Where Easter Eggs Come From

rabid granniies
by Morbus

There's a remarkable, yet very likable, injustice in the world today, one I'm sure you've heard bitching about many times: sending old people to nursing homes. Much like sending trash to a landfill instead of our backyard, we send our overused, unwelcome ("i'm noot dead!", "yes, you are!") rotting family members to the care of fat cranky people who bench press more weight on grocery night than two or three of the sacks of flesh we call grannie.

Fat cranky people who don't realize that for the next one to ten years of this fleshly nodules' life, those hideously wall papered angles will be the only thing this pseudo zombie can call home.

And the fact that you've got proud corpses who don't want to wake up when you tell them to, who don't want to eat the banana that's "oh so yummy for them", and who are more than happy to chew 300 times per niblet just to make your day more annoying. Sure, they can piss and shit on you - although that's really not good revenge. Most of the time, they do that anyways, apologizing profusely or threatening to hit you when you try to clean their missing penis.

But the system works for them. Finally, you can be abusive with no respite. Hell, you're on your way to death - what does it matter if you're scolded a bit more? It's time to strike back with no fear of punishment.

It's always fun hearing stories from the nursing home - a close partner works there and brings home many terror tales and ghastly geriatrics. It's fun knowing that disgruntled old men try to beat teenaged girls. Or that they're sneaking peeks at plunging neck lines, and pissing on themselves deliberately for the only sexual pleasure they can earn.

I fully endorse patient abuse as well as helper abuse. Think of it. Send feisty old grandpa with his cane to Hillcrest Horror Nursing Center, and let Madd Maxine and her bitches tune his excitability into a honed fighting machine. Grandpa hits Tina, Tina clocks him one, and they both chuckle as the drool flecks his chin.

When the threat of death has turned into a blessing, pain and suffering is a welcome addition to the daily routine. And if you can get your kicks on the way there, you should. Someone's paying good money for you to be there, and with the sad monetary state of nursing homes nowadays, they'll suspend their help quicker than they'll COD the dead.

I'm not afraid of getting old, I'm afraid of the wall paper.

assholic: assholic
part two

by Rown Garnbii

or: I'm with stupid

Let's see. I got fired from my job, smacked with a thirty dollar parking ticket, shot down by the girl of my dreams and have consumed enough caffeine to take down a charging rhino on a coke binge, all within the last three days. It's time to write a column.

For those of you not together enough to have read last months field trip into my psyche, I'll sum it up. Assholes suck. They are the root of all evil; they should be wiped off the face of the Earth and they come in many forms. Forms which, over the course, I'll be describing. Tonight, we plunge into the murky cold waters of the deep blue sea, in search of the wily asshole known as... the dumb guy.

Stupid people are, to a thriving community, what highly contagious, airborne flesh-eating viruses are to a thriving community.

Before people get all shouty, I'm not talking about your run-of-the-mill retard, or an actual case of A.D.D. (there aren't many) or anyone else with a legitimate note from their doctor, excusing them from mental activities for the remainder of the school day.

No, I'm talking about your average fuck-up who just doesn't get it. The ones who never studied, the ones who never cared. The ones who are only in it for the emotional gratification and don't feel the need to otherwise contribute to jack shit. These are the dangers in society.

Truth be told, on a scale of one through ten, stupid people only rank about a seven on the asshole scale, but they have something else going for them. Their sheer numbers. They are the worker bees of the race. They follow orders blindly, they refuse to listen to reason, and are often times very strong. They can form an army that could march across the Earth (and at times, has), destroying everything in their wake.

Additionally, more dangerous that their actual physical brute strength, far beyond that of mortal man, is their disgusting follow-the-leader attitude. They propagate trends in fashion and pop culture by forking out hundreds of dollars for fashions they see others wearing, which is so asinine, I'll never get over it. Can someone please tell me why you would actually pay someone else to let them advertise on your body?

They keep all the worst things afloat, following anyone with a catch phrase or armed with a buzzword. Assholes could not be as dangerous as they are without these people, the stupid.

So, how do we find these people?

How do we stop them?

Interesting question. The stupid come in so many forms, but there are a few red flags you can look for.

1) Anyone wearing Tommy gear, or any other article of clothing where the main selling point is the company name slapped across it somewhere. Usually in gratuitously big lettering. As I stated before, only idiots do this. Companies pay huge amounts of cash to advertise their goods. Thousands of dollars for billboards. Tens of thousands for magazine ads. Hundreds of thousands, even millions for commercials. But you? They pay you nothing. You, the greatest advertising gimmick in the world. A walking talking kiosk. A fully interactive model. They pay you nothing and in fact, you even pay them for the privilege to do it. Why? Seriously, why?

Hey, I don't know about you, but my body space is for rent only. If the price is right, I'll gladly walk around in one of those NASCAR outfits, with the three hundred patches. I have no shame.

2) Speaking of NASCAR... Now, I'm not going to get on everyone's ass, just for watching this shit. Some, perhaps many, truly do enjoy the sport. But if you're watching NASCAR with your buddies, and someone on the track crashes, taking out several other cars as they smack into the wall going up in flames and one or all of your friends start cheering, smack them.

