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Devil Shat 2000 10 12
.ili. Devil Shat Sixty Eight .ili.
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Rabid Grannies ..................................... by Morbus
ASSHOLIC: ASSHOLIC, PART TWO ................. by Rown Garnbii
Jack ......................................... by Todd Shaddox
This is Devil Shat Sixty Eight released on 10/12/00. Devil Shat is
published by Disobey and is protected under all copyright laws. All of
the issues are archived at the Disobey website: http://www.disobey.com/
Submissions, email, and news should be sent to morbus@disobey.com. Your
comments are welcome. What do you want us to write about? Send an email
and let us know.
512 mp3s. On rotation. Loveliness.
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.ili. Rabid Grannies .ili.
-------------------------- by Morbus
There's a remarkable, yet very likable, injustice in the world today,
one I'm sure you've heard bitching about many times: sending old people
to nursing homes. Much like sending trash to a landfill instead of our
backyard, we send our overused, unwelcome ("i'm noot dead!", "yes, you
are!") rotting family members to the care of fat cranky people who bench
press more weight on grocery night than two or three of the sacks of
flesh we call grannie.
Fat cranky people who don't realize that for the next one to ten years
of this fleshly nodules' life, those hideously wall papered angles will
be the only thing this pseudo zombie can call home.
And the fact that you've got proud corpses who don't want to wake up
when you tell them to, who don't want to eat the banana that's "oh so
yummy for them", and who are more than happy to chew 300 times per
niblet just to make your day more annoying. Sure, they can piss and shit
on you - although that's really not good revenge. Most of the time, they
do that anyways, apologizing profusely or threatening to hit you when
you try to clean their missing penis.
But the system works for them. Finally, you can be abusive with no
respite. Hell, you're on your way to death - what does it matter if
you're scolded a bit more? It's time to strike back with no fear of
punishment.
It's always fun hearing stories from the nursing home - a close partner
works there and brings home many terror tales and ghastly geriatrics.
It's fun knowing that disgruntled old men try to beat teenaged girls. Or
that they're sneaking peeks at plunging neck lines, and pissing on
themselves deliberately for the only sexual pleasure they can earn.
I fully endorse patient abuse as well as helper abuse. Think of it. Send
feisty old grandpa with his cane to Hillcrest Horror Nursing Center, and
let Madd Maxine and her bitches tune his excitability into a honed
fighting machine. Grandpa hits Tina, Tina clocks him one, and they both
chuckle as the drool flecks his chin.
When the threat of death has turned into a blessing, pain and suffering
is a welcome addition to the daily routine. And if you can get your
kicks on the way there, you should. Someone's paying good money for you
to be there, and with the sad monetary state of nursing homes nowadays,
they'll suspend their help quicker than they'll COD the dead.
I'm not afraid of getting old, I'm afraid of the wall paper.
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.ili. ASSHOLIC: ASSHOLIC, PART TWO .ili.
---------------------------------------- by Rown Garnbii
HolisticFP@aol.com
or: I'm with stupid
Let's see. I got fired from my job, smacked with a thirty dollar parking
ticket, shot down by the girl of my dreams and have consumed enough
caffeine to take down a charging rhino on a coke binge, all within the
last three days. It's time to write a column.
For those of you not together enough to have read last months field trip
into my psyche, I'll sum it up. Assholes suck. They are the root of all
evil; they should be wiped off the face of the Earth and they come in
many forms. Forms which, over the course, I'll be describing. Tonight,
we plunge into the murky cold waters of the deep blue sea, in search of
the wily asshole known as... the dumb guy.
Stupid people are, to a thriving community, what highly contagious,
airborne flesh-eating viruses are to a thriving community.
Before people get all shouty, I'm not talking about your run-of-the-mill
retard, or an actual case of A.D.D. (there aren't many) or anyone else
with a legitimate note from their doctor, excusing them from mental
activities for the remainder of the school day.
No, I'm talking about your average fuck-up who just doesn't get it. The
ones who never studied, the ones who never cared. The ones who are only
in it for the emotional gratification and don't feel the need to
otherwise contribute to jack shit. These are the dangers in society.
Truth be told, on a scale of one through ten, stupid people only rank
about a seven on the asshole scale, but they have something else going
for them. Their sheer numbers. They are the worker bees of the race.
They follow orders blindly, they refuse to listen to reason, and are
often times very strong. They can form an army that could march across
the Earth (and at times, has), destroying everything in their wake.
Additionally, more dangerous that their actual physical brute strength,
far beyond that of mortal man, is their disgusting follow-the-leader
attitude. They propagate trends in fashion and pop culture by forking
out hundreds of dollars for fashions they see others wearing, which is
so asinine, I'll never get over it. Can someone please tell me why you
would actually pay someone else to let them advertise on your body?
They keep all the worst things afloat, following anyone with a
catch phrase or armed with a buzzword. Assholes could not be as dangerous
as they are without these people, the stupid.
So, how do we find these people?
How do we stop them?
Interesting question. The stupid come in so many forms, but there are a
few red flags you can look for.
1) Anyone wearing Tommy gear, or any other article of clothing where the
main selling point is the company name slapped across it somewhere.
Usually in gratuitously big lettering. As I stated before, only idiots
do this. Companies pay huge amounts of cash to advertise their goods.
Thousands of dollars for billboards. Tens of thousands for magazine ads.
Hundreds of thousands, even millions for commercials. But you? They pay
you nothing. You, the greatest advertising gimmick in the world. A
walking talking kiosk. A fully interactive model. They pay you nothing
and in fact, you even pay them for the privilege to do it. Why?
Seriously, why?
