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Devil Shat 1998 06 04
.ili. Devil Shat Twenty Eight .ili.
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Something Stupid ................................... by Morbus
Please Let Me Kill You ......................... by Wil Forbis
This is Devil Shat Twenty Eight released on 06/04/98. 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.
We had a tornado watch in New Hampshire this weekend.
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.ili. Something Stupid .ili.
---------------------------- by Morbus
[Something-Stupid-Note-of-Consequence: Yes, I know this is stupid, and
that it won't be on par with what usually comes from me. But, it was one
of those stupid "gonna type for two minutes and see what comes out of my
head" things. So excuse me. If you don't like it, too bad.]
[Oh-Yeah-Notice: People should really do "gonna type for two minutes and
see what comes out of my head" things. They are kinda fun. Try it, and
send it in to Devil Shat.]
You know, I was walking around on some miscellaneously cool fucking
website, and I came across this page that kept yelling out "you are
dead" and flashing some evil, out of proportion, glowing-eyed, skull of
death thingy thing thing. And I began to wonder. We are dead.
We just look around and take things in stride now. Hell, we loved ER...
we want to see someone beaten or some guy all bloody. And hey,
that John Walsh character always has great hair when he is bitching
about the latest Hispanic bastard running from the border.
And then there is Robert Stack. Good ol' Elliot Ness. Don't you know,
gangsta man, that people aren't conspirators at heart? They just died of
some heart attack, drove into a tree as they convulsed, setting
themselves on fire. The analprobe was from last week's exam, and not
from some "I watch the X-Files" alien super-craft.
We are dead, cos we don't think, cos we don't realize, cos we don't want
to take the time to learn. And hey, we like being dead. We made the
internet, didn't we?
Yeah.
Bitch.
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.ili. Please Let Me Kill You .ili.
---------------------------------- by Wil Forbis
If there is one trait I hate about people in the so-called "alternative"
scene (especially in my hometown Seattle) it's how being maniacally
depressed has become "cool". Everyone wants to be seen as dark and
depressed so they wear black clothing, hold a Burroughs book in one
hand, an espresso in the other and mumble incoherently about how they
really relate to Jim Morrison's lyrics.
Now, I know what you're saying. "Wil, as usual, you are shaman-like in
your wisdom. I, also, hate those sorts of people." Well, back off
sunflower, cuz I'm probably talking about you. Even if you don't fit
into my above description (which is based on a media inspired
stereotype) you probably think of yourself as a sensitive, depressed,
artist type whose hidden talents are being wasted by this concrete
metropolis of modern society. I know this because I spend a sizable
portion of my time listening in on people's private conversations at
cafes, music clubs and other vestiges of hipness (it's sort of a hobby
of mine.) And ninety percent of the conversations I hear are people
whining about how no-one understands them and how they have to get their
Prozak prescription refilled.
"Gosh, Wil," I hear you say. "You're being pretty hard on us. Don't you
have feelings of fear and inadequacy in these times of confusion and
despair?" Be quiet, you sniveling peon. You never talk about me, do you
hear?!? Never!!!
Now I could deal with the whole situation if this were the end of it. If
those trendy, hip, underground folk just went on whining to themselves I
wouldn't mind. But there is a disturbing attitude that I often find
amongst this crowd that disturbs me to the point of being very
disturbed. It's the attitude that only "they" have the right to be
depressed. That only people who stay up late reading beat poetry and
soaking down imported beer have the right to be miserable. And
furthermore, certain people, in fact most people, are incapable of
experiencing depression. People that constitute the mythical status quo,
like white male conservative businessmen (not that I'm one, mind you.
Those people are scum!) are emotional voids, incapable of self doubt or
self pity. You must wear your misery on your sleeve, to be worthy of it.
"Why are you doing this, Wil?" I hear you say. "Why do you pummel us
with so severe a tongue lashing?" Well, let me tell you why. I interact
with a variety of people in my life. Some fat, some short, some who are
wise, some who enjoy cheese manicotti in the evening and some who might
be called "squares". Not squares like cool Olympia bands are squares,
with their Far Side glasses and lawnmower haircuts (reference lost on
anyone who did not live in the Northwest circa 1991), but squares the
way the average Joe is square. People who would have fit right in with
the Eisenhower cabinet but somehow seem out of place in the diversified
nineties. Those who seem callow and unschooled in the ways of modern
culture and are ripe targets for the jokes of those with more cultivated
appeal.
And, to tell the truth, I went along with those jokes for a long time. I
bought into the "us vs. them" philosophy. There those of thus hip to the
ways of cheap liquor, independent record companies and drunken Saturday
night philosophizing, and there was the enemy, who listened to the "Hot"
radio stations and dreamed of a future in statistical accounting.
Since then, I've grown up a little. Perhaps those people might be
shallow and uncultured, but they are certainly not without their share
of problems. The more time I spend with the "squares" the more I see our
similarities. Recently, a friend of mine, I'll call him "Achmed",
related to me his bout with manic depression and near schizophrenia,
topped off with a cocaine problem. Another chum, sporting a team emblem
laden sportsjacket, told me of his abusive childhood. And I've heard
enough secondhand stories to make me wonder when I pass one of those
"Beverly Hills" clones, "What's his psychosis?"
And that is why I reject the doctrine that says one must have green hair
and an imported copy of "Incesticide" to have the blues. The all
encompassing shadow of isolation and loneliness gathers all colors, all
classes and all genders in its gloom. Perhaps those who seem most
perfect have the most to hide.
You can see now, though this article started brusquely, my goal was not
to divide people, but to bring them together in a new age of harmony and
love. Embrace all your brothers and sisters, unite in a cosmic,
joy-filled yaddah, yadday.
Anyway, maybe next time you won't get so offended when you catch me
listening in on your conversation.
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