the black candles in the pentagram on the floor. They all started chanting the name of evil as I crawled into a foetal position in one of the corners with my doctor and pharmacist on speed dial, knowing all to well this would scar me for life.
Let me just make my point clear. I hate commercials, I hate ads. Unless it's used for promoting this wonderful blog, of course.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
The Smoke-Break Syndrome
I know smokers are on everybody's hate-list already, but to be honest, I don't really give a shit if I breathe in second hand smoke, farts, pollution, body odours or stupidity. Everyone has some unbreakable habit that annoys the hell out of others, unfortunately in most cases there are no angry mobs raging around every corner ready to put a stake through your heart if you let a bad joke rip, but I'm sure with the same amount of marketing, like anti-smoking campaigns, that can be arranged too.
No, let's get to the point. I don't smoke, it just happened that way because I'm not cool, I'm a neat freak and there's no room in my life for a second addiction after chocolate, but there will always be friends, parents and boyfriends that smoke. That's all fine and dandy, as long as they put out a candy dish to keep me satisfied, no, my beef with smokers is a very different one. It's the smoke-break syndrome.
If you are a crumble socially damaged like me, that'll probably be about 50% of you (I see you silent freaks on the bus every day trying to pretend I'm not staring at you, don't lie to me!), you will nod in agreement in just a few seconds. If not, get lost...till my next post that is.
So your boyfriend has taken you to meet some of his family, be it uncles, cousins or those other accidents we call family members, and you've never met any of them before. You put on your nicest dress, with the lowest level of tartiness, you smile and pretend you won't ever divorce his sorry ass when you're both 40 and ugly, and your boyfriend takes care of most of the talking, whilst you nod and contribute with a "yes", a "no" and a blatant lie about the delicious cake. All is well. Right?
Wrong. Suddenly, your smoking boyfriend gets up, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and moves towards the terrace door. Naturally he can't endanger the lives of others with that rusty, bloody knife he puts to his lips, nooo, and ruing aunt Maggie’s lovely acid yellow drapes, certainly not! He goes outside to smoke, and then it happens.
The empty faces of all his family members stare at you in anticipation. Silence smothers everything. Their eyes follow your every move, and that's when you start staring back. You don't know what to say, because you don't know them, you don't care to either, and you're too intelligent for stooping to the intense low of talking about the weather, clearly you can see from where you are sitting that your boyfriend has icicles hanging from his nose hairs out there. You all take turns looking at your boyfriend, trying to force him back in with telepathic threats of another world, you pretend to have an itch on your ankle just to have something to do, and somewhere a cat is dying outside, instantly you wish it was you. A chair creaks, an uncle coughs, someone has the decency to ask if you want another piece of cake, and even though you almost caught your death trying to get it down the right hole the first time in its awfulness, you grab it with both hands and say thank you five times and contemplate kissing the hands of the person offering it to you, till your boyfriend finishes his cigarette and comes back to end the silence continuum of social disturbance.
Oh, don't bloody act like it hasn't happened to you.
No, let's get to the point. I don't smoke, it just happened that way because I'm not cool, I'm a neat freak and there's no room in my life for a second addiction after chocolate, but there will always be friends, parents and boyfriends that smoke. That's all fine and dandy, as long as they put out a candy dish to keep me satisfied, no, my beef with smokers is a very different one. It's the smoke-break syndrome.
If you are a crumble socially damaged like me, that'll probably be about 50% of you (I see you silent freaks on the bus every day trying to pretend I'm not staring at you, don't lie to me!), you will nod in agreement in just a few seconds. If not, get lost...till my next post that is.
So your boyfriend has taken you to meet some of his family, be it uncles, cousins or those other accidents we call family members, and you've never met any of them before. You put on your nicest dress, with the lowest level of tartiness, you smile and pretend you won't ever divorce his sorry ass when you're both 40 and ugly, and your boyfriend takes care of most of the talking, whilst you nod and contribute with a "yes", a "no" and a blatant lie about the delicious cake. All is well. Right?
