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Devil Shat 1999 03 11
.ili. Devil Shat Forty Eight .ili.
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Yeah, You Can Burn In Hell, Too .................... by Morbus
This is Devil Shat Forty Eight released on 03/11/99. 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.
Send articles.
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.ili. Yeah, You Can Burn In Hell, Too .ili.
------------------------------------------- by Morbus
I've got a bitch of a headache right now, and I don't feel like writing.
I feel even less like writing for other people, and more so about
writing to make a point. And then I realize, with a small chuckle, how
great of an article a small percentage of the readers will see this as.
It's not like I have anything to write about, or even the ability to
think about something to. I can just hunch over the keyboard and bang
out words, hoping for coherence.
One of the problems I think contributes to my headache is the fact that
the contrast on my monitor is now all the way up. Apparently, a new
color extension I threw on the system gave me the chance to calibrate my
monitor properly - and the first step was to "push the contrast button
until your eyes hurt". Hell, maybe I've been doing it wrong all along,
but in the darkened quarters that I'm typing from, I almost wish I could
go back to the old way.
Almost wish? What's stopping me? It seems right to listen to the people
who made the color software, doesn't it? It's not like I'm the color wiz
and I can spot the difference between PANTONE 295 and 2995. They should
know better, right? As much as I'm sure that is meant to comfort, it
doesn't.
Another thing that has helped the headaches along (besides the headaches
themselves, there's a sordid bit of reverse logic) is my long hair.
Wouldn't you think? Haven't you cared? I've come down with that sick ass
Valley Girl "twirl the hair", but don't chew the bubble gum shit. Part
of it lends to the idea that I like to have my hands doing something all
the time (as if pausing to think for one second is so long that I have
to occupy myself), but I KNOW there are much more enjoyable things I
could be playing with.
I never thought I would have cared, but I was flipping channels as I was
eating pizza the other day (I always have to do something when I'm
eating food - it's so damn boring and uneventful) and I happened to land
on that stupid ass Monica Lewinsky interview with the old crone. And I
watched it. Look at Monica crying about how the media has been so
horrible to her, and how she cares so much about her parents and boo
fucking hoo. Well, if everything is ok with her (and it should be,
equality wise), then she won't mind when I go fuck her dear mom.
People get confused about who the hell to hate first. The "I'm very
sensitive about my weight" or the "I'm very sensitive of the American
people". Both sensitivities are expendable, don't give a shit about
people in general, and just want to get on with their lives. And then we
raise a big fuss about how embarrassing this whole thing has been. Boo
hoo (no 'fucking' this time). It's embarrassing because FINALLY after 20
years of doing it in our own personal lives, the rest of the world
notices it. We should be pissed off at ourselves that we just didn't
hold up cue cards and say "Hey! Letter 'A' over here! Get the pins!",
and instead decided to wait for the man in Office to do it for us.
Hey, you know, the President is supposed to represent the American
people, and if you think about it, he's done a mighty fine job.
Of course, then we get all mad at the President for another reason. He's
supposed to be helping the small businesses and the mom and pop's stay
afloat. But no, we cry, he's letting mergers take place left and right,
creating monopolies under the very nose of the "Trial of MicroNopoly".
We've got people whose soul purpose in life is to be a middle man to the
phone companies because they have an "in" and we "mortal men" don't.
Let alone the fact that in New Hampshire, we have front pages of our
paper bitching that the House has passed an Income Tax and how people
are so happy that their long struggle to implement it is finally over.
The reasoning? Oh, well, you know, the income tax will help our
educational institutions. Oh yeah? Well, on the back of the "A" (there's
that nasty "A" again) section of the same paper, we see mention that New
Hampshire has been placed second in craploads of educational type
things. So sorry that second isn't good enough for you.
My head hurts more and more. It probably doesn't help that half way
through the rambling of this article. I turned on Insane Clown Posse.
Not that that will make a difference. My sad ass collection of CDs would
have been squeaking and fading if they were tapes.
I think I must be getting fat even though I can't see it. I'm a "Hey
look! A skinny fuck! He can get the nickel from the drain!" type person.
But it's gotta be going somewhere. I figure the only reason I haven't
bought any new music lately is because I've been stuffing myself with
food from delivery places. Still, I'm skinny. Sometimes I think I should
just wipe the pizza all over my ass since it's gonna get there
eventually. "How's that for cheese?", I could yell to passerby's.
One of the best ideas that I have yet to see implemented is a delivery
service that could get you fries from McDonald's, a Faygo two liter
(there's that stupid Insane Clown Posse again) from a convenience store,
and that new cheese and onion meltdown from Burger King. Add on another
three bucks for the privilege and you've got a money maker.
I don't know. My head hurts, I've got pizza up my ass, a cat on my lap,
dead silence (the CD's over and the cat is weighing me down), and I
don't feel like typing or writing, much less thinking. I think I'll
watch some TV - if anything, it'll put me to sleep, add a few more
paragraphs to an already ignored article, or cos me to jump out the
window. Whatever it may be, I can only say with a grimace on my face and
an attempt at a happy ending:
Burn in hell.
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