Saturday, March 27, 2010

The Most Beautiful Widow in Town.

I saw her this afternoon.

She was riding an old black bike that looked of a vintage sufficient to be from back when her Grandmother was a girl. It had gold lettering on it that had cracked and faded, but it just added to the appeal. There's a lot to be said for ageing gracefully...

...but you have to be graceful to begin with.

She had crow feathers in her hair, and a sepia tone cardigan over a Def Leppard tee shirt. Corduroy knee length skirt. Snowboard boots, even though it was the end of Summer. I'm not sure why I'm explaining this, does it make you like her more, or less?

She looked like a polaroid of a girl, the kind you'd find under the newspaper on a shelf in an abandoned house, from a time less fraught with complications. Someones fantasy girl. Not stuck to the bench seat of a V8, next to an as yet unregistered crime statistic; but free, available, the wind in her ears, a rusty chain chorus.

A girl who would break your heart just by riding by. She's like the song you hear from a passing car, that captures you completely, but never tells you its name. Her rusty blonde hair rang out like a siren behind her, like flames, or scattered sand. Like a banner in a language no one can remember, but that fascinates just the same. Maybe even all the more, because of it.

She may never have seen you, but you could spend years in the shadow of never having called out "hi!" The kind of girl who could render you speechless, just by looking over her shoulder at you. The weight of her momentary attention.

With that attention comes a great responsibility.

But if you were close enough, you'd see the sun had gone out in her eyes. And although her countenance was lovely, to gaze upon it was not appropriate. It would be a kind of rape. Greedy and heartless. Thievery.

If you asked an old man in a bar about it, he would impart that sometimes it's better to keep your distance. Sometimes, the best things are those that we have not held to ourselves. Sometimes, the best things are those that blow by, frozen in time to us, the observers, who hold that suspended frame sacred. Always for reasons linked to our own psychology, and never that of the subject. The protagonist. The exemplar.

They're just a crystalline statue, the mirror for your issues, the antecedent.

She rode around the corner, which of course is a literary vehicle that alludes to the fact her life had changed; and was gone, which is another that endeavours to illustrate that the change is permanent.


I remember her, when she was a girl. When she was eighteen years old.

She had the streamlined cheekbones of a concept car, like a bone lamborghini. Long dark hair, but an unsteady walk, at odds with her elegance. Her dark eyes shone , focussing her intense intelligence, lit from within by constellations of stars.

And yet her laugh punctuated art galleries, cafes, and movie theatres like a joyous goose. She never cared for the stern whispers for hush, for the convention of arched brow sideways glances. Her place in the Universe was assured.

As she grew, she occasionally allowed a boy to complicate things for her. Her heart ruled, not her eyes, and so she was gracious enough to spend her time with those who provoked a sense of intrigue, over athleticism, perfect genes, or money. Sometimes, she would explore girls too, as her curiosity respected no borders, her desire contained by nothing at all.

Nothing captured her until Coran.

He was sensitive to her confident, and reflective to her voracious curiosity. He was calm to her argumentative, and he loved her from the moment he saw her, with all that he was.

As with all situations like these, life likes to punish those who deserve it least, and so Coran had to endure the slow torture of becoming close friends with her, while she dated what felt like everyone around him.

For five years he quietly loved her. She knew, of course. And it pained her to see those ropes tighten in his chest whenever she was with another. But Audrey, for that is her name, couldn't help him.

Not of course, until she fell in love with him too.

She had allowed herself to be pulled from orbit by one paramour, a guilty pleasure she granted herself from time to time, in the hope that one day his desire would eclipse hers for him. It was intensely physical, a lot less intellectual than the others, and she found herself craving his rough hands, his strong back, his disregard, when she was alone.

She mentioned it was like a slow motion replay, of an event that had not yet occured...watching herself fall faster and harder toward the inevitable solid object. Like a gorgeous crash test dummy. Like Newtons apple.

So when she met the ground again, the paramour moved on, and her heart broke with the velocity.

9.81 m/s2 = 32.2 ft/s2

Coran was there, just like always.

He endured the crying torrents of words, of "why?", and "he said", and "never!", and he filed away his beating heart in order to effectively hold her, to bring comfort, to be a true friend.

And something shifted in Audrey.

Knowing that Coran was prepared to put his own feelings aside for her, when the nameless paramour had no feelings at all, well that tends to strike a chord.