Wrong. Suddenly, your smoking boyfriend gets up, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and moves towards the terrace door. Naturally he can't endanger the lives of others with that rusty, bloody knife he puts to his lips, nooo, and ruing aunt Maggie’s lovely acid yellow drapes, certainly not! He goes outside to smoke, and then it happens.
The empty faces of all his family members stare at you in anticipation. Silence smothers everything. Their eyes follow your every move, and that's when you start staring back. You don't know what to say, because you don't know them, you don't care to either, and you're too intelligent for stooping to the intense low of talking about the weather, clearly you can see from where you are sitting that your boyfriend has icicles hanging from his nose hairs out there. You all take turns looking at your boyfriend, trying to force him back in with telepathic threats of another world, you pretend to have an itch on your ankle just to have something to do, and somewhere a cat is dying outside, instantly you wish it was you. A chair creaks, an uncle coughs, someone has the decency to ask if you want another piece of cake, and even though you almost caught your death trying to get it down the right hole the first time in its awfulness, you grab it with both hands and say thank you five times and contemplate kissing the hands of the person offering it to you, till your boyfriend finishes his cigarette and comes back to end the silence continuum of social disturbance.
Oh, don't bloody act like it hasn't happened to you.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Dentists - Unorthodox Rapists
It’s a beautiful springy day, ah, just smell that fresh fertilizer rich air as you get off the bus and cross the road to your mailbox, you find a penny on the street and do a little Chaplin-jump of pure joy, the kind that makes your passing neighbour cover the eyes of his little Cavalier King Charles spaniel just in case you’ve completely lost it, but it’s a good day, that’s all. Nobody tried to strangle you with a phone cord at work, and newspapers read “chocolate makes you a better person – proven facts!”. Maybe today will be the day for a mailbox filled to the brim with exotic parcels from less exotic admirers (like that scary bloke down the street with no eyebrows), free chocolate samples and free midget porn. Today is the day, indeed, nothing can burst your bubble now!
Except for that little card greeting you at the bottom of the mailbox, like a dead body in the pool, a chocolate stain on the back of your white trousers, a moustache on a ridiculously pretty man... It’s a notice on your annual appointment at the dentists.
You hear a violent scream, and soon realise it came from your own self. The postman, now returning to his car having done his job for the day, twirls around rapidly, and making a swishing movement with his hands screams: “I know Taekwando!”, but it’s not him you want to kill today, no matter how much rubbish he crams into your violated little mailbox on a daily basis, it’s yourself. You know you’re a grown-up now, no more begging for ice cream at the shop, no more playing with anorexic plastic dolls, and certainly no more mum and dad lying to you telling you you’re all going to the circus to get you to the dentist without anyone dying in the process.
Regular maintenance of your fangs is all that’s gonna keep you from a mental institution, if your parents weren’t lying about that too. Without your teeth looking all swanky you won’t get a job, you won’t get laid, and you can’t have any more hard candy. Now, I don’t know about you lot, but that last thing is what scares the hell out of me, and therefore I have accepted a certain evil into my life. I need to visit the dentist, but I won’t go without a fight.
The days after that fatal card, pass quicker than a sexy blonds musical career, you wake up bathing in your own sweat, and have a little swim before changing the sheets for the tenth time that night. Tuesday morning all your die hard friends show up at your door, forcing the bottle of vitamin pills that you’re threatening to kill yourself with out of your hands, as you hiss and spit like a snake on crack, but pretty soon they have you hogtied and helpless in the back of a Volkswagen on the way to the dentist.
I don’t know if I’m the only one to notice this, but the waiting room in a dentists office is always so bloody light and airy, like you’ve already died and gone to heaven, surely just another trick to make you fight the dying process in the dentist chair a bit less enthusiastically, but the stench of cleanliness and dentisty chemicals slap you in the face to remind you to keep fighting. Your friends seat you between a spotty kid with the whole bloody transsibirian railroad jammed into his mouth, and a sad case of a middle aged JAWS syndrome, can anyone say YATZI? As you sit there, watching the other tooth victims go through all the ladies magazines in hope of a glimpse of flesh, you start to wonder whether your fear of dentists is a tad bit irrational, until a chilling roar of immense pain from the next room shatter the glasses of the spotty railroad kid and makes your friends run for cover. Two seconds later you find yourself smeared onto the glass exit door, whilst three strong male dental secretaries round you up like a mad bull at a rodeo. You manage to get a hold of a wooden coat hanger, and rip off two pieces to form a cross against the unholiness of the situation, but once the gates of hell open into the dentists office, there’s no doubt in your mind that Jesus doesn’t care about your dental situation, unless your teeth touch alcohol or genitals.
