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Hate Week Lives Till the Cancer Gets It by Trey Printer Friendly

Alright all you haters, itís Tuesday and my scarred liver already fled the room crying and whimpering at the cheap whiskey Iíve been drinking for the past 3 hours. So for any happy little camper whoís stumbled across this site, try pulling your head out of your ass long enough to realize that the shiny little ball you think is the sun shining down on you is actually a malignant ball of cancer growing on your prostate, a little gift from your friend Death whoís already started the final countdown.

Now wipe your nose, grab a beer, have a smoke, cough up a tar ball as dark as the world's heart, and roll with us while we tell you how it really is, cause in that cold little corner of our minds where truth tries to hide we all know that the nice young boy scout helping granny across the street today is tomorrowís mass murderer. Besides, for every one of him thereís another twenty little fuckers following waiting to kick that walker out from under her so they can steal her purse.

You wanna know how life really works? Of all those crusty old codgers turning their social security checks into lottery tickets down at the local Quik-y-Mart, the only one I ever know who hit it big had already been diagnosed with terminal cancer and 6 months to live.

A million in the bank, a catheter in his dick, and a tumor the size of a watermelon. Now thereís a lucky guy.

The big man upstairs must have been laughing his ass off over that one. Enjoy your million, too bad you canít get out of bed.

So next time some smiling fucker says that the poor little boy who got his head caved in by a drunk driver is lucky to be alive, slap em for me and tell em to wise up, because having your head caved in is never lucky. Lucky is finding a 20 dollar bill in your pocket and a tight bodied little stripper whoíll put up with your boring ass. Lucky certainly isnít a redneck with a six pack and a pickup.

Lucky isnít the people who didnít drown in the flood. Lucky is the fat cat insurance companies who know that it will be declared a national emergency so that the government, i.e. you and me, will pay to rebuild those houses in the same spot. Meanwhile, they get to jack up their rates and keep lighting their Cuban cigars with hundred dollar bills.

Cause friends, life is short and brutal and mean, and anybody who thinks different is obviously living in a fantasy world.

Maybe itís TV thatís blanked our minds.

People watching those shiny pictures, laughing at those witty blond twenty somethings with their neat-o jobs and their exciting lives while junior is in the back room, daddyís Hustler in one hand, momís vibrator in the other, and his tongue buried deep in a light socket. Never mind that the can of Alpo they microwaved for dinner is being eaten by the racoons coming through the huge hole in their wall.

Cause we all know that TV is our friend.

Itís always there for us. Telling us we donít need to think, we donít need to be clever, we donít need to do something with our lives, we just need to love our flickering friends and buy that new denture cream.

Weíre a country raised by fictional characters.

You donít think so?

Go ahead, give me 20 lines from Hamlet. Alright, now sing the theme song to Gilliganís Island.

Weíve sold out the hearts and souls of our forefathers, thrown away their stories, and traded them for an electric box of memories compiled by corporations doing their very best to suck up that last twenty bucks left in the bank.

Ahhhh... poor Gilligan. We all loved Gilligan. His number came up.

Fuck it. When itís all said and done the only folks who make out in this world are Death, the Devil, and the IRS.

They always get theirs.

Our backbone is gone anyway, traded for bigger cars, zero percent APR, and a quick fix for any problem.

Your life isnít going how you want? Go to therapy and blame it on your parents. You canít find a job? Well obviously you deserve to get paid by me to sit at home and eat bon-bonís. You canít get it up after a lifetime of red meat and three martini lunches, well by god, medicare better pay for that.

The greatest generation is shriveling up and dying, pushing their oxygen tanks around Vegas wearing ĎI Love Bingoí pant sets, determined to take as much with them as they can. The baby boomers have been so busy looking for their inner selves, driving around in their SUVís bitching about global warming, and reminiscing about the sixties that they never got around to raising their children, and as for generation X, Y, or Z or whatever the fuck we all are, weíre too busy playing video games and indulging in ultra-hip, above it all, self-flaggelation to get anything done.

We have become a country of greedy, self hating, over analyzed, over groomed, whiners.

We watch, live on TV, the greatest attack on American soil since Pearl Harbor and we go shopping.

That is the country we have become.

Itís an ugly world out there, and weíre so busy getting in touch with our inner children, we have no idea.

Iíll tell you what we need to do with those inner children. We need to find them, grab a belt, beat them within an inch of their lives, and tell them to grow the fuck up because this whole pile of cards is tumbling down, and if they donít get it together theyíll be shoveling other peopleís shit for the rest of their lives.

Weíre a bunch of children obsessing about having our own kids. Jerking off to Dr. Spock and dreaming of Ďme version 2.í Our egos demand that we create our own little pictures of ourselves so we can burden them with all our own failed hopes and dreams.

But god forbid you try to keep the little self absorbed greed monkeyís in line. A woman is arrested for going on a bus and dragging some little shit heel back to his seat by the scruff of his neck to stop him from terrorizing her own daughter.

Hell, I think she deserves a medal, a baseball bat, and a license to use it on any parent who brings their screaming two year old to the movies, a nice restaurant or a coffee shop, but instead she's looking at 6 months in the slammer.

And how bout this quote from the little shit heel's mom, "me and his counselors are working with him to let him know, regardless of what you do, nobody has the right to put their hands on you." That's right, make sure all the precious children understand that, no matter how much of a bastard your are, the world is entirely free from repercussions. That'll get em ready for the real world.

Iíve got a secret for all you parents out there. Spitting out a little tow-headed future consumer is not some great mystery, and itís not a license for special treatment and tolerance from the rest of us. This shit has been going on for thousands of years. Kids happen.

Now if you can raise the little drooling bastards to say please and thank you, to keep their yaps shut in a movie, and to appreciate the world that they have been given, then Iíll be impressed.

But of course thatís too much trouble. Better to just drug em into submission.

But fuck it. Weíre all so busy giving self-congratulatory nuggies to our own inner children that we barely even get around to having our own.

The population in every civilized country on earth is dying out. Iím down with that. Who wants kids anyway. Blood sucking little leaches. They clean out your bank account and grow up to hate you anyway.

As for me, when it all comes tumbling down and the world is taken over by the ultra-fertile third world savages who enjoy beating women, stoning homesexuals, and lining people like me up against the wall, Iíll watch it burn from my fortified suburban compound on the beach, sipping a pina-colada and alternating hits between my oxygen tank and my big fat Frank Sinatra style Cuban cigar while humming the theme song to Gilliganís island.

Cause I'm getting mine and the future can go fuck itself.

And thatís how we roll at The Strangelands during hate week.


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