Knowing that Coran held all the attributes she searched for in the arms and hearts of others, makes that chord resonate.

Knowing that Coran would forgive her the oversight, and gladly share the joy of a harmonious combination, made her pull him into her bed, and give herself in ways she had never previously permitted to anyone.

And for his part, he overwhelmed her, with the power and majesty of his sexual charisma; turning what she thought would be a gentle, considered lovemaking, into a magnificent, muscular, and commanding fornication; all at once synthesised with pulses of gentle consideration, of bodies listening to one another, barriers being pushed but not broken.

And when they lay down among the vapour trails that surrounded them, a gentle rain of thoughts began to fall on them both, each drop promising a future memory, a shared moment, a minute of life.

And they drank them in with smiles on their faces, gladness in their hearts, and the hand of the one they loved in theirs.

Coran died, of course, years later when those drops had all been used.

They had eight years of a love so perfect it seemed unnatural to have that much yin without some dark yang to balance it. But that much yang? That much dark?

Coran was walking their dogs while Audrey visited her Mother. An eighteen foot meteorite burst through the atmosphere behind him and punched his body eighty feet through the pavement, deep into the ground. It makes you feel like the Universe really had it in for him, as if happy endings are forbidden in the cold vacuum of space. And just because we have a thin layer of oxygen surrounding us, and gravity holding us down, doesn't mean we should expect any different.

He couldn't get hit by a car, or even lightning? He was such a priority for immediate nonexistence he needed a celestial object to end him?

There were no remains, he was vaporised, but the dogs survived.

And so Audrey had no face to kiss goodbye, no hair to brush back, no hand to hold one last time. No way to say goodbye.

And she stayed in their house, in their bed, and in that life they had made. Holding the whole thing up by herself.

The service was two months ago now, and it was so wrong to have no coffin there. Coran's skateboard was on display, surrounded by pictures of his life. Flowers. Family. Someone from the Government.

Audrey didn't try to hold it together.

Her usual relaxed composure was wrecked, her physical pain was tangible, it caught in my throat as I breathed it in. The suffering in the room made the soft sunlight seem evil, nothing was right that afternoon. I cried too, even though Coran and I were merely friendly acquaintances. I felt the hole in life that he so perfectly filled.

When we all left I had nothing to say to Audrey. I just touched her cheek, kissed her forehead, held her hand. We had been friends since we were children, we were de-facto related.

And since then she had quietly refused all offers of help, or company, choosing only to close the door of that house, and breathe in whatever air was left, that still contained particles of Coran.

This afternoon was the first time I had seen her since, although she hadn't seen me. I hoped that it signified a change, and that she would rejoin us in the world, when she called me.

She told me she had been to the doctors in the city that afternoon, that she had rode there alone, feeling ill and out of sorts. Understandable, under the circumstances.

But she didn't ride home alone like I thought. She rode home with an unborn girl, called Corine.

The stars are bright tonight.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

*Thank you to Sparklehorse for the title...

Saturday, March 13, 2010

The road Kerouac never wrote about.

I open my floor to ceiling windows, everything is covered in Friday morning.

I'm in a hotel, doesn't matter where. I'd like to tell you there's a hot girl in my bed who's name escapes me, but I can't lie to you like that, because there are three. I call it "room cervix".

I look in the bathroom mirror and wipe silver eye shadow off my stomach. Just touching it set me off, and I'm staring wide-eyed down the toilet bowl, wondering if anything is going to come out. I see a bloody, brown coloured tampon, some of last nights
Prêt-à-vonissement room service, and someone from the record company's business card,. And away I go...

I can't stand throwing up. Losing control, I get scared I'll choke. I am at my most vulnerable when puking. I have bulimia, so I'm pretty vulnerable.

I couldn't tell you what city this is if my life depended on it. I've been drunk since Canada, whenever that was, and I ain't stopping now. I go to the freezer compartment and unscrew a bottle of Jagermeister, and hoist it up. I feel so weak my arm shakes, so I hold it with two hands. Puke in the sink, try again.

You think you want this?

I'm looking at the city skyline for recognisable landmarks and see none. The tour manager walks in, and she's a woman. She doesn't blink at the girls through the open bedroom door. One of them farts in her sleep, no one even laughs. It's that kind of action. All biz.