And so, you find yourself strapped to the mechanical chair, with a bright Gestapo lamp stinging your eyes, and a shadowy figure of a man leaning over you whilst putting on latex gloves, which is never a good sign, unless... No, there are no unless’es, sorry. Some things I have learned about dentists during all these frightening sessions over the years, is that they always have gigantic nostrils. I sometimes like to think it’s nature’s way of distracting you from the pain, just like a terrible car accident you can’t stop staring at, even though blood is spraying everywhere, like a fountain. Also, they always lie to you when they say what they are about to do, because never ever, in 25 years, have I heard the words “immense pain” or “suffering”, come out of a dentists mouth.
So there he is, approaching you with some gigantic crude power tool in his hands, ready to violate you in the most passionate way he knows how. In truth, dentists are nothing but well educated, paid rapists, who just happen to rape you in the wrong orifice, with the wrong tools, but that’s a whole other political debate. You’ve finally had it, sneaking a hand out of the strap you’ve been fighting for ten minutes, you blind the dentist with a squirt of extra minty toothpaste, which leaves you just enough time to get to the door, diverting the two dental secretaries with a tiny mirror and various other pointy objects you grabbed whilst fleeing. Coughing up cotton balls in between the curses, you make it to the door, throw yourself out onto the street, cheering for joy. Cheering for the freedom, cheering for the sunshine, and the endless toothache that will make you a soup eating bastard the rest of your days... Oh well.
Except for that little card greeting you at the bottom of the mailbox, like a dead body in the pool, a chocolate stain on the back of your white trousers, a moustache on a ridiculously pretty man... It’s a notice on your annual appointment at the dentists.
You hear a violent scream, and soon realise it came from your own self. The postman, now returning to his car having done his job for the day, twirls around rapidly, and making a swishing movement with his hands screams: “I know Taekwando!”, but it’s not him you want to kill today, no matter how much rubbish he crams into your violated little mailbox on a daily basis, it’s yourself. You know you’re a grown-up now, no more begging for ice cream at the shop, no more playing with anorexic plastic dolls, and certainly no more mum and dad lying to you telling you you’re all going to the circus to get you to the dentist without anyone dying in the process.
Regular maintenance of your fangs is all that’s gonna keep you from a mental institution, if your parents weren’t lying about that too. Without your teeth looking all swanky you won’t get a job, you won’t get laid, and you can’t have any more hard candy. Now, I don’t know about you lot, but that last thing is what scares the hell out of me, and therefore I have accepted a certain evil into my life. I need to visit the dentist, but I won’t go without a fight.
The days after that fatal card, pass quicker than a sexy blonds musical career, you wake up bathing in your own sweat, and have a little swim before changing the sheets for the tenth time that night. Tuesday morning all your die hard friends show up at your door, forcing the bottle of vitamin pills that you’re threatening to kill yourself with out of your hands, as you hiss and spit like a snake on crack, but pretty soon they have you hogtied and helpless in the back of a Volkswagen on the way to the dentist.
