Short 'n Curlies #44 by Si Spurrier
Overheard conversation between Angry Teacher and Smarmy Little 8-yr-old Schoolkid Bastard, during school-trip to Cultural/Historical Motherlode The British Museum.
AngryTeacher: Bradley! Bradley! How dare you? I heard that! I heard what you called Ashoke! Come here!
SmarmBastard: But sir!
AngryTeacher: At once!
SmarmBastard: Sir, you don't understand! You don't get it!
AngryTeacher: You do not use that word! It's racist and bad! I'm giving you detention, and y–
SmarmBastard: But siiiii-ir, you don't get it!
SmarmBastard: Sir, no, listen! It's not bad to call Ashoke a Paki, sir, because, ACKtually, HA, his mum's white. Okay? So it's not racist, sir, 'cos he's only half brown, and you can't give me a detention at all. ACKtually.
Welcome to the Heart Of Empire.
A BrainFart in the truest sense, now, in the form of a Glorious New Insult forged in the glittering heat of Spontaneous Kneejerk Hate. Like some divine distillation of the Art Of Cursing, I have stumbled upon the One True Cuss, and present here the Parable Of Its Creation.
1. I was drunk. Like, really drunk. So drunk I got on the tube to go home after the pub and wasn't aware of anything more until I found myself standing outside the house I hadn't lived in for two years. This, for added colour, is the second time this has happened.
2. I was walking. (Slouching, stumbling, whatever.) Having got back on the tube — ever-so-slightly-more-coherent now — and travelled to my real neighbourhood, I was bimbling merrily along the street between the station and my home: reflecting on the vibrational interconnectedness of All Human Life, the eternal struggle between Science And Magic, and the astral portals into secondary dimensions which are at the Core Of Us All, and which we all-too-often confuse with some floppy-doppy metaphysical conceptwank like A Soul.
3. I was therefore perfectly receptive to Cosmic Signals. My third eye was C-Sectioned open. I was a spiritual antenna. A Psychic Trap for scintillating radioactive messages beamed from the superdense WYRD at the galactic hub. I was primed. And Then:
4. …And then some midgetcocked Ned in a suped-up Vauxhall Nova went scrulling past at 80mph, leaned out the window, and lobbed a water-balloon at the back of my head.
5. It hurt.
6. Adrenaline, fear, Instant Suspicion that Oh God Holy Shit This Might Not Be Water Trickling Down My Neck What If It's Piss Oh God Oh God I'm Covered In ChavRabies Get It Off Get It Off.
7. Convention — ably backed by the boar-shouldered Lesbian smirking at my sodden misery from a nearby bus stop — demanded that I Respond In Some Way. My brain, so perfectly attuned to UnderNature in that glorious moment, hinged-open to the secret echoes of the Original Slur — the one which Cussed The Universe Into Being — and delivered its beautiful, primal, meaningless sound directly to my brain.
8. "You fucking TONKUL", I shrieked without conscious thought, as the car oozed off in a smear of bass and chrome spinners.
9. I dropped to my moist knees and gave thanks for the gift of the Holy Swear. The Lesbian kept giggling — incorrectly assuming that in my moment of shame and impotence I'd merely spat a tongue-tied spoonerish fusion of other ill-conceived Swearwords, like the cheapcusses "Twunt" or "Shuck", and should do nothing but blush at my stupidity — but I paid her no heed. There have always been doubters; infidels; turdpeople. I had touched the divine and been rewarded.
11. I went home and forgot all about it, sorry, until just now — two days later — when I stubbed my toe in this noisy motherfucking coffeeshop shitpit and blurted The Word again.
I am the Holy Receptacle. The linguistic Ark! All doubters shall be Tonkulled Until Sore! Tremble! Trrremble!
This Week I Have Been Mostly Hating:
…semi naked women.
Oh, don't look at me like that. Hot weather always awakens the more irrational grumpages, particularly when you're obliged to ride three sweaty, pollution-pogged miles on a bike made basically of Lead every day, just to access the fucking Internet at the only cattlemarket café with free Broadband in the Whole Of England, because the inbred weaselsnakes at the Service Provider have their fucking thumbs immovably superglued into their fucking Walnut Canals and Can't Fucking Detect A Fucking Line At Your Fucking Home.
Under such hostile circumstances — be he agreeably heterosexual or otherwise — the absolutely last thing a guy wants as he drips down his keyboard and reconnects for the thousandth time to the pitiful trickle of wi-fi pissing through the greasy air, is a herd of Pachyderm Princesses — each sporting just a single tortured lycra scrap, contorted in labyrinthine folds to only just cover those outlying regions nominally considered indecent — electing to form a chattering queue so close to his table that their porcine arseshelves keep thoughtlessly snapping shut his laptop.
Nothing is more off-putting — and you can trust me on this — than having one's personal temperature pushed from merely "Unbearably High" to "Scalding Claustrophobic Death-Oven" by the radiated warmth from the sweaty pudenda of a Human Hillock in ill-fitting short-shorts. HHHHHHHHHHHHate.
(For the past five minutes I've been preparing, in a fit of buttock-shuffling rage, to deliver a Silence-Inducer to the clamouring establishment — "I'm terribly sorry dear, but your vagina smells like Rotten Meat and it's preventing me from doing my vital, save-the-world style work" — but I've just noticed the piglady in question is staring over my shoulder right now as I type this, RRRRRIGHT NOW, and is undoubtedly reading these words as they appear, and whoops she's going red, and hahahahaha YES there she goes, straight out the door, returning to the Ocean with the rest of her kind, SWIM Willy! Be Free, emancipia, watch out for Japanese and Icelandic boats, it's NOT research, it's NOT research, but it's so damn tasty.)
Find Me @:
Send wurdz, thoughts, stories, Hatings, and the Dirty, Dirty Bastards On The Dutch Footie Team, to the Only Checked Occasionally And I Might Not Bother Replying At All Ha Ha Ha email address:
Or the It Might Not Get To Me At All But If It Does I Promise To Recycle It snailmail address:
C/O William Christensen,
515 N. Century Blvd.
Rantoul, IL 61866
(Disclaimer: Secretly, I'm nice.)
Stay up-to-date and support the site by following Bleeding Cool on Google News today!