She packs my bag for me, because I have a disability. I am utterly incapable of doing anything for myself when there is someone in my paid employment who can do it for me. She checks under the bed, in the drawers, everywhere for whatever small meaningless item I may have lost/discarded, and at a later date will decide to cancel the rest of the tour 'til I find it.

After everything is packed, she ushers the girls out with her cowboy boot, and says "Good morning."

She makes me take vitamins, makes me drink water. I puke again. She says she hopes a molecule or two of actual nutrition or health made it through the driftnet that constitutes my digestive system. She puts sunglasses on me and calls my guy. Technically, he's security, but all he really has to do is hang out and be extremely large at all times. He's good at this role, born to do it. He picks me up, and carries me to the limo. The rest of the band are having their regular waking up ritual around the buffet area, but we've learned from experience it's best to just keep me moving. Maitre D's tend to not love vomit in the bain-marie. It's a thing with them.

So I go sleep some more in the car, and wait for the band.

I'm having one of those falling dreams, powerless, terrifying, and I hear the most horrific sound. I realise it's someone screaming, and then I wake up, and realise it's actually me screaming, because I'm still doing it. The band are all there, we're moving. The singer throws me a look, because he's on the 'phone, and wants some quiet. The tour manager puts away her computer and rubs my shoulders, and I fall asleep again.

I'm a 26 year old baby.

When I wake up this time the limo is going into some kind of tunnel. It's a different limo. Apparently we've been on a plane since I last looked. New city. There are trucks everywhere, big, sweaty guys rolling cases. We're inside an arena. In the underworld.

We're ushered through a maze of corridors, until we come to a door with our faces on it, on AAA laminate taped to the door. Once inside, I see what I always see. A communal main area, that was a conference space for IBM or Jesus People USA yesterday. There is no one in this room apart from our immediate entourage, in a misguided effort to make us feel safe and special. It's just lonely.

I scan the doors for my dressing room, go in there and lie on the same sofa I always lie on, because the road crew take it with us. It was originally from the foyer (if you can call it that) from the Hotel Yorba in Detroit. More like a long corridor leading to drug dependency and a possible stabbing. If you're familiar with that particular place of residence, you know it's nowhere near as bouncy and upbeat as the White Stripes track of the same name.

I went in on a tour years ago, picked it up, and just dragged it out the door. The guy on duty wasn't gonna stop me, because that would involve coming out of the plexiglass safety shield he worked in, and nothing was gonna convince him to do that. So I dragged it out, and down the steps, and wrestled it into the van we were driving, and it's been mine ever since.

You'd think all the shit and piss and blood and drugs that have been leaked onto that thing over the years would put a person off touching it, but for me it was as real as it gets. The only real thing in my life. That sofa has seen some things, and I feel protected by its aura. The sacred leather.

I lay back into it, swung my legs up onto it, and closed my eyes.

They shot open again instantly. No more sleep today. My body decides these things. I look in my bag for my phone, and call my guy. He comes in, and I say "Hey Steve, can you get me medicine?"

His name is actually Marcus, but I call him Steve after Steven Segal, because he's "Hard to kill". He is actually great to talk to, an intelligent, affable guy. But he was in the Israeli army for a while, and is enormous. So he forsakes the kind of satisfying and fulfilling employment he could go for, in favour of the large sums of money he gets being a human wall for me. What a waste. I tell him so.

"Fuck off STEVEN!", and so he goes to fetch my medicine.

I instantly regret it, the swearing I mean. I don't know why I do it. Yes I do, because I'm a child. I'm a child, and I take advantage of the fact he's too nice/professional to hit me. So I cuss and throw things at him, and when I'm really drunk, I cry and say I'm sorry.

I'm adored by millions.

He comes back in an hour with my medicine, which he bought at the local place. It consists of one asian with black hair, a blonde euro, and a brown skinned dark eyed girl of indeterminate origin.

They have been briefed, so they know not to talk to me, not to introduce themselves, no words. I like to cultivate this loneliness. I lie on the couch, and the asian takes the blonde girls hand. The hand is holding a knitting needle. She guides the knitting needle into my ear, and pushes it in until it is resting softly against my eardrum. I do a line of coke, being careful not to deafen myself with the needle. The dark girl licks my balls and cock in the usual way, and the blonde girl chokes the asian with the heel of her stilletto. This continues until I start to climax, at which time the blonde girl bites my lips (while still holding the needle), the asian sucks the blondes breasts, and the dark skinned girl eats my load.