I don’t know if I’m the only one to notice this, but the waiting room in a dentists office is always so bloody light and airy, like you’ve already died and gone to heaven, surely just another trick to make you fight the dying process in the dentist chair a bit less enthusiastically, but the stench of cleanliness and dentisty chemicals slap you in the face to remind you to keep fighting. Your friends seat you between a spotty kid with the whole bloody transsibirian railroad jammed into his mouth, and a sad case of a middle aged JAWS syndrome, can anyone say YATZI? As you sit there, watching the other tooth victims go through all the ladies magazines in hope of a glimpse of flesh, you start to wonder whether your fear of dentists is a tad bit irrational, until a chilling roar of immense pain from the next room shatter the glasses of the spotty railroad kid and makes your friends run for cover. Two seconds later you find yourself smeared onto the glass exit door, whilst three strong male dental secretaries round you up like a mad bull at a rodeo. You manage to get a hold of a wooden coat hanger, and rip off two pieces to form a cross against the unholiness of the situation, but once the gates of hell open into the dentists office, there’s no doubt in your mind that Jesus doesn’t care about your dental situation, unless your teeth touch alcohol or genitals.
And so, you find yourself strapped to the mechanical chair, with a bright Gestapo lamp stinging your eyes, and a shadowy figure of a man leaning over you whilst putting on latex gloves, which is never a good sign, unless... No, there are no unless’es, sorry. Some things I have learned about dentists during all these frightening sessions over the years, is that they always have gigantic nostrils. I sometimes like to think it’s nature’s way of distracting you from the pain, just like a terrible car accident you can’t stop staring at, even though blood is spraying everywhere, like a fountain. Also, they always lie to you when they say what they are about to do, because never ever, in 25 years, have I heard the words “immense pain” or “suffering”, come out of a dentists mouth.
So there he is, approaching you with some gigantic crude power tool in his hands, ready to violate you in the most passionate way he knows how. In truth, dentists are nothing but well educated, paid rapists, who just happen to rape you in the wrong orifice, with the wrong tools, but that’s a whole other political debate. You’ve finally had it, sneaking a hand out of the strap you’ve been fighting for ten minutes, you blind the dentist with a squirt of extra minty toothpaste, which leaves you just enough time to get to the door, diverting the two dental secretaries with a tiny mirror and various other pointy objects you grabbed whilst fleeing. Coughing up cotton balls in between the curses, you make it to the door, throw yourself out onto the street, cheering for joy. Cheering for the freedom, cheering for the sunshine, and the endless toothache that will make you a soup eating bastard the rest of your days... Oh well.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Cow-ntry Charm
As we all know, western countries have an on-going issue with young people moving to the bigger cities and leaving their rural hometowns and farmland behind to be pecked at by crows and extremist Christians. As long as there is money to be had, it will be had in a cool environment, and let’s be honest, why spend your days looking at cows in the country when you can look at coffee shop cows in the city instead?
Norway is no different in this matter, we just have less people to go around, and therefore have more farmland and nature than cities, a farmland that is quickly turning into forests and muddy hell holes we love to praise in tourist brochures, but have the sense to never seek ourselves (Christ, we’d get our wooden clogs dirty!), because nobody is there to take over the family rake when the old folks take the final toss in the hay. So the youngsters flee for their lives, taking with them their abilities to ace playstation games and post cat fight videos on You Tube, and leaving the country originals behind to roam the fields alone... with cows,,, Let’s face it, that’s a scary combination.
And with the leaving of the masses, whole communities are shut down, the politicians spend their money on prostitutes and exclusive ornamented benches carved from Chinese über-expensive stone that was probably carried from the quarry to the shipping boat on the backs of poor, poor little polio-crooked and sniffling children with splinters in their achy toes. Fitting benches for a fitting park in a fetching city.
Fine, nobody wants to live in a place where the talk of the town is a runaway goat or a lost knitting pin at the church club. I live in quite a rural place, I actually moved here from quite an urban area a few years back, and that’s probably why I see the contrast like it were poo in snow, but I’m too ignorant to care. Either that, or I’m addicted to freaks and cows, like all you others are too, but you have the sense to view it from afar, online. What I keep wondering, in between how good I would look in a cowskin cape, is what made the country such a shitty place in the first place? Did it just become shitty because everyone left and took the cake with them? Or was it just always shitty? Is the country indeed just a grander version of Mariah Carey?
