_____________________________________________________________________________ ---------------------------- I Bleed for This? ------------------------------ ------04.07.96-----------------------------------------------------#039------ It's High Time I Threw a Brick at You by Snarfblat I saw a stupid guy today in the Newbury Comics that just opened here in Amherst. It seems that each new Newbury Comics sucks more than the last one. This one continued the trend by putting wacky stickers over offensive words on the $16 dollar t-shirts they try to sell. I figured out what they say, though. One of them said "Fuck you, you fuckin' fuck." The stupid guy was fat. I later found out why. As I walked into the store, he was waving his arms around and yelling incoherently about something. He was trying to make a point about how non-alternative Newbury Comics was. A cute goth who worked there came over to talk him down, and she asked if she could help him (knowing fully well that he was beyond any help.) The moron spoke. "You don't have High Times? How can you not have High Times?" he bleated, his sheep-like jowls quivering with each deformed syllable. "You have the Brad Pitt calendar but you don't have High Times?" He tugged one of his unfortunate friends. "Look, they have the Brad Pitt calender, but not High Times." B-b-but, Brad Pitt isn't cool! And High Times IS cool! Newbury Comics is the place where everything is supposed to be cool, right? Aha! The illusion had been shattered; this genius fat guy had figured out that Newbury Comics is a business whose goal is to make money. The moron obviously wanted everyone in the store to know what a cool stoner he was, and how bad-ass he was for hating Brad Pitt. He probably also hates Green Day, and any other easy target, except for the easiest one of all, himself. His motives were easier to see through than the hole I wanted to rip in his anal mucous membrane with a piece of razor wire. He was probably trying to impress the goth, or some other poor female mark in the store. Mumbling to myself, I looked down and saw a CD by Lard. Fat people suck, I said to myself. Especially stupid, fat potheads. I bet the only reason that guy smokes up is because he wants an excuse for eating like a fucking vacuum cleaner all the time. "Hey guys, I have the munchies. Can we take a break from playing Magic and order another pizza with extra sausage?" Maybe he wants people to assume his eyes are red from kicking back and smoking weed, instead of from squinting at porno GIFs. Whatever he claims is the reason for his embarassing existence, he can't possibly have a good one. He's a welt on the ass of stupidity. The goth chick said, "We usually have High Times. It must be sold out. We do have the High Times calendar." Then I left. I have always suspected that, somewhere out in the world, there was a fat guy running around wearing a Bob Marley t-shirt and annoying the shit out of people. Only now that I have actually met him do I truly appreciate how sad life is. To anyone who brags about their addictions: you're not unique and you're not fighting the system. All you're doing is exactly what you were taught to do: eating a god damn plant that you paid for with your allowance. Admit it. * * * Amherst townies: I'm around them all the time; I have to get my caffeine somewhere. It's only when coincidences force me to listen to them, that I get angry. They drink their coffee and talk about world politics as if their opinions matter. There's a race war at Taco Bell every Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Wasted youth, etc. A guy tried to piss on me when I was eating my taco in the ATM, the last safe place in town on a Saturday night. At the music store, $2 will buy you a shitty hand-made zine explaining what a sell-out Henry Rollins is. $1 of that money goes to the store, the other dollar goes into the pocket of a 14-year-old high school kid, to fund his continuing loser posturing. If you're going to be rebellious, you might as well profit from it, right? That way, you can fund even more rebellion, RIGHT? Then after a while you can kill yourself because you married an ugly retired junkie whore who keeps all the smack for herself. Hey, punk. IBFT is free. Write about it in your zine, maybe some angst chick will fuck you. * * * They tell us that we're adults at age 21, and you believe it. You believe that you've reached a turning point. You matter more, now that you're an adult. You can start to kick some ass in the real world. Guess what. You're not mature, you're still a stupid kid, except you're not cute or innocent. The only reason you think you're mature is because companies try to sell you "adult" products. You look like the people in the beer commercials. Car commercials are directed at your age group: like you, the car is small, cheap and hollow. Some dumb generation-x entrepreneur bitch tells you, in a Neon commercial, how much fun it is to drive around the city selling coffee machines. "I'm such a hip 90's cyberpunk, I had an espresso machine installed in my cunt!" Desperate for an identity, you take whatever shit product sucks your dick and start a cult around it. Are these people really human? Or just shit wrapped in skin, wearing a backpack, wandering around college campuses? How fucking dumb do people have to be, how many complete morons have to be out there walking around that Red Dog has to say in its ads, "Hey, the dog is red not the beer". How many letters did daddy write, stained with your tears, because you thought the beer would be red but it wasn't? Dear Coors Brewing Company, My 21-year-old son recently purchased a case of your "Red Dog" beer to drink with his buddies. He found that it provided a less than satisfactory drinking experience. The television commercials for "Red Dog" imply that the beer is red, and this lends an element of uniqueness to the product. How can you even try to justify this? The beer is the same color as any other! In my 40 years in advertising, I've never even heard of such a blatantly false statement getting onto the air. As a consumer and an advertising executive, I demand that you modify this product's marketting campaign to include the phrase "The Dog is red, not the beer." -Biff Kennedy You're not just drinking beer, you're devouring the bartender's colostomy bag! * * * If you're so cool, why do I hate you so much? The sorry truth is that you are not cool at all, just another spineless rodent grabbing in the dark for anything that will rub your deformed genitals and make you feel better about yourself. It might be another 15 years before you realize how truly ridiculous your outlook on life is. In that time you'll make embarassing mistakes, ruin lives, break my property, fondle my female friends, puke on my doorstep, and piss on my dog. If I'm really unlucky you might become a senator or news anchorman, and I won't be able to escape your name and your ugly face. You might be my mailman and break up the monotony of your daily routine by talking to me when you bring junk mail to my house, trying to dredge up memories of "the good old days". There weren't any good old days, just long years full of ugly people ruining the scenery. "Remember how rowdy and wacky we were in college? We were quite the pair, weren't we Snarf?" You'll be like the "Three Musketeers" idiot in Slaughterhouse 5, except without the war to mercifully cut your life short. At least he'll always be remembered as being young, if nothing else. You'll be remembered as old, hideous and annoying, if at all. ============================================================================== IBFT: No matter how hard you laugh with or at it, you'll NEVER get it. http://www.amherst.edu/~mcspinks/ibft/ibfthome.html email: mcspinks@unix.amherst.edu ftp://ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/IBFT The Eleventh Hour (617)696-3146 ==============================================================================