Sorry if you're related to me and you're reading this, but that's just how it happens. I'd rather just be real about it.

Don't ask me why this works for me, or what the meaning is behind it, because I don't know. I'm just damaged. That's all the prognosis I need.

They get up and silently leave, and I think about what life was like before 'success'. When I cared about things, grew, evolved.

Times change.

The tour manager now, she's telling me to come to the stage. Soundcheck.

More corridors, more hairy men. No one says hi, even though I have probably seen most of these guys at least twenty times before. We're backstage now, it's dark here, but I recognise the familiar fairy lights and metal staircase that lead up. I proceed, and am in the space behind the backdrop. I walk to my right, around that corner, and I'm home.

Racks of guitars, my tech, and the stage beyond...the band waiting like they always do. My tech slips a guitar strap over my head, and I punch my right arm through the loop, grabbing the neck with my left. I feel connected now. The surge. I don't care if it's just a soundcheck, I have always loved taking my place stage right, owning that side of the stage, and the sound through the massive systems we tour with. Crowd, no crowd, it makes no difference to me, because, and this is an industry secret- I only play for me. I look the same in soundcheck as I do in a show- the passion is identical.

It's my stage.

We roll through three songs. The front of house engineer, monitors engineer, lighting cues, all good, all happy.

A new hotel.

I walk in and collapse. I need to drink immediately, because I'm feeling hungry. I take a bottle into the shower with me, and lay in my clothes in the bottom of the cubicle. My phone vibrates for the thousandth time today. I don't know why, I never answer. I take it out of my pocket and toss it on the floor, it breaks open and the battery falls out. I start thinking of a new song...I think it through and associate it with a theme, so I can remember it later. Much later. When the tour's over and I'm home in Australia. An hour passes.

The tour manager walks in with Steve. He holds me up, and she strips off my wet clothes and dries me off. Then puts new jeans and a tee shirt on me. New socks, new shoes. Throw away the old ones. She pulls a new phone out of her bag, slips my SIM into it, activate. She carries 20 or 30 spares.

She leaves, and Steve calls my room cervix. The girls arrive, remove their clothes and hang out. I don't know if they're strippers that get paid to do this, or hot groupies who volunteer. I never remember to ask.

I ignore them and watch tv, drink from the bottle, maintain the haze...stay blank. I realise after a while one of them is sucking me, then I fade again. Something about tectonic for computers that automatically stop working after a specified time. She gives up and sulks on the armchair. I realise Steve is standing by the door, watching the scene. Of course he was, he always does.

Knock at the door, we go.

I do some press in my dressing room back at the arena. I basically mumble a lot and look confused, I do this all the time. But still they come. I have opinions, I look great in black.

One of the music journalists is from a kids tv show. She looked like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, so I face fucked her in the corner, dominating her with my cock size and the restrictive corner of the room. She looked up at me with those eyes thousands of kids looked into every day, I wished they could see her right now. When she left I cried. Why is everything so corruptible? Where is the everlasting beauty we're encouraged to believe in as children?

My self loathing is fully intact.

It's dinner time, as I walk out of my dressing room into the main dressing room, I see the usual trestle tables, stupid tablecloths (on a trestle table for fucks sake!), and dishes from 20 or 30 local restaurants. The band are there, taking a bit of this, a bit of that. It strikes me we could have a live giraffe brought in here if we wanted it, the money we waste is just insane.

I walk out and find the crew buffet, not because I want to eat, but because I like to hang with them. I don't know their names, or what they do, but they have the best jokes, and they don't look at me like I'm an alien. I should have been a roadie. And all too soon, just like every night, it's call time.

Steve walks over (because he's never more than 10 feet away), and we head back to the dressing room. The lonely cell. FML, I hate this shit. The tour manager has my dinner, and she basically feeds it to me, because I have no desire to eat it. I throw it up right after, just like she knows I will. But no one is angry. It's just a little dance we do. Ha-cha-cha!

I wipe my face, stare into the black pools of my eyes in the mirror. I get an hour alone in there, just to myself. An hour to hate myself, to wonder how I fell so far into this pit, and to know I'll never find a way out. More cocaine, helps me to not care, to get my game face on. It's always over too soon.