I don’t care much for extensive cultural diversity or a pulsating entertainment industry where I live, like theatres, cinemas, brothels etc., but I don’t care much for the local film club at the church either. I swear the same educational black and white film about the “Hitler Jugend” has been running in a loop since 1947 every Thursday night. The post office, bank and café shut down years ago, when the local authorities decided to spend the money financing designer sofas in the main offices in the city, and I’m sure, in a few years time, they are gonna start shutting down the benches, road signs and trees that are still here, to ship them off to some third world country in dire need of rest, directions and trees to fall over them and kill them during the next hurricane.
Come, come, the stout farmers out here don’t mind shuffling the snow off the eleven mile long road to the nearest city every winter, it just makes them stronger for the annual log carrying contest in the spring. And a little odd. The shops sell nothing but coffee grains, cat food, enema’s and prunes, if you are so unfortunate to stumble upon an acquaintance, no matter how little you know them, you will be sucked into a vortex of trivial shit talk about the weather and crops, oh, and the weather, and when you start screaming hysterically after 30 minutes of meaningless sentence filling words like “well, well”, “that’s just the way it is”, “those pesky kids”, they start asking who exactly you were again.
The people left behind in the country can easily be divided into three categories: There are the old nazi-hating grannies and gramps who built the whole town with their own hands, and who now terrorise teenagers with the stench of blue mold cheese and old diapers. Their favourite past time activities are blocking the isles at the local shops on Saturdays, going to church and punishing the younger heathens and sinners still at home sleeping off Saturday night’s woo-hoo’s, with church bells, and making the sidewalks and nature paths unsafe with their electrical wheelchairs.
Then there are the poor unknowing immigrants and asylum seekers that, immediately after getting their residence permits, walk across the street from the Reception Centre for Refugees and rent the first apartment they come across. Like all the others. Still, they show quite a lot of creativity when it comes to shouting curses to native Norwegian girls in miniskirts passing by.
I believe the third, and last, kind of country dwellers may very well be the answer to why birth rates plummet, scorches and dies. They are the freaks, the originals, the cross-eyed Bob and Anne, who wear the same golf attire every day and tend to dry hump the cashier at the local shop if they go shopping alone. Noooo, it’s not right to make fun of people’s dysfunctions you may say, unless it’s obesity, but hear me out. The day the local politicians prioritised buying a new church altar in solid gold for the 10 die hard Christians still left here, instead of spending the money on chaperones for horny and hungry mental cases, I STOPPED CARING.
Notice, I will not talk about the usual teenagers that spend every night drinking classy homemade brews and go on a pissing spree on their mopeds to rebel against prices on furry review mirror dices for their cool cars, and that is because they are actually the NORMAL ones out here.
Perhaps letting the forests enclose small country towns actually is for the best, that means more time spent chopping wood, and less molesting cows. Not that I will oppose to the exotic fresh breath of genes that would introduce to Incestville...
Norway is no different in this matter, we just have less people to go around, and therefore have more farmland and nature than cities, a farmland that is quickly turning into forests and muddy hell holes we love to praise in tourist brochures, but have the sense to never seek ourselves (Christ, we’d get our wooden clogs dirty!), because nobody is there to take over the family rake when the old folks take the final toss in the hay. So the youngsters flee for their lives, taking with them their abilities to ace playstation games and post cat fight videos on You Tube, and leaving the country originals behind to roam the fields alone... with cows,,, Let’s face it, that’s a scary combination.
And with the leaving of the masses, whole communities are shut down, the politicians spend their money on prostitutes and exclusive ornamented benches carved from Chinese über-expensive stone that was probably carried from the quarry to the shipping boat on the backs of poor, poor little polio-crooked and sniffling children with splinters in their achy toes. Fitting benches for a fitting park in a fetching city.
Fine, nobody wants to live in a place where the talk of the town is a runaway goat or a lost knitting pin at the church club. I live in quite a rural place, I actually moved here from quite an urban area a few years back, and that’s probably why I see the contrast like it were poo in snow, but I’m too ignorant to care. Either that, or I’m addicted to freaks and cows, like all you others are too, but you have the sense to view it from afar, online. What I keep wondering, in between how good I would look in a cowskin cape, is what made the country such a shitty place in the first place? Did it just become shitty because everyone left and took the cake with them? Or was it just always shitty? Is the country indeed just a grander version of Mariah Carey?
