lions as children
lambs as adults
I asked my girlfriend what I should write about this fine issue of Devil Shat. She rambled off some rhetoric, much like the suggestions on 'Whose Line Is It Anyways?', and eventually landed on "elementary school dodgeball".
Gasp! The memories! Fully erect balls (uhh...), packed with air so tight that a simple bounce would cause havoc, the metallic smacking sound cringing our eyes yet whetting our appetite.
Our appetite for the one thing that kids know how to do so intuitively: causing pain to others. Yes!
When we ran out for our recess kickball, there was always a hidden rule that stated no matter how many times someone would yell out "no pitchy patchy's", the rule would never come into effect ("no pitchy patchy" meaning that you can't throw the ball at the runner to get them out). No. We relished the chance to evade a ball whipped furiously from a distance, performing insane jumps in order to get an especially ferocious high five when we landed home. I remember vividly how one kid threw a ball from the outfield, dead on to the runner. The runner jumped high, but the ball slammed into his air born feet, sending him spinning with a audible slam to the pavement.
And then dodgeball. Wonderful dodgeball. Gone were the cross field throws. Gone the single target running around the bases. No. dodgeball was ten feet away. dodgeball was a bunch of ducks sitting in front of a stone wall with two feet of leeway on either side, trying to hide from the meteor that some kid would whip as hard as he could. Getting hit with that thing was worse than what'd you see on the news. News is reported. dodgeball had the unspoken rule that if you got hurt, you go whimper in the corner and tell no one. Enlightening teachers to the torture meant eviction from future games.
I gotta tell ya, those were the days.
What the hell happened though? There's no more fun physical pain! And "fun" is the key. Back when we were kids, we loved getting hurt and hurting other people. Now that we're all "grown up", we've lost a certain threshold of our lives for something we've been told is maturity.
I don't know how the hell that happened, but I know that if my work had a dodgeball game where all bets were off every Friday, and physical pain would be laughed off when the game was done, I'd be a lot less stressed.
No, instead, I've got to go home and beat my wife, and then get penalized for doing so! What the hell is THAT all about? I know some people who'll defend battered women who stay with their husbands. These people will say they're weak, have ten kids, can't support themselves or are in a situation they can't get out of.
That's just plain old bullshit. They're one of the few people in this world that still grasp onto elementary dodgeball...
... and the immense, satisfying joy it brought them.
the greatest column ever told
by Rown Garnbii
(Part Six of Ten)
Because I never paid attention in English class, and as a result never learned proper technique and writers etiquette, (I even started this run-on sentence with 'because') I'm going to start this months tirade on a completely unrelated note which I'm sure will later be edited out of the collected edition of "The Greatest Works of Rown Garnbii" on sale soon. I apologize for the resulting poor flow, but dedicating ten months to a single subject can get tedious for anyone so consider this an intermission.
What's up with Cracker Jacks? If you haven't bought a box recently and you've got a buck to waste, get some. Now, out of politeness I'll ignore the obvious discrepancy of peanuts to popcorn, but I will not, will not, WILL NOT excuse the disgusting introduction of lame prizes.
Our parents had it good. Whistles, toys, compasses, pocket knives, decoder pins. There was no end to the cool things you could get at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box. Even when I was but a child, we could always count on good prizes. The most coveted of which was the booklet of "lick 'em, stick 'em" tattoos. Now they were cool.
What is our newest and most precious generation subjected to in today's oppressive, politically correct culture? Crap. Absolute crap. Pieces of paper suitable for folding into one of two amazing shapes. Poorly lenticulated lenticular mini-baseball cards, etc... crap.
We do this to children... in America... We actually subject kids to this and then have the audacity to ask why they shoot up schools. I'm not going to put all the blame on the semi-fine people at Cracker Jack, Inc. They are guilty of nothing more than having no balls whatsoever, and cashing in on it.