We play the show, I don't remember the faces. All the poor suckers who came early to get right up the front so they could see me. I looked right through them, and they never knew. They thought we were all on the same rock and roll ride, but we weren't. I was electrified by the feel of that timber on the palm of my left hand...the sting of the pick on the string, those wires cutting into my fingers. And the wall of sound that went up and out at the slightest movement of my hand. That's the space I played in, I may as well have been alone. It felt like it.

As I walk offstage I feel strange hands touching my shoulders, voices rising out of the dark, the flash of teeth. The vampires and the sycophants- the usual backstage animals.

Steve takes me to the hotel, I never do after parties.

I bury myself in room cervix until I pass out, never sure who's ass or mouth that is in the dark. Like it matters. They're all just graves to pump my dead desire into.

I sleep, and dream of a girl I lost a long time ago. Our flat, the dog, my rusty Plymouth Fury. The smells in the kitchen, warm embraces.

When I awake,
I open my floor to ceiling windows.

Everything is covered in Saturday morning.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Fuck Islam Vs. Boong Drunk.

When I was younger, and I don't think I'm alone here, I'd take up the banner for pretty much any cause that on the surface seemed fair enough. I traveled thousands of kilometres to protest at this and that, threw my name behind a zillion petitions, and that was all before University!

But the older I get, the more I like to save the knee jerk for other people, and have a think before speaking.

Two of those thoughts I'd like to share tonight.

And of course, they will be controversial! I wondered how I went from thousands of readers to just a few over the years, does my writing suck now? No more than it ever did. I just managed to offend everybody, so off they go to less challenging pastures.

I get that. It's cool.

Thought 1.

On facebook, there is a group called 'Boong Drunk'. Or not. I think it just got deleted.

A couple of my friends joined a page demanding it be taken down, and I went to have a look.

A few years ago, I would have been one of them, but now, I just don't care. Is it racist? Is it a hate page? Maybe. Technically.

But I want to look deeper.

"Boong" is a derogatory term for an indigenous Australian. You know what drunk means. Basically, the page is taking a dig at the stereotype that all indigenous Australians are drunks who drink methylated spirits or kerosene or petrol, and who have no money.

Clearly this is not the case, so the page is uninformed.

Are some indigenous Australians so inclined? Unfortunately yes.

In some centres (Townsville, Darwin, Fremantle), is this the impression most people get from the majority of their encounters with local Aborigines? Unfortunately- yes.

Aborigines have massive problems with drinking, unemployment, abuse, violent crime, and rape. It would appear there are higher statistics for these people than for other races of people within Australia. And when your experience every day is of foul mouthed black people, threatening to beat you for a dollar (I'm talking from personal experience here, from when I worked in the centre of Fremantle), you tend to take a dim overall view of them.

But it's not all Aboriginals, is it? No, it isn't. But you wonder where the elders are? Where is the community that people speak of? The culture that is supposedly so sacred, and yet in 10 years of living in this country, I have only met 5 indigenous people who didn't fit the drunken stereotype. Why is that?

So am I saying it's right to be racist? Nope. I don't advocate running out and getting a Southern Cross tattoo, or anything like that either.

But what I am saying is- I understand where feelings like the one behind the group "Boong Drunk" come from. I understand the frustration, the anger. I see why someone might make a joke of it. And I don't see that as an evil thing. It's just an opinion.

If someone started a group called 'All Dutch Australians eat faeces and rape small children' I wouldn't blink. I'd just think the group was ill-informed, and not waste any more time thinking about it. What's with having to ban everything, anyway? Why not grow up and let it be? If you're upset about people calling indigenous Australians "Boongs", shutting down a group where frustrated people gather to share in the feeling of not being alone won't fix it. Fix the problems the indigenous have, and there will be nothing to start groups about. And personally, I don't care at all if people call Aborigines "Boongs" any more than I care if people call me names. Better things to do. Sticks and stones?

To be even-handed, I have to say that I doubt the admin of the group in question was trying to be anything other than controversial. I doubt most of the members of the group had that much intelligence, or maturity between them. But is it that much of a big deal? I really don't think so.

I'm sick of being hassled by Aborigines, and I resent the fact that no other race has given me so much aggravation, as they have. Facebook groups pale in comparison.

I'm sure you have an opinion. I'd love to hear it. Please leave me a comment. Let's not hate each other if our opinions are different, let's not attack one another. If you see things differently, be kind enough to educate me. I'm thoroughly open to that. I'd also like to publish comments, maybe start a thread about it if there is enough dissention?

