Grumpy ol' Bastard Corner
I might be the last one who should talk, considering I spend a large amount of time flapping my gums not to mention driving through town with noise-music rattling the cheap speakers of my little black car, but damn this world is fucking loud.
People have such booming, obnoxious voices; the car horns and squeaking breaks of CTA buses; the bastards on cell phones who can’t ride the train without talking to someone, those illiterate dullards; the children who all too recently learned to speak and therefore must fill every window of silence with their all-important child's voices; the 40-ish, slightly heavy, very plain, pampered bitch who yelled at me at the Botanic Gardens because she thought I took her parking spot, the cunt, the one who decided to act like a child instead of an adult and speak to me in a courteous manner, yes her, the one who ran to my car and started screaming about how she had been waiting for that spot for 10 minutes (a lie!) and how she has two children with her, as if I give a fuck that she is too stupid to use a condom, the vain bitch, yeah her, she with her big mouth and dead eyes, she who has never been told to shut the fuck up, she married to a hen-pecked, long-suffering man, she with two kids who will someday sit in a shrink’s office and cry and remember how they were raised by a goddamn shrew; the lunatic woman who sat in Leona’s and talked to herself all through her meal, pepping her monologue with racial slurs and comments as to how the owner “will pay, oh yeah, this is gonna cost him!”—it’s all too much.
We have developed the ability to communicate, which is a serious skill when one considers the first grunts of man, not to mention the initial croaking of frogs having freshly evolved from fish. All of that somehow managed to become the languages of the world, the art, the poetry, the music. It is all about communication, and this is a wonderful thing. Or so it seems. Lately I have been more interested in silence. All of evolution and the sophisticated manners in which human beings communicate—from the varied languages, both living and dead, to the theories and laws that govern them; from semiotics and symbols, rules and violations of rules, the intricate mechanics of grammar and the flamboyant dance of the vernacular—it all points to how human beings have a gift they cannot appreciate. And for every poem that might affirm one’s life, there are hundreds of Jerry Springer veterans waiting to demonstrate how little they have to say with so many poorly chosen words. And they will say it loud.
Nearly everyone is granted a voice, even if they have nothing to say, or if what they have to say is a pile of shit. (Proof positive: the blog!) It is not enough that we have big, loud voices, but we have created other ways of making noise. Artless noise, no less. It’s all getting to be too much for me. I grow old, I grow old…trousers rolled, beaches, human voices, all that, everything, too much, please let’s all just take a minute and shut the fuck up, just for a minute, no talking, no cell phones, no radios, no click-clack of stiletto heels, no laughter, no crying, nothing, empty space, just for a minute... There, was that so hard? It was? Of course it was, you fucking loudmouth prick.
People have such booming, obnoxious voices; the car horns and squeaking breaks of CTA buses; the bastards on cell phones who can’t ride the train without talking to someone, those illiterate dullards; the children who all too recently learned to speak and therefore must fill every window of silence with their all-important child's voices; the 40-ish, slightly heavy, very plain, pampered bitch who yelled at me at the Botanic Gardens because she thought I took her parking spot, the cunt, the one who decided to act like a child instead of an adult and speak to me in a courteous manner, yes her, the one who ran to my car and started screaming about how she had been waiting for that spot for 10 minutes (a lie!) and how she has two children with her, as if I give a fuck that she is too stupid to use a condom, the vain bitch, yeah her, she with her big mouth and dead eyes, she who has never been told to shut the fuck up, she married to a hen-pecked, long-suffering man, she with two kids who will someday sit in a shrink’s office and cry and remember how they were raised by a goddamn shrew; the lunatic woman who sat in Leona’s and talked to herself all through her meal, pepping her monologue with racial slurs and comments as to how the owner “will pay, oh yeah, this is gonna cost him!”—it’s all too much.
We have developed the ability to communicate, which is a serious skill when one considers the first grunts of man, not to mention the initial croaking of frogs having freshly evolved from fish. All of that somehow managed to become the languages of the world, the art, the poetry, the music. It is all about communication, and this is a wonderful thing. Or so it seems. Lately I have been more interested in silence. All of evolution and the sophisticated manners in which human beings communicate—from the varied languages, both living and dead, to the theories and laws that govern them; from semiotics and symbols, rules and violations of rules, the intricate mechanics of grammar and the flamboyant dance of the vernacular—it all points to how human beings have a gift they cannot appreciate. And for every poem that might affirm one’s life, there are hundreds of Jerry Springer veterans waiting to demonstrate how little they have to say with so many poorly chosen words. And they will say it loud.
Nearly everyone is granted a voice, even if they have nothing to say, or if what they have to say is a pile of shit. (Proof positive: the blog!) It is not enough that we have big, loud voices, but we have created other ways of making noise. Artless noise, no less. It’s all getting to be too much for me. I grow old, I grow old…trousers rolled, beaches, human voices, all that, everything, too much, please let’s all just take a minute and shut the fuck up, just for a minute, no talking, no cell phones, no radios, no click-clack of stiletto heels, no laughter, no crying, nothing, empty space, just for a minute... There, was that so hard? It was? Of course it was, you fucking loudmouth prick.
posted by ZombieDante at 2:51 PM
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