I blame the fucker, and you know he/she's out there, who sued Cracker Jacks because their bastard child choked on that whistle, or toy soldier or even (sniff) my tattoo booklet. Sound the alarm!!! Choking hazard on aisle three!!! Come on people, it's wrapped in a giant piece of paper, covered in bright red and white stripes with "PRIZE" written all over it. Only a monkey would choke on a Cracker Jack prize. The only real choking hazard in Cracker Jacks ARE the Cracker Jacks. Those large, puffy, sometimes spiky, caramel covered death traps that are SUPPOSE to go down your throat. That's the real hazard. But keep it down or they'll take that away too.
And speaking of stupid dead children, onto the Sixth Commandment!
"Thou shalt not kill." (God, Exodus 20:13)
Four simple words and the most straight forward, unmistakable, and morally correct commandment... nay, guideline, ever written anywhere by anyone. So simple... don't hurt people. Don't judge them and don't take them from this world. Do not assume you are the Lord nor attempt to become him.
So simple, yet so complicated a concept for so many.
The problem stems from insecurity and fear. From the first person who said you should fear the Lord. Hell, He's probably the one who said it because that's what got the shitball rolling. People, fueled by fear, completely mistook the decree, and I think it happened a little something like this...
ENTER - Quaint Medieval Village
Peasant - Hello, quaint medieval preacher.
Preacher - Ah, faith and begorra, good mornin' to ya Sinner.
Peasant - Eh?
Preacher - Sinner. That's what we, in the know, call people who are goin' to burn in Hell.
Peasant - ...eh? I'm a good man. I provide for my quaint medieval family in this fascist, monarchistic country. I grow wheat. How can I be goin' to Hell?
Preacher - Well, my son. You're not doin' the Lord's Work. Yeh gotta be doin' the Lord's Work to get into Heaven.
Peasant - Well, I'll be a monkey, you're right! I'm going to Hell. What is the Lord's Work?
Preacher - Read the Bible and find out, quaint medieval peasant.
And that's just what he did. The peasant went home and read the Bible from cover to cover and learned that God was one bad Mo Fo and he feared Him and always kept the Bible close to his heart.
The peasant also did the Lord's Work. He gave to charity, welcomed strangers with open arms, quoted scripture during suitable occasions and helped steer others toward the Truth and the Light and life was good and he was happy. He was scared to shit of God but he was reasonably happy.
Then one day...
ENTER - Quaint Country Road
The peasant was walking to church one day when he saw a dark man sitting on a carpet bowing.
Peasant - Did God paint you?
Savage Foreigner - Did God paint me! (chuckle) For certain. Allah loves wondrous color.
Peasant - Who the H - E - double hockey sticks is Allah?
Savage Foreigner - He's God. Dig?
Then the Savage Foreigner started sacrificing a chicken. (or whatever)
The peasant was confused. "THIS was not in the Bible. What would the Lord's Work be in this case?" He thought to himself.
The peasant pulled out his Bible and paged through it. Heretics weren't mentioned in the handy index but there were numerous stories of God smiting people who didn't like Him and making people who dissed Him suffer terribly with plagues and such. Well, this was obviously the Lord's Work since this is pretty much what He did with his day, but what about that pesky "Thou shalt not kill" thingy.
True, it did decree that he can't kill, but it's also only ranked sixth on a list of ten and "Thou shalt have no other Gods" did make the number one slot.
And it's also true that it's the only commandment that God Himself broke on a regular basis.
After careful consideration of these facts, the peasant preceded to beat the black out of the Savage Foreigner with his Bible.
You probably didn't learn a damn thing from this little tale so I won't quiz you on the bullet points. I'll just say that God or not, killing people is generally bad news and it never works out quite the way one would hope. And although I don't rule it out in the future, as of the writing of this column, I have yet to shiv anyone in the neck or take a life in any other way.
Unless stepping on ants counts.... nah... probably not.
SCORE: Hell - 3 / Salvation - 3
send us an email