Thought 2.


Can you feel the foreboding? We're not meant to talk about it. It's FORBIDDEN!!! There will be CONSEQUENCES! Well Fuck that.

I tried to be understanding about 'Boong Drunk'...I wasn't trying to step on any toes, more just propose another avenue of thinking.

But not this time.

Here we go-

If you're a follower of Islam, you are a pathetic, weak, brainwashed, embarrassing excuse for a human being.

You like that? The gloves are off!

I don't give a fuck if its racist, xenophobic, or intolerant, because I am intolerant of your life wasting bullshit. You have a sickness, and I have less than no respect for you.

Your religion is a bloodthirsty means of control by the few over the many. There is no Allah, and you can threaten those who don't share your sickness as much as you like, it doesn't intimidate me into thinking differently.

I have been to the Middle East a few times, lived and worked there, and I'm so sick of meeting Muslims who loudly proclaim Allah, while drinking alcohol with a hooker on their lap. Again, is this all Muslims? Of course not? So should the many be punished for the indiscretions of the few? Yes. Why? Because I don't have a problem with drinking or prostitution. I have a problem with the religion itself.

For the record, not just Islam- but ALL RELIGION. You are the enemy of thought and common sense.

So many words that mean blood. Halal, Sharia- barbarism. Violence infused into the laws and traditions that make up the religion. There is no peaceful, caring way through Islam. It is a gate of horror.

You can tell I'm vegetarian, right?

Seeing Muslims slaughtering goats under their apartment blocks in downtown Deira (the old city of Dubai), the children watching- unnecessary evil. It's halal- it's the only way.

So now I've set the scene, let me explain why the floodgates have opened for me on this topic.

ABC news link here

Zachariah Matthews called from the Lakemba Mosque for "aspects" of Sharia law to be recognised in Australia.

Get fucked.

Or, if you do, can I have my own law too?

Seriously. I'm not a flag waving nationalist, but don't come to Australia and try to change it into something alien to the majority of people that live here. We don't want sharia law- any part of it. You're lucky we allow you to have a Mosque!

And don't say "
The aspects that we would be looking at are definitely not the penal code system, in so far as people's fears around the cutting off of hands for the crime of theft and the stoning of adulterers"...we all know you want that too. Of course you do- it's the law of Islam! You want to get your foot in the door, then push and push for more, until you break this country the same way Britain has been broken. I consider myself a leftist, but get some perspective!

Go live in an Islamic country if you need it so badly. Not here.

But that's the point, isn't it? You think we're so stupid we don't see what you're attempting? In exactly the same way you have polluted Europe with your sickness, you want millions of Muslims in Australia too. You want this, so you can rise up and kill everyone who isn't like you. Total intolerance. And you use this countries tolerance to sneak it through!

Don't get it twisted- even if you were born a Muslim in this country, if things don't change, you will be deported or jailed. People are sick of you. You're the new Catholics. You kill us, you kill each other, and now you want your laws here.

Why are all those Lebanese who pray at lakemba not in Lebanon? Oh, that's right! War! Terror, violence, blood, hate, and fear!

They are here because they fucked their own country. Islam didn't save them, did it? So they come here, and want to make Sydney Beirut?

Fuck you.

I have Muslims living on either side of me. I live in Coburg- Muslim capital of Melbourne. Do I fight with my neighbours? Nope. I even help them. I treat them like human beings. But as long as any human follows religion, I see them as dangerously retarded.

It's 2010. There is no God. And if there is one, you all better decide which one it is. And then from within that, work out which branch of all the sub-religions is the one he loves the most. Protestant? Catholic? Sunni? Shi'a?

I'm over it. I can't believe people still drop to their knees and put their faith in a magical flying teapot, instead of facing life and making it worth something.

I have massive respect for the Salvation Army and other benevolent organisations, I just wish their mandate wasn't religious. Why can't we just be people?

So send the suicide bombers, draw your swords, come swarm on me with indignation and righteous fury. I don't care.

I'm over you. And I'm over the press pussy footing around the issue. And I'm over my friends who think I'm Hitler because I speak my mind (without threatening anyone or anything).

Religion is slavery. Islam is a state where the slaves will fight for their right to stay enslaved.

Bring on armageddon.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.