textfiles/magazines/IBFT/ibft039.txt

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---------------------------- I Bleed for This? ------------------------------
------04.07.96-----------------------------------------------------#039------


 		It's High Time I Threw a Brick at You
		            by Snarfblat

I saw a stupid guy today in the Newbury Comics that just opened here in
Amherst.  It seems that each new Newbury Comics sucks more than the last one.
This one continued the trend by putting wacky stickers over offensive words
on the $16 dollar t-shirts they try to sell.  I figured out what they say,
though.  One of them said "Fuck you, you fuckin' fuck."

The stupid guy was fat.  I later found out why.  As I walked into the store,
he was waving his arms around and yelling incoherently about something.  He
was trying to make a point about how non-alternative Newbury Comics was.  A
cute goth who worked there came over to talk him down, and she asked if she
could help him (knowing fully well that he was beyond any help.) The moron
spoke.

"You don't have High Times?  How can you not have High Times?" he bleated,
his sheep-like jowls quivering with each deformed syllable.  "You have the
Brad Pitt calendar but you don't have High Times?" He tugged one of his
unfortunate friends.  "Look, they have the Brad Pitt calender, but not High
Times."  B-b-but, Brad Pitt isn't cool!  And High Times IS cool!  Newbury
Comics is the place where everything is supposed to be cool, right?  Aha!
The illusion had been shattered; this genius fat guy had figured out that
Newbury Comics is a business whose goal is to make money.

The moron obviously wanted everyone in the store to know what a cool stoner
he was, and how bad-ass he was for hating Brad Pitt.  He probably also hates
Green Day, and any other easy target, except for the easiest one of all,
himself.  His motives were easier to see through than the hole I wanted to
rip in his anal mucous membrane with a piece of razor wire.  He was probably
trying to impress the goth, or some other poor female mark in the store.
Mumbling to myself, I looked down and saw a CD by Lard.  Fat people suck, I
said to myself.  Especially stupid, fat potheads.

I bet the only reason that guy smokes up is because he wants an excuse for
eating like a fucking vacuum cleaner all the time.  "Hey guys, I have the
munchies. Can we take a break from playing Magic and order another pizza with
extra sausage?" Maybe he wants people to assume his eyes are red from kicking
back and smoking weed, instead of from squinting at porno GIFs.  Whatever he
claims is the reason for his embarassing existence, he can't possibly have a
good one.  He's a welt on the ass of stupidity.

The goth chick said, "We usually have High Times.  It must be sold out.  We
do have the High Times calendar." Then I left.

I have always suspected that, somewhere out in the world, there was a
fat guy running around wearing a Bob Marley t-shirt and annoying the
shit out of people.  Only now that I have actually met him do I truly
appreciate how sad life is.  To anyone who brags about their
addictions: you're not unique and you're not fighting the system.  All
you're doing is exactly what you were taught to do: eating a god damn
plant that you paid for with your allowance.  Admit it.

                                   * * *

Amherst townies: I'm around them all the time; I have to get my caffeine
somewhere.  It's only when coincidences force me to listen to them, that I
get angry.  They drink their coffee and talk about world politics as if
their opinions matter.  There's a race war at Taco Bell every Thursday,
Friday and Saturday.  Wasted youth, etc.  A guy tried to piss on me when I
was eating my taco in the ATM, the last safe place in town on a Saturday
night.

At the music store, $2 will buy you a shitty hand-made zine explaining what
a sell-out Henry Rollins is.  $1 of that money goes to the store, the other
dollar goes into the pocket of a 14-year-old high school kid, to fund his
continuing loser posturing.  If you're going to be rebellious, you might as
well profit from it, right?  That way, you can fund even more rebellion,
RIGHT?  Then after a while you can kill yourself because you married an ugly
retired junkie whore who keeps all the smack for herself.  Hey, punk.  IBFT
is free.  Write about it in your zine, maybe some angst chick will fuck you.

                                   * * *

They tell us that we're adults at age 21, and you believe it.  You believe
that you've reached a turning point.  You matter more, now that you're an
adult.  You can start to kick some ass in the real world.

Guess what.  You're not mature, you're still a stupid kid, except you're not
cute or innocent.  The only reason you think you're mature is because
companies try to sell you "adult" products.  You look like the people in the
beer commercials.  Car commercials are directed at your age group: like you,
the car is small, cheap and hollow.  Some dumb generation-x entrepreneur
bitch tells you, in a Neon commercial, how much fun it is to drive around
the city selling coffee machines.  "I'm such a hip 90's cyberpunk, I had an
espresso machine installed in my cunt!"  Desperate for an identity, you take
whatever shit product sucks your dick and start a cult around it.  Are these
people really human?  Or just shit wrapped in skin, wearing a backpack,
wandering around college campuses?  How fucking dumb do people have to be,
how many complete morons have to be out there walking around that Red Dog
has to say in its ads, "Hey, the dog is red not the beer".  How many letters
did daddy write, stained with your tears, because you thought the beer would
be red but it wasn't?

Dear Coors Brewing Company,

My 21-year-old son recently purchased a case of your "Red Dog" beer to
drink with his buddies.  He found that it provided a less than
satisfactory drinking experience.  The television commercials for "Red
Dog" imply that the beer is red, and this lends an element of
uniqueness to the product.  How can you even try to justify this?  The
beer is the same color as any other!  In my 40 years in advertising,
I've never even heard of such a blatantly false statement getting onto
the air.  As a consumer and an advertising executive, I demand that
you modify this product's marketting campaign to include the phrase
"The Dog is red, not the beer."

						-Biff Kennedy

You're not just drinking beer, you're devouring the bartender's colostomy
bag!

                                   * * *

If you're so cool, why do I hate you so much?  The sorry truth is that you
are not cool at all, just another spineless rodent grabbing in the dark for
anything that will rub your deformed genitals and make you feel better about
yourself.

It might be another 15 years before you realize how truly ridiculous your
outlook on life is.  In that time you'll make embarassing mistakes, ruin
lives, break my property, fondle my female friends, puke on my doorstep, and
piss on my dog.  If I'm really unlucky you might become a senator or news
anchorman, and I won't be able to escape your name and your ugly face.  You
might be my mailman and break up the monotony of your daily routine by
talking to me when you bring junk mail to my house, trying to dredge up
memories of "the good old days".  There weren't any good old days, just long
years full of ugly people ruining the scenery.  "Remember how rowdy and
wacky we were in college?  We were quite the pair, weren't we Snarf?" You'll
be like the "Three Musketeers" idiot in Slaughterhouse 5, except without the
war to mercifully cut your life short.  At least he'll always be remembered
as being young, if nothing else.  You'll be remembered as old, hideous and
annoying, if at all.


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    IBFT: No matter how hard you laugh with or at it, you'll NEVER get it.

             http://www.amherst.edu/~mcspinks/ibft/ibfthome.html
      		      email: mcspinks@unix.amherst.edu
      ftp://ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/IBFT  The Eleventh Hour (617)696-3146
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