The corpse in the machine

[P3nT4gR4m]

Ladies and Gentlemen

Lend me your ears while I paint you a picture. A picture that smells the gasoline victory of a napalm strike. A picture that feels like being impaled on flagpole, waving the banner of truth, justice and the american way. It's a sketch of a murder scene, my murder; a body lying in a pool of clotted blood. One shot, to the head but, here's the rub, the entry and exit wounds don't match up.

Somewhere in the distance a starving dog chews on the remains of the leg of it's master, it's claws long rendered useless from scratching desperately at the front door. Sometimes these things happen. Sometimes life is cruel. Other times the cold hard facts of the matter are - life doesn't really give a shit.

I'm sitting in the living room with the blinds closed. I haven't got the stomach to look at the outside world today, preferring instead to gaze through the lense of that modern day crystal ball that sits in the corner malevolently spewing out banal daytime talk shows, in a crackling glow of escaping photons. Change the channel. Find a rerun of some crappy 70's adventure series to better fit my mood...

Lifestyle 101 - how to be a better zombie in pastel shades and a range of natural fabrics. Great new things you can do with a suction pump and you ass - better than colonic irrigation and the correct way to prepare and serve some weird new fruit that they discovered in the rainforest. It smells like rotting flesh and tastes like diseased cunt, with a subtle hint of almond but it'll be the talking point of any dinner party, "I saw it on the morning show", "Oh I do like their weather report" ... and so the conversation goes in suburban three bedroom coffins up and down the country. Thank god or some fucker at the network for small mercies. Nothing worse than a banal dinner party where something unusual like - nobody talks mindnumbing vacuous bullshit - happens.

There's an advertisement for a titanium coated shaver with 1000 blades and a lubricated strip of soothing cuntfruit extract, guaranteed to shave even closer than the one with only 999 blades. Maybe if I buy it I'll get the sports car and the foreign-looking supermodel? Maybe that's what's been holding me back all these years - not enough blades on my razor.

Change the channel - consumer central - one time limited offer, bargain price, only 50 left so pick up that phone and tell the comforting voice on the other end your postcode and credit card details, we'll ship it right to your door along with a complementary pint jar of lube and a free severed human finger - your ticket to your 15 mins of fame on the front page of the local news rag.

Now that I have your attention, now that I've gone to all the trouble of setting the scene, sketching this scenario for you, I suppose I really should cut to the chase eh?

"Where's he going with this?", you're wondering, "What's the point?"

Unfortunately there is no point


Sorry!

[Payne]

I demand a point, you terrible bastard.

I have to say, I don't really recognise the people in the above post, but I know they do exist. It's one of the things that keeps me going, laughing at them.

[AFK]

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

i liked it.

Also, what's funny is that even a starving dog won't generally eat their dead master, but a cat will totally snack on your face and your genitals because those are the softest and easiest to eat.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Give me the point, or I will kill a kitten.

And Jesus will blame YOU.