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Sunday, January 22

another old rant

(I've got plenty brewing in the ol' crock pot, but in the meantime, to amuse/frighten/fascinate, I offer this old rant from 1997, "The Beast." If I'm committing a horrid blog faux pas and repeating myself, I beg a thousand pardons, but hey, life sucks, wear a helmet.)


I was going to read a piece I'd written titled, "Kiss My Wide, White, Gelatinous Fanny!", but I decided it sounded a little too defensive, so here is this. "The Beast." The Beast that lives inside me, that undependable psycho-cunt that will reach up your asshole and rip out your heart at the slightest provocation, that undeniable rage that frightens the weak and arouses the sick, that fickle bitch that deserts me every time I get a speeding ticket and leaves me weepy and begging for mercy from some crewcut hard-on with a double-digit I.Q. and a quota to meet.

The Beast likes Jack Daniel's and young, perky-butt boys that the rest of me knows will only break my heart into a million pieces and then tap-dance on the rubble. The Beast accosts assholes in traffic, sends the Mormons to the ex's house, and rips the faces off polite little telemarketers who wake me before noon.

But she, it, he, they-- whatever the fuck this manic/depressive demon is-- deserts me in my hour of need, every fucking time. Oh, she'll back my dad across a room, finger in his face, when this is a man who could snap me in two with his hard, scarred, manual-labor hands, but where was The Beast every time a certain young man shit on my ego and shattered my soul? Where was she when I picked up my last check from my last job, and could have impaled that little bald-headed, no-neck, bug-eyed, knuckle-dragging, inbred baby-eating troll motherfucker on a CD rack, and didn't take the chance? I saw the fear in his googly eyes-- I could have, I should have rammed that cheap-ass demo-model S.A.W. 4-track right square up his ass! But she deserted me, and I walked out of there with "dignity". Shit.

What the fuck is "dignity" worth after a year-and-a-half of degradation and humiliation, a year-and-a-half of eating shit with NO prize at the bottom of the box, a year-and-a-half of swallowing the rage and doing the job and NOT buying that high-powered rifle?

I know. I sound bitter. But I'm over that now. Really. I'm fine. Really.

Actually, I find it rather humorously ironic that a total stranger calls me "bitter" the same week as both of my best friends. And they live thousands of miles away, safely on the other end of the long-distance lines. They say that I'm eating myself up inside, they say I should "mellow out." Ironic, considering they both, each, have some big, bitchy housepets of their own. I suppose I could SEDATE myself like Big Chief Dark Cloud did, and become a socially-acceptable PRICK, too, but-- well, what in the hell would I write about?

So, I snap a few emotional necks with my rants-- so what? I'm the only one who knows who the assholes are, since the names have been deleted to protect the guilty.

I'm just waiting for the day when The Beast either takes over or retires. If she takes over, I'm sure you'll hear about us on the evening news-- "Unemployed disc jockey goes postal in Jackson Square, wounding thirty-seven tourists and killing fifty-four." I am a good shot, you know.

And for those sweetly-condescending old men from last week's balcony-- the ones who told me not to be "so pissed-off", well-- to quote Joan Crawford, "Don't fuck with me, boys-- this ain't my first time at the rodeo."

Beware wide-hipped, curly-haired, bourbon-drinking women--we aim low and shoot straight. I know you'd like the primal security of thinking The Beast only swings around every twenty-eight days, but it just ain't that easy.

The Beast can strike anywhere, anytime, and pities not the weak nor the old. The Beast eats morons for breakfast, sexists for lunch, and rotisserie-roasts the exes for an all-out banquet every night. She hungers for bloodshed, and thrives on fresh meat.

And The Beast can turn a perfectly respectable, college-educated, peace-loving woman into the cunt of your nightmares, gnawing on your jugular faster than you can drool out, "Hey, baby, what's your sign?" It's not that we don't want to be sweet, loving, spiritual, beautiful human beings-- but you just keep PISSING US OFF!

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