I'll be the first to admit that near-death and at times death itself can be funny as hell, but most of the time it's just inappropriate. So many people watch sports like NASCAR and hockey just to see fights. Please, if there are ever death sports in this country, find me and shoot me. Better than that, yourself.

3) Lastly, anyone who has an opinion on anything, even though you know for a fact that they've never looked into the subject. These are truly the worst stupid people of all, because these are the ones that follow the activists and the politicians. These are the ones who follow popes and kings into really stupid, stupid wars.

These people don't even go on their gut instinct, they do things purely because someone said so. They took things as fact because an actor told them it was so. Thank god most of these people don't vote, but some do. Please try and stop them.

And if you can't stop these people from being stupid, there is one last thing you can try. Simply lure them to your own side. That's right, trick 'em. Better to keep them docile, than enraged. That's what I tend to do. Convince those around me who can't handle it, not to care. Damn I'm evil.

by Todd Shaddox

Oneness with nature is a crock of shit. Its magnitude smothers rather than nourishes. It is a constant reminder that we indeed are not a part of everything. We are aliens. The curse of introspection has separated us from that which exists here naturally.

The universally accepted (yet endlessly debated) theories of change are simply macrocosms of the instability in our lives. The thought that all is born, changes and dies is not reassuring; it's disturbing. At best, subtly shifting the rug under our feet; at worst, propagating a horrific feeling of apathy.

The man who stepped into the elevator had half of his arm sewn into his torso. Jack had heard this unnerving technique quickened the healing of tissue - but that was merely a finger, a hand at the most. This was from the elbow down. Where was the rest of that arm?

He could hear the fingers, their joints flexing and nails clawing through thick goo; swimming in mucous. The man looked at him with a knowing grin and winked.

They went down and the man went out, taking with him the sweet and sour smell of oxygenated blood and fetid puss.

Jack got off at the bottom, walked into the foyer and sat in the watching chair. As they entered from the elevators, a semi-vertical ray of light passed over their faces. The light illuminated more than their physical features. As it fell across them, he knew everything.

To maintain his sanity he had created thousands of categories. Today, as always, he was distinguishing the good from the bad. He had tried this before with limited success. It's really a lot harder than it seems. He eventually learned it necessitated the answering of one specific question. It didn't matter what the question was as long as none of the possible answers were open to interpretation.

Today's question was, "Would you destroy someone merely to better your own situation?"

"Ding." The doors open and a tall, thin man steps into the future. He's wearing a fairly pricey suit with sub-par shoes. He tucks a folded newspaper under his arm as Jack laughs at the irony. Seven steps and the light slices through him. Six more and he's out the door.

Jack follows with a confident stride. He has never, ever, been spotted. The man, whom Jack now called Stan, walked seven blocks to a coffeehouse, sat down with one cup black and began reading his newspaper. Jack lit a cigarette and coughed. He couldn't quit smoking so he had decided to smoke only half a cigarette at a time. He was trying to decide which half to smoke.

The tobacco crackled and he thought of the immigrant he had married once and how her eyes shone in the bright light. He thought harder and remembered her tooth and her sweater and the windshield.

As the fan blew the smoke to the corners of the room he saw the scars on his hand and the sculptured rug beyond. He stopped thinking and traveled through the deep gullies in the rug, pushing the strands from his face as he went.

He traveled until he reached the furthest wall, where he laid beneath the baseboard and concealed his nest with a scrap of paper. And he was happy just smoking half a cigarette at a time.

Stan paid his check, left a one-dollar tip and abandoned the diner. He rounded the block and walked by a small church Jack had never noticed. He strode into a barbershop and immediately sat down for a trim. Jack wondered exactly what stakes would lead poor Stan to destroy the happiness of another. The answer to his question was colorblind. There was only black and white. There was no scale of absolution.

In Jack's opinion, Stan's hair was now slightly too short. He followed him back to the building in which they had met and called to him as the reached the glass and brass doors. Stan turned just in time to receive an incredibly swift strike to the head with a pair of nunchaku. Actually, it was more to his face than his head. If you run your finger across the ridge of your eyebrow, you will come to the apex of an angle. This specific point is crammed full of nerves and merely pressing on it causes discomfort. This area of Stan's face shattered like red clay and his left eye shot from its socket.

Jack watched him fall and noticed he could hear both the blood pouring from the gaping hole in Stan's head and the arterial blood striking the pavement some three feet away. He stuck the nunchaku in his jacket and smiled at his retro weapon of choice.

He walked seven blocks to a coffeehouse. There was music playing and he leaned his head against the brick wall and let his eyes adjust to the browness.

After awhile he could see and with this new vision, he noticed a girl sitting in front of the bar. She was pretty and all alone so he sat down next to her. As he ordered a drink he realized she smelled strawberryish and he blushed as he passed gas.

He was about to ask her name but as she turned and smiled he knew she was the Devil. The last of the spit mingled coffee washed over his teeth and he left.

The sun was gone now and he could tell by the stillness of the air that the night would be foggy.

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Devil Shat is published by Disobey & is protected under all copyright laws.
Devil Shat Sixty Eight was released on 10/12/00. Last updated: 10/12/00.