Enjoy Your Harvest of Shame
As most of you head for Grandma's to honor the great feast pilgrims shared with the indigenous peoples right before slaughtering them all wholesale, be sure to remember the exploited, underpaid migrant workers who labored under deplorable conditions so you could celebrate that bloody stain on American history called Thanksgiving. As Mom slides that big ol' tom turkey into the oven, think about how a helpless, innocent, genetically engineered bird was tortured and butchered just so your drunken old man can assert his alpha male status by carving up a carcass on the family dinner table. Then later, as you all sit by the fire, contemplate on the millions of homeless people who won't have a Thanksgiving dinner this year, thanks to the very selfish, materialistic culture that created them. Yes, I hope you have a Happy Thanksgiving, knowing that those red stains on your hands aren't from the cranberry sauce.
Personally, I'll be spending the holiday naked in my cold basement, stabbing myself in the thigh with a fork to atone for 400 years of murder and opression.
Where were you when JFK was shot?
It's a question often asked to provoke deep thoughts and recollections of a pivotal turning point in American History. It was a loss of innocence, a testing of our national resolve against conservatism, and an awakening to a dark, evil that until then only lurked hidden beneath a mustard-stained blanket of bourgois ignorance. Or, at least, that's what my history professor at UC Berkeley told me.
I was born three years after the assassination, so I can't remember much about it. I have vague memories of my mother crying alot, and my old man saying "Maybe his head will round-out as he gets older", but that's about it.
However, I vividly remember Reagan stopping a bullet. No one ever asks "Where were you when Reagan was shot?", though. If they did, I'd tell them I was in the library at Kenny Guinn Junior High, reading a paperback copy of Centaur Isle by Piers Anthony. I'll never forget how my best friend Matt Gammet rushed in, out of breath, and said: "Dude, the Antichrist has been shot!"
"Dude," I replied. "I'm readin' a totally bitchen book right now. Spec this out - it's got centaurs and shit. They're like, half horse and half dude."
"Barf me out, that's like, totally gross."
But before I could ask him to explain his harsh judgement of centaurs, a teary-eyed librarian wheeled in a TV and turned it on.
"Dudes," she announced. "The President's been totally shot, n' shit."
I watched as the TV showed Reagan taking the bullet in sort of a slo-mo half-wave, the cameria zooming in to show a look of shock & pain crossing his face before his was shoved into a limousine by secret service agents.
"Bummer," I said. "Why would anyone want to shoot that dude?"
"DUDE," my friend answered, "cuz he's the antichrist n' shit, that's why!"
"You're trippin'!" I replied. "If he was the anti-christ, that dude with the gun never would have got a shot off. A big piece of metal would have fallen off a building and sliced him in half or something."
My friend thought about that for a moment, then suggested, "Not if he had a +9 Ring of Protection."
I snorted at the stupity of the idea. "There's no way, dude. A Ring of Protection won't even stop a level 10 magic user. What makes you think it can stop the fricken Prince of Darkness? And that's a rhetorical question, dude, so don't even bother plying me with more of your bogus bullshit. That goes BEYOND bogus. It's like, so BOGUS that if you look up 'Bogus' in the dictionary, there's like a picture of your level 8 Ranger wearing his bogus +9 Ring of Protection, with smoke coming out of the gaping hole where his head once was cuz Lucifer kicked your bogus ass! HAW HAW!"
"SHHHHH!!!!" the librarian hissed at me from the TV set. "This is fricken history in the making, dudes!"
The screen was now showing the assassination attempt in reverse slo-mo, upside down, with Japanese subtitles and a banjo music accompaniment. A small gaggle of cheerleaders were gathered around the set, talking in hushed whispers. A sense of shock and sadness filled the the air, mingled with the faint aroma of zitcreme and aqua net.
"Dude," Matt said, quietly so as to not arouse the attention of the Library Nazis. "You wanna know what's bogus? Your little horse people, that's what's bogus. Some dude porked a horse, and now his freak offspring are roaming the earth."
"Centaurs," I corrected him. "They're called Centaurs, dude, and the female of the species can kill your ranger in about two hits."
Matt blew a gasket. "DON'T YOU EVEN THINK OF IT, DUDE! THAT'S TOTALLY BOGUS DM BULLSHIT!!! I'LL REPORT YOU TO TSR AND HAVE YOU DISBARRED!!!!!"
I didn't have time to tell Matt how bogus that was, as the librarian told us to leave and the bell for class rang anyway.
When I got home from school that day, my old man was glued to the set and I missed both Little House on the Prairie AND Enos that night. It left me with emotional scars I will carry with me for the rest of my life.
So you see, those who think that my criticism of Reagan is based on ignorance and malice should know that while they get all their propaganda about the Reagan era from Rush Limbaugh, I was there. I lived it.