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So, in reality, all men are modified females. Where do you think those
nipples came from, guys? You’re an afterthought. Maybe that’s what’s bothering you. Is that what’s on your mind, Bunkie? That would explain the hostility: Women got the good job, men got the shitty one. Females create life, males end it. War, crime and violence are primarily male franchises. Man-shit.
It’s nature’s supreme joke. Deep in the womb, men start out as the good thing and wind up as the crappy thing. Not all men, just enough. Just enough to fuck things up. And the dumbest part of it all is that not only do men accept all this shit. . . they do it to themselves.
By the way, I’m not letting women completely off the hook. After all, the one part of the lower anatomy that is the same in both sexes is the asshole. But women who are assholes aren’t called that. They’re named for a different part of their lower anatomy. They’re called cunts. Isn’t it nice that cunts and assholes are next-door neighbors?
NINETY-NINE THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW
There are ninety-nine things you need to know:
Number one: There are more than ninety-nine things you need to know. Number two: Nobody knows how many things there are to know. Number three: It’s more than three.
Number four: There is no way of knowing how many things you need to
Number five: Some of the things you need to know are things you already know.
Number six: Some of the things you need to know are things you only think you know.
Number seven: Some of the things you need to know are things you used to know and then forgot.
Number eight: Some of the things you need to know are things you only thought you forgot and actually still know.
Number nine: Some of the things you need to know are things you know but don’t really know you know.
Number ten: Some of the things you need to know are things you don’t yet know you need to know.
Number eleven: Some of the things you think you need to know are things you probably don’t really need to know.
Number twelve: Some of the things you need to know are things known only by people you don’t know.
Number thirteen: Some of the things you need to know are things nobody
Number fourteen: Some of the things you need to know are things that are unknowable.
Number fifteen: Some of the things you need to know are things that can only be imagined.
Number sixteen: At any time the list of things you need to know can be abruptly suspended.
Now you know.
EUPHEMISMS: Shell Shock to PTSD
Earlier in the book, in the first section on this subject of euphemistic language, I mentioned several reasons we seem to employ so much of it: the need to avoid unpleasant realities; the need to make things sound more important than they really are; marketing demands; pretentiousness; boosting employee self-esteem; and, in some cases, just plain, old political correctness.
But no matter their purpose, the one thing euphemisms all have in common is that they soften the language. They portray reality as less vivid. And I’ve noticed Americans have a problem with reality; they prefer to avoid the truth and not look it in the eye. I think it’s one of the consequences of being fat and prosperous and too comfortable. So, naturally, as time has passed, and we’ve grown fatter and more prosperous, the problem has gotten worse. Here’s a good example:
There’s a condition in combatmost people know it by now. It occurs when a soldier’s nervous system has reached the breaking point. In World
War I, it was called shell shock. Simple, honest, direct language. Two syllables. Shell shock. Almost sounds like the guns themselves. Shell shock!!
That was 1917. A generation passed. Then, during the Second World War, the very same combat condition was called battle fatigue. Four syllables now. It takes a little longer to say, stretches it out. The words don’t seem to hurt as much. And fatigue is a softer word than shock. Shell shock. Battle fatigue. The condition was being euphemized.
More time passed and we got to Korea, 1950. By that time, Madison Avenue had learned well how to manipulate the language, and the same condition became operational exhaustion. It had been stretched out to eight syllables. It took longer to say, so the impact was reduced, and the humanity was completely squeezed out of the term. It was now absolutely sterile: operational exhaustion. It sounded like something that might happen to your car.
And then, finally, we got to Vietnam. Given the dishonesty surrounding that war, I guess it’s not surprising that, at the time, the very same condition was renamed post-traumatic stress disorder. It was still eight syllables, but a hyphen had been added, and, at last, the pain had been completely buried under psycho-jargon. Post-traumatic stress disorder.
I’d be willing to bet anything that if we’d still been calling it shell shock, some of those Vietnam veterans might have received the attention they needed, at the time they needed it. But it didn’t happen, and I’m convinced one of the reasons was that softer language we now prefer: The New Language. The language that takes the life out of life. More to come.
ELEGY FOR “MILLENNIUM”
You don’t hear the word mille
WHO, ME? HATE?
I saw two bumper stickers on a car: HATE IS NOT A FAMILY VALUE and VALUE ALL FAMILIES. What is the purpose of having things like this on your car? Certainly it’s not to change someone else’s opinion of family life at a red light. More likely, the purpose is to inform us that the driver doesn’t hate anyone, and that he considers himself pure and virtuous and better than the rest of us. So it’s actually self-righteousness. The driver apparently forgot that the seven deadly sins include both anger and pride.
JACKO BEATS THEM ALL
I don’t care if Michael Jackson freaked off with little boys or not. It doesn’t bother me. Fuck those kids. And fuck their greedy parents too. What’s important to me is that Michael is the greatest entertainer who ever lived. Bar none. Watch him dance; pay attention to the showmanship. No one ever came close.
Elvis was a bogus white guy with sex appeal and good looks who ripped off a lot of great black music, watered it down, and made it safe for lame whites who couldn’t handle the experience of raw, emotional black music. Never grew as an artist; remained an entertainer. Fuck Elvis.
Sammy Davis Jr.? Nice try. Ordinary dancer, ordinary singer, second-rate impressionist. I also didn’t like the insincere sincerity. But he was a nice man, personally; I give him credit for that.
Frank Sinatra? Great singer of songs, among the best. Superb musician. Grew as an artist. No showmanship, though. Arrogant, too. And mean to ordinary people. Fuck him.
Michael Jackson buries them all. I say give him a bunch of kids and let him dance.
LET’S GET REAL, HERE
I’ve decided to cash in on TVs reality-show trend. I have several ideas, but they may need some work before I approach the networks. Here’s what I’m working on:
ISLAND CUISINE
This idea grew out of Survivor, but I have a new twist: You put twelve people on a barren island, and you let them starve to death. You make sure they get no food, but you provide plenty of fresh drinking wateryou don’t want them to die of thirst, you want them to starve to death.