Hey, I don't know about you, but my body space is for rent only. If the
price is right, I'll gladly walk around in one of those NASCAR outfits,
with the three hundred patches. I have no shame.
2) Speaking of NASCAR... Now, I'm not going to get on everyone's ass,
just for watching this shit. Some, perhaps many, truly do enjoy the
sport. But if you're watching NASCAR with your buddies, and someone on
the track crashes, taking out several other cars as they smack into the
wall going up in flames and one or all of your friends start cheering,
smack them.
I'll be the first to admit that near-death and at times death itself can
be funny as hell, but most of the time it's just inappropriate. So many
people watch sports like NASCAR and hockey just to see fights. Please,
if there are ever death sports in this country, find me and shoot me.
Better than that, yourself.
3) Lastly, anyone who has an opinion on anything, even though you know
for a fact that they've never looked into the subject. These are truly
the worst stupid people of all, because these are the ones that follow
the activists and the politicians. These are the ones who follow popes
and kings into really stupid, stupid wars.
These people don't even go on their gut instinct, they do things purely
because someone said so. They took things as fact because an actor told
them it was so. Thank god most of these people don't vote, but some do.
Please try and stop them.
And if you can't stop these people from being stupid, there is one last
thing you can try. Simply lure them to your own side. That's right,
trick 'em. Better to keep them docile, than enraged. That's what I tend
to do. Convince those around me who can't handle it, not to care. Damn
I'm evil.
----------------
.ili. Jack .ili.
---------------- by Todd Shaddox
Oneness with nature is a crock of shit. Its magnitude smothers rather
than nourishes. It is a constant reminder that we indeed are not a part
of everything. We are aliens. The curse of introspection has separated
us from that which exists here naturally.
The universally accepted (yet endlessly debated) theories of change are
simply macrocosms of the instability in our lives. The thought that all
is born, changes and dies is not reassuring; it's disturbing. At best,
subtly shifting the rug under our feet; at worst, propagating a horrific
feeling of apathy.
The man who stepped into the elevator had half of his arm sewn into his
torso. Jack had heard this unnerving technique quickened the healing of
tissue - but that was merely a finger, a hand at the most. This was from
the elbow down. Where was the rest of that arm?
He could hear the fingers, their joints flexing and nails clawing
through thick goo; swimming in mucous. The man looked at him with a
knowing grin and winked.
They went down and the man went out, taking with him the sweet and sour
smell of oxygenated blood and fetid puss.
Jack got off at the bottom, walked into the foyer and sat in the
watching chair. As they entered from the elevators, a semi-vertical ray
of light passed over their faces. The light illuminated more than their
physical features. As it fell across them, he knew everything.
To maintain his sanity he had created thousands of categories. Today, as
always, he was distinguishing the good from the bad. He had tried this
before with limited success. It's really a lot harder than it seems. He
eventually learned it necessitated the answering of one specific
question. It didn't matter what the question was as long as none of the
possible answers were open to interpretation.
Today's question was, "Would you destroy someone merely to better your
own situation?"
"Ding." The doors open and a tall, thin man steps into the future. He's
wearing a fairly pricey suit with sub-par shoes. He tucks a folded
newspaper under his arm as Jack laughs at the irony. Seven steps and the
light slices through him. Six more and he's out the door.
Jack follows with a confident stride. He has never, ever, been spotted.
The man, whom Jack now called Stan, walked seven blocks to a
coffeehouse, sat down with one cup black and began reading his
newspaper. Jack lit a cigarette and coughed. He couldn't quit smoking so
he had decided to smoke only half a cigarette at a time. He was trying
to decide which half to smoke.
The tobacco crackled and he thought of the immigrant he had married once
and how her eyes shone in the bright light. He thought harder and
remembered her tooth and her sweater and the windshield.
As the fan blew the smoke to the corners of the room he saw the scars on
his hand and the sculptured rug beyond. He stopped thinking and traveled
through the deep gullies in the rug, pushing the strands from his face
as he went.
He traveled until he reached the furthest wall, where he laid beneath
the baseboard and concealed his nest with a scrap of paper. And he was
happy just smoking half a cigarette at a time.
Stan paid his check, left a one-dollar tip and abandoned the diner. He
rounded the block and walked by a small church Jack had never noticed.
He strode into a barbershop and immediately sat down for a trim. Jack
wondered exactly what stakes would lead poor Stan to destroy the
happiness of another. The answer to his question was colorblind. There
was only black and white. There was no scale of absolution.
In Jack's opinion, Stan's hair was now slightly too short. He followed
him back to the building in which they had met and called to him as the
reached the glass and brass doors. Stan turned just in time to receive
an incredibly swift strike to the head with a pair of nunchaku.
Actually, it was more to his face than his head. If you run your finger
across the ridge of your eyebrow, you will come to the apex of an angle.
This specific point is crammed full of nerves and merely pressing on it
causes discomfort. This area of Stan's face shattered like red clay and
his left eye shot from its socket.
Jack watched him fall and noticed he could hear both the blood pouring
from the gaping hole in Stan's head and the arterial blood striking the
pavement some three feet away. He stuck the nunchaku in his jacket and
smiled at his retro weapon of choice.
He walked seven blocks to a coffeehouse. There was music playing and he
leaned his head against the brick wall and let his eyes adjust to the
browness.
After awhile he could see and with this new vision, he noticed a girl
sitting in front of the bar. She was pretty and all alone so he sat down
next to her. As he ordered a drink he realized she smelled strawberryish
and he blushed as he passed gas.
He was about to ask her name but as she turned and smiled he knew she
was the Devil. The last of the spit mingled coffee washed over his teeth
and he left.
The sun was gone now and he could tell by the stillness of the air that
the night would be foggy.
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