Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.


It Just Might Make You Feel Better!
A wise man once told me, "Beware the thoughts that come in the night."

Ahhh, thoughts schmoughts. I like the thoughts that come in the night.

If anything, it seems as if nightfall bestows upon me a kind of mental clarity. Thoughts that come in the night have a certain purity, not to mention a sense of purpose. If it wasn't for thoughts that come in the night, do you think Batman would be so hardworking and dedicated? Quiet summer nights, the still and humid and dark ones that make sleep impossible, are the best time to reflect on my triumphs and regrets, or update my mental list of people I'm going to stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab with my shiny shiny knife summary points for that lecture on tips for a successful job interview I'm giving to the orphaned deaf kids next week.

Also, the thoughts that come in the night sometimes have pictures of boobies. I like those.

And if you do hit a rough spot and get that occasional sad thought in the night that just refuses to get itself spruced up by a clove cigarette and an album by The Cure, you can always kill it, like maybe with some roofies, or violence. If you believe nothing else you read here — if you turn your ass to every other bit of wisdom of which I sing, take this, at least, as gospel: more than anything else, a thought is an easy sumbitch to kill.

Sure, much like other items such as varmints, swimming-pool boners, werewolves, hopes, dreams, shots of bourbon, Amish people, ideas and emotions it sometimes seems like you squash one pesky thought and six others pop up to mock you, but what is life without struggle? God, it's fun, I bet! No struggle, hell. Hmm, what was I just talking about again? Eh, fuck it.

Anyway, if you ask me it's not the thoughts but the songs that come in the night you really have to avoid. Let me give you an example.

First, I want you to picture me rocking a peach cotton polo shirt, collar turned up in the classic Andrew McCarthy style. Full-blown Sixteen Candles. Maybe I'm accessorizing with a thin satin piano-key necktie, maybe I'm sporting a rumpled jacket with the sleeves pushed up. Got that? Okay, I'm also naked from the waist down except for a warm, fuzzy pair of colorful argyle socks and half a tub of lube. I'm just hot and slick with wet lube and man-sweat and a-rubbin' and a-puffin' and a-groanin' just as nasty as you please.

Alright, that's all I have. That's it for this entry. Enjoy the mental picture. If you're eating supper, try not to focus too much on my wobbly balls, ha ha.

...Aw, just kidding.

Anyway, there I am, clad in 1985's best and rubbin' off a batch by hand, and I've got my eyes all squinched up and good ol' Mr. Imagination in turbo overdrive. C'mon in! Jump over this here hypothalamus and have a look. What do you see? That's right — Molly. And she looks so pretty. And she's leaning on my bedroom wall, giving me a sexy look. She starts moving closer, slowly walking across the room... Hips swaying, ever so slightly...

She starts to dance a little — it makes those gorgeous freckles look like they're dancing, by god! She parts those big-ass, juicy, red lips in gooshy anticipation... You're misunderstood, aren't you Molly? I think your homemade clothes are just so neat. And those jocks and preppies don't love you, not like me. They don't understand Oingo Boingo. And Ducky — let's face it, Ducky's a homo. There's nothing wrong with that, but he would never do the things I want to do... Honestly, between us I think he just wants to wear your dress to the prom. Oh Molly, what's that you've got there? A hair scrunchie? What frisky things are you going to do with that scrunchie, you naughty girl? Eh? You filthy, degenerate whore? Tee hee! I don't think Ducky would hang around for that, the big sissy!

She gets closer... Closer... And then — the song.

"Raindrops from your eyes
Washing all the mad out of you
Raindrops from your eyes
It's gonna make you feel better!"

...What the fuck?

"It's all right to feel things
Though the feelings may be strange
Feelings are such real things
And they change and change and change."

Awwww, no... No! No no no!

"Sad 'n' grumpy, down in the dumpy
Snuggly, hugly, mean 'n' ugly
Sloppy, slappy, hoppy, happy
Change and change and change!"

...Did that song just say hugly?

"It's all right to cry
Crying gets the sad out of you
It's all right to cry
It might make you feel better!"

It's here! The song! It's back! Argh... Pain... Can't get... the poison... out of my... head... And neither can you, probably, if you were a kid during the (shudder) 1970s. For those of you lucky enough to sidestep this particular hippie indoctrination tool, the song is It's Alright to Cry, from the television special Free to Be You and Me.

Jesus, the horror... You see, back in 1974 crazy motherfuckin' Marlo Thomas helmed some sort of commie plot aimed at convincing pre-teen boys to stop hollering and stabbing each other in the face with Jarts and whacking each other in the head with those awesome old-school metal Tonka trucks and instead replace this healthy all-American behavior with crying and feelings.

You know who they got to sing that fuckin' song? Rosey Grier. You'd think a former NFL defensive lineman and co-star of a classy flick like The Thing With Two Heads would know better, but no. Fuck, apparently he wrote a book called Needlepoint for Men too. Seriously, what the fuck? Rosey? I don't give a fuck about no NFL — me and Ducky are coming by later tonight to whoop your fuckin' ass. Needlepoint for Men, that shit ain't right.

Back in third grade there was a kid named Robbie who got fully suckered in by Marlo and Rosey and Fidel and all the rest of those pinkos. Know how we knew? Every other Friday our class threw together some ramshackle "talent" show, and fucking Robbie would get up there and sing It's Alright to Cry. And I can still fucking hear it, and still fucking see it — Jesus, it's seared into my synapses and I can still fucking see it like it was yesterday. Maybe Robbie's dad had cancer or maybe this was Robbie's way of telling the world that Uncle McFeely was sticking his finger up Robbie's pooper on the sly or something and I should be more understanding, but you know, before your ass goes judging me on this, how about you have Robbie pop on in and sing you a few choruses during a fantasy visit from Molly Ringwald and see how sensitive and full of feelings and caring and shit you are, fucker.

Now, before I run down this talent show too much, I should point out that it wasn't all bad. Once — and I swear I'm not making this up — three friends of mine got up there wearing black vampire capes, the kind with red lining, and thrashed and writhed all over the stage to the Beatles' song Helter Skelter while a fourth kid flicked the lights on and off. I sat there watching in awe, and when one of the kids, I think Kevin Gaskin, leaped off the stage with a bloodcurdling scream, my life was changed. I knew what I was going to do with my future. (Devote myself to interpretive dance.)

Later, Kevin and I, along with one of the other helter-skelter kids, I think Oliver, would beat up a classmate who blocked us from playing my copy of the KISS album Destroyer on music day. That was bad enough, but when we grilled him after class and he admitted to never having heard a Beatles song... Well, he deserved punishment, didn't he?

But as much as I cherish those memories — and I cherish them, I really do — they're no trade-off for the psychic scarring left behind by Robbie and Rosey.

Fuck... I can still see the way Robbie — every Friday — would deliver the last line of the song... It was by far the worst part of any performance. He'd have his head down during most of the song, see, and for that last fucking line he'd look up, eyes moist with emotion and hatred for America, and stare out at us like a new thought had just occured to him... A happy lightbulb of revelation switching on over his head... And he'd switch up his tone, coming off all hopeful, like there was a new day ahead, a day where Daddy didn't have a tube up his nose and Uncle McFeely kept his fingers to himself... And he'd spit out that last line, that fucking hated last line:

"It just might make you feel better!"


This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?