I don’t care much for extensive cultural diversity or a pulsating entertainment industry where I live, like theatres, cinemas, brothels etc., but I don’t care much for the local film club at the church either. I swear the same educational black and white film about the “Hitler Jugend” has been running in a loop since 1947 every Thursday night. The post office, bank and café shut down years ago, when the local authorities decided to spend the money financing designer sofas in the main offices in the city, and I’m sure, in a few years time, they are gonna start shutting down the benches, road signs and trees that are still here, to ship them off to some third world country in dire need of rest, directions and trees to fall over them and kill them during the next hurricane.
Come, come, the stout farmers out here don’t mind shuffling the snow off the eleven mile long road to the nearest city every winter, it just makes them stronger for the annual log carrying contest in the spring. And a little odd. The shops sell nothing but coffee grains, cat food, enema’s and prunes, if you are so unfortunate to stumble upon an acquaintance, no matter how little you know them, you will be sucked into a vortex of trivial shit talk about the weather and crops, oh, and the weather, and when you start screaming hysterically after 30 minutes of meaningless sentence filling words like “well, well”, “that’s just the way it is”, “those pesky kids”, they start asking who exactly you were again.
The people left behind in the country can easily be divided into three categories: There are the old nazi-hating grannies and gramps who built the whole town with their own hands, and who now terrorise teenagers with the stench of blue mold cheese and old diapers. Their favourite past time activities are blocking the isles at the local shops on Saturdays, going to church and punishing the younger heathens and sinners still at home sleeping off Saturday night’s woo-hoo’s, with church bells, and making the sidewalks and nature paths unsafe with their electrical wheelchairs.
Then there are the poor unknowing immigrants and asylum seekers that, immediately after getting their residence permits, walk across the street from the Reception Centre for Refugees and rent the first apartment they come across. Like all the others. Still, they show quite a lot of creativity when it comes to shouting curses to native Norwegian girls in miniskirts passing by.
I believe the third, and last, kind of country dwellers may very well be the answer to why birth rates plummet, scorches and dies. They are the freaks, the originals, the cross-eyed Bob and Anne, who wear the same golf attire every day and tend to dry hump the cashier at the local shop if they go shopping alone. Noooo, it’s not right to make fun of people’s dysfunctions you may say, unless it’s obesity, but hear me out. The day the local politicians prioritised buying a new church altar in solid gold for the 10 die hard Christians still left here, instead of spending the money on chaperones for horny and hungry mental cases, I STOPPED CARING.
Notice, I will not talk about the usual teenagers that spend every night drinking classy homemade brews and go on a pissing spree on their mopeds to rebel against prices on furry review mirror dices for their cool cars, and that is because they are actually the NORMAL ones out here.
Perhaps letting the forests enclose small country towns actually is for the best, that means more time spent chopping wood, and less molesting cows. Not that I will oppose to the exotic fresh breath of genes that would introduce to Incestville...
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Being Singled Out
I accidentally came over an interesting political TV-debate the other day. Of course I will throw in an “oh, of course I frequently watch a lot of political debates on more important issues than what I am about to tell you about, all the time, all the time!”, before I tell you that it was about single people, and how they should have the same tax benefits and economical safety nets as married people. The topic really caught my interest, as I, amongst many other hipsters my age, actually like being single, to a certain degree, or just have been involuntarily single since forever because I suffer from the Seinfeld dating syndrome that renders me unable to not go hysterical over other people’s annoying quirks, and therefore I am left sad and alone, with need for a bigger lotion budget.
To me it sounds logical that singles should have tax cuts, being the only one to chip in on the rent every month, but a little text box at the bottom of the screen, enabling viewers of the show to share their sick opinions on the matter with the rest of the nation, showed I had a world of simpletons against me. One woman’s opinion in particular caught my attention though. She thought tax cuts for singles was outrageous, seeing as being single was completely voluntarily.
Oh really?
I don’t know what hippie crack generation this woman grew up in, but let me introduce her to the scene that takes place in all the bars and night clubs all over the country, hell, all over the world for that matter (welcome in, foreigners, now settle down). Saggy tits and steelhairy women’s legs popping out of way too tight pink tube tops and mini skirts, after dusk, like a reversed Cinderella fairytale. On the other side of the dirty bar, male chicken breasts are puffed up and doughy beer bellies sucked in to the spine, as the Ukrainian techno beats start their beautiful message of love and sheep. Standing close enough to other people will expose you to painful pick up lines and conversations, like ... (insert terrible or comical pick up line from last night, you know you have one).
In the toilets, dead drunken, divorced middle aged women toss about their lunch, dinner and cocktails all over the dirty porcelain, to the background sound of hysterical fourteen year old girls crying their mascara off in showers because one of them got dumped during the night. Back at the dancefloor, elderly, pasty and overweight men trail the crowd, shiny Kojak skulls and saggy trousers, blinking their eyes at anything that is still considered a mammal, having to fight off immigrants from all parts of the world just happy to be able to get laid without having to marry anyone, or anything.
Think about it. You won’t have to try too hard, because I know you’ve seen this. These are the beautiful souls you are supposed to bring home and tell intimate secrets about yourself to, like how you’re afraid of clowns and Tom Jones, and then let that person loose at family gatherings, where the story of how you wee’d in all your mothers guests shoes that one time when you were three will ricochet across the room, in between dead dry cake crumbles and luke warm coffee. This is the person you will share a bank account with, knowing that half your income will be spent on shiny, pink, crystal unicorns or geeky cosplay action figures. This is the person that will raise your kids to believe that “Desperate Housewives” is as good as life gets, and soon you will start to agree, quoting the show every now and then, like a proper Hitler-jugend would.
Yeah, yeah, I know, most people don’t even meet their significant others in bars, but through friends or at school, but SOMEONE has to be friends of friends of that scary bunch filling those night clubs every evening. We just don’t like to admit that sometimes horniness takes us to a dark place.
Either way it can’t be said that we choose this lifestyle of loneliness completely voluntarily, it would be like saying all Iraqis love Americans because they don’t all go busting a bazooka-cap in their American asses. From a distance, the opposite sex can be kind of cute, kind of like lion cubs are, before you put your fingers through the fence and discover a new way of screaming.
Sure there is a small community of hard boiled singles that actually enjoy being alone all the time, but usually their need for solace is followed by an incredible amount of involuntary body gases and intimate itches. It may very well seem like young people today have become so egocentric and focused on their own special needs, that we would all be superstars under a microscope. The perfect mate has become a believable reality now that we can talk to anyone everywhere online, see genitals in free flow on webcams for free, and if you no longer can find a perfect mate in a café or bar, you can order him or her online, no one gives a shit, unless you try to pay in cash. Which reminds me of an urgent matter; where the hell is my 2 metres tall Christian Bale clone, delivered complete with batteries, a loin cloth and serving tray??
Still, having all these opportunities of finding the perfect mate only leaves us in realisation of one thing, even the world isn’t big enough for our special partner needs.
Some things just don’t work as well when you’re alone. Who’s gonna file a missing person’s report when you following a drastic Mexican dinner, where you showed off by juggling five chilli’s with your tonsils and had a swallowing accident, end up in the bathroom for five days with the complete collection of Conan the Barbarian comic books, chewing the shower curtain in this ritual to manhood?
Who will you send as a trusty representative at boring family parties when there’s a really important football match on, and your cousin has squeezed out a pair of twins that need to be praised for hours on end?
Personally I’ve come to the point where I don’t really get excited by much other than chocolates and pretty, shiny things (no unicorns yet). I’ll function just fine on my own when I go insane and start eating cat food whilst watching women’s football, but i bloody want a tax reduction whilst being that damn happy.
To me it sounds logical that singles should have tax cuts, being the only one to chip in on the rent every month, but a little text box at the bottom of the screen, enabling viewers of the show to share their sick opinions on the matter with the rest of the nation, showed I had a world of simpletons against me. One woman’s opinion in particular caught my attention though. She thought tax cuts for singles was outrageous, seeing as being single was completely voluntarily.
