Mild Nausea and Disorientation

It's said that those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it, but I repeat the past all the time, I guess, and frankly it's not much of a doom at all, except of course for those who read my column. Each week in this space I write about myself, how I hate my life, really awful stuff, same thing every week I suppose, not sure, I don't remember the past, that's how I can repeat it so effectively.
Another thing today's teens are noted for is their extremely short attention spans. Don't think so? Come on! I mean ... it's the smartest, funniest animated sitcom in years!
I know what you're thinking. My fans are an eclectic bunch -- some of you I irritate; those of you I do not irritate wonder bitterly why not; the rest of you have never heard of me and are irritated at being referred to -- but you all have one thing in common: I really irritate you. Something you have come to depend on. And you know from experience that when we print your angry letters we will not correct their many, seemingly impossible spelling errors. Or -- if need be -- we will insert a few, of our own devilish design. Although in that case I guess we would have to consult a dictionary to make sure they were wrong. Alright, never mind. Shove your letter up your ass.
Man. I am good at what I do. Too bad they don't give a Nobel Prize for Unappreciated Talent. Typical of them not to. Here, let me write a column about myself. You will find it most irritating.

Really Awful Stuff, pt. 89

Last fall I attended a Candlebox concert at Kirkland Doubletree -- admission was free with a donation of food for the poor. As I began to place my bag of shop-lifted pig's feet and jowls into the bin, I was approached by a representative from the local Chamber of Commerce, who asked me if I would like to sit close to the stage (!) and pelt the band with my bloody (human blood; no animal blood was used) pig parts and gristle.
Naturally I said yes. And I just had to marvel at it. With no more than a sack of pork leavings, I was afforded the chance not only to PROTEST the music, but to listen to it for FREE. I mean, I hate Amerika and everything, but is this a great country or what?
And as I moshed quietly and hurled the moist chunks, there was this pony-tailed little girl standing there looking at me with these big, quizzical eyes as if to ask: why the flying fuck -- aside from, you know, the simple pleasure of it -- would anyone want to ruin the make-up of lead singer Scott Mercado with pretty, menses-red victuals? Well, let's think about that together.
Moshing. Air guitar. Concern for Social Issues. The Grunge Generation is the most dynamic generation of teens in a decade. Clearly we are better at music than any other teen generation on the charts right now. Our personal habits have revolutionized the world of fashion and fragrance; things are going gangbusters in the Fast-food and Health-care industry. No, perhaps our Generation will not leave a ... pretty corpse, America. But it will fascinate medical science and of course will provide vital nutrients to the soil.
Ours is a sweet, lucrative life. But it is only that way because we hate it so entertainingly.
America has always been amused by the emotionally infirm. Go ahead, teen, look deep inside yourself: do you have angst? Oh come on, knock it off. You don't know if you have angst or not. Of course you have angst. And you know that guy who just watched you attempt to operate a dictionary? You made his day. That's the way it works. The reason you are entertaining is that there is something wrong with you.
On the face of it, it would seem a simple matter to keep oneself miserable for the benefit of one's fellow man. But let me tell you: maintaining a caustic, mediagenic irritation can really take its toll on a teen. It's aggravating and stressful. It's just plain old-fashioned hard work. Sometimes you've gotta have the courage to reach out for help; or even have that help provided for you against your will. That's why they annoy Candlebox. That's why they pay them in worthless rubles.
And that's why there is The Whimper. And that's why there is me.
When I won the Seattle Public High School Essay contest [sponsored in part by Teen Phonics®] to become the new Whimper editor-in-chief, the first thing I did was have a sit-down with George Clark's staff of earnest, unqualified writers.
Writer: "So, Ms. MisKalculata --"
"That's Miss MsKalculata, man! Man!" And as I proceeded to emasculate them with surgical skill I wondered mildly: why the flying fuck would a bunch of otherwise normal white breeder-male types hire a nasty, hateful feminist to tell them what to do? Aside from the reason of deserving to be emasculated every day for the rest of their lives.
[As well, by hiring someone with poor anger-management skills, The Whimper received a generous grant from King County Department of Corrections. - GC] Alright, I saw that. Hey, George! FuI am a moronkay, stop iI am a moron'm sorry Mr. ClaI am a morono sorrry soory heI am a moron and I cannot spellrk I am very sorry.

Why the flying fuck?

The year was 1994. The Cold War had petered out dismally. Republicans were in the news. Jesus-freaks were making ready to celebrate the end of the millennium. And philanthropist and civic leader George Clark watched all this with interest and was reminded that the world will end not with a bang but a whimper. Well, credit where credit is due: he established a badly-written sex weekly for Generation X teens and called it The Whimper. And I remember the excitement. Because, you know, it was important. The end of the millennium (or world, depending on your lifestyle choice), whatever that is.
By the end of the first year The Whimper was a smash success. Some local businesses had placed advertisements with them; those businesses that refused to, The Whimper ran ads for them anyway as punishment until they finally agreed to; the local chapter of Mothers Against Drunk Driving filed suit against them for defamation and was put to the torch; the Dutch, Arabic and Braille versions of The Whimper kicked a little foreign ass in their respective markets. All across Seattle, teens eager to enjoy The Whimper's caustic, mean-spirited articles hunkered down and tried to read.
But The Whimper's prosperity was, as so often seems to happen, hallucinatory. You see, their success was predicated on their complaining about their lives. But if they were successful, then so were those damnable lives! A 90's nightmare in the classic mold. Every time their revenues went up, their life-styles improved and they complained less and thus lost readership, which ended up making them more popular than ever, since they became more miserable and unpleasant. They found themselves trapped in a wicked cycle. Which may help explain a lot of the mild nausea and disorientation so often exhibited in their writing at the time. Anyway, they went out and hired a new editor to blame. Me.
I wearily served up my brainstorm: we would simply shut down, permanently inconvenience our readers, irritate ourselves, and be the most popular teen paper ever.
I know that this does not sound entirely rational. But remember, reason is a tool devised by men