What Are We Gonna Do With All This Trash?: You Know What, Fuck You All

January 09, 2009

You Know What, Fuck You All

Minding my own business. Cold day. Smoke break. Look up and see something heretofore un-encountered. Looked like this:

And I get pissed. I want to punch the lady right in the face. The same feeling I get when I see people put coats and sweaters and shit on their pets. Start ranting in my head: this is how hundreds of thousands of people are allowed to die in a war based on a lie, this is why more money goes to fucking ASPCA than to homeless centers and soup kitchens, this is how Michael Vick gets actual prison time while rapists and for-real violent people roam free, this is why Darfur is allowed to happen and no one gives a fat fuck. 'Cuz if Darfur were a bunch of dudes killing puppies, then oh-shit, an ungodly stampede would rain down on western Sudan to shut that shit down in a week flat. But no, it's people killing people, so the rest of the world yawns and goes back to hemming their parakeet's cardigan.

Seriously, and from the bottom of my heart, fuck you all.

4 comments:

Mike said...: Now that I've had to time to chill out, I'd like to say that my enmity is aimed at a society that cares more about pets than people, and should by no means be taken as an assault on other blog contributors, who may or may not have an adorable, loving pet of their own, which they may or may not dress up from time to time.; 3:36 AM
Scrap Heap Pete said...: I'm glad you added that comment because that is a fire that you do not want to fuel, my friend.; 6:49 PM
Mike said...: Dude, I know...; 1:26 AM
Mike said...: I'd also like to point out that I -- in my anger, mind you -- used that awful rhetorical device that asserts that violent criminals aren't put in jail, that they "roam the streets." This is the worst kind of ridiculous writing, and for that, along with appearing to be anti-pet, I apologize.; 1:32 AM

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A History Of Trash

Trash, at first, was a pretty cool guy. You know, he’d come over with some beers, and you’d hang out and have a couple of laughs. Maybe Trash brought some weed with him, and you guys tried to sync up Dark Side Of The Moon with The Wizard Of Oz until you remembered you lost your VHS copy of that movie sometime in college and that you fucking hate Pink Floyd. Good times were had, nonetheless.

But then, you don’t know what changed, but Trash started to overstay his welcome. He’d just linger for hours, never taking the hint you wanted him to leave, no matter how many times you yawned obnoxiously or mentioned how early you had to get up tomorrow. Trash just didn’t get it. You were getting older. You didn’t have the time anymore to stay up until 3 a.m. to talk about the Port season of “The Wire” or how much you miss Jawbox. Eventually, you just stopped taking Trash’s phone calls and no longer replied to his group e-mails about sneaking into abandoned mental hospitals.

Last time you saw Trash, he was smoking alone outside a local dive bar, looking down at his decaying and mismatched shoes. You hoped he had been doing well. You hoped he had not been hurt by the disintegration of your friendship. And if he had, you wanted to comfort him. You wanted to tell him that even though people move on with their lives, it doesn’t mean they stop caring. You wanted him to see in your eyes a sincere appreciation for the time you shared, because all the relationships in our lives help make us who we are, and even if you weren’t the best of friends anymore, you wanted him to know that there would always be a piece of Trash in your heart.

But instead, you looked away and crossed the street. You were with your new girlfriend, and you really didn’t want to have to explain Trash to her. She’d never understand.