Oh really?
I don’t know what hippie crack generation this woman grew up in, but let me introduce her to the scene that takes place in all the bars and night clubs all over the country, hell, all over the world for that matter (welcome in, foreigners, now settle down). Saggy tits and steelhairy women’s legs popping out of way too tight pink tube tops and mini skirts, after dusk, like a reversed Cinderella fairytale. On the other side of the dirty bar, male chicken breasts are puffed up and doughy beer bellies sucked in to the spine, as the Ukrainian techno beats start their beautiful message of love and sheep. Standing close enough to other people will expose you to painful pick up lines and conversations, like ... (insert terrible or comical pick up line from last night, you know you have one).
In the toilets, dead drunken, divorced middle aged women toss about their lunch, dinner and cocktails all over the dirty porcelain, to the background sound of hysterical fourteen year old girls crying their mascara off in showers because one of them got dumped during the night. Back at the dancefloor, elderly, pasty and overweight men trail the crowd, shiny Kojak skulls and saggy trousers, blinking their eyes at anything that is still considered a mammal, having to fight off immigrants from all parts of the world just happy to be able to get laid without having to marry anyone, or anything.
Think about it. You won’t have to try too hard, because I know you’ve seen this. These are the beautiful souls you are supposed to bring home and tell intimate secrets about yourself to, like how you’re afraid of clowns and Tom Jones, and then let that person loose at family gatherings, where the story of how you wee’d in all your mothers guests shoes that one time when you were three will ricochet across the room, in between dead dry cake crumbles and luke warm coffee. This is the person you will share a bank account with, knowing that half your income will be spent on shiny, pink, crystal unicorns or geeky cosplay action figures. This is the person that will raise your kids to believe that “Desperate Housewives” is as good as life gets, and soon you will start to agree, quoting the show every now and then, like a proper Hitler-jugend would.
Yeah, yeah, I know, most people don’t even meet their significant others in bars, but through friends or at school, but SOMEONE has to be friends of friends of that scary bunch filling those night clubs every evening. We just don’t like to admit that sometimes horniness takes us to a dark place.
Either way it can’t be said that we choose this lifestyle of loneliness completely voluntarily, it would be like saying all Iraqis love Americans because they don’t all go busting a bazooka-cap in their American asses. From a distance, the opposite sex can be kind of cute, kind of like lion cubs are, before you put your fingers through the fence and discover a new way of screaming.
Sure there is a small community of hard boiled singles that actually enjoy being alone all the time, but usually their need for solace is followed by an incredible amount of involuntary body gases and intimate itches. It may very well seem like young people today have become so egocentric and focused on their own special needs, that we would all be superstars under a microscope. The perfect mate has become a believable reality now that we can talk to anyone everywhere online, see genitals in free flow on webcams for free, and if you no longer can find a perfect mate in a café or bar, you can order him or her online, no one gives a shit, unless you try to pay in cash. Which reminds me of an urgent matter; where the hell is my 2 metres tall Christian Bale clone, delivered complete with batteries, a loin cloth and serving tray??
Still, having all these opportunities of finding the perfect mate only leaves us in realisation of one thing, even the world isn’t big enough for our special partner needs.
Some things just don’t work as well when you’re alone. Who’s gonna file a missing person’s report when you following a drastic Mexican dinner, where you showed off by juggling five chilli’s with your tonsils and had a swallowing accident, end up in the bathroom for five days with the complete collection of Conan the Barbarian comic books, chewing the shower curtain in this ritual to manhood?
Who will you send as a trusty representative at boring family parties when there’s a really important football match on, and your cousin has squeezed out a pair of twins that need to be praised for hours on end?
Personally I’ve come to the point where I don’t really get excited by much other than chocolates and pretty, shiny things (no unicorns yet). I’ll function just fine on my own when I go insane and start eating cat food whilst watching women’s football, but i bloody want a tax reduction whilst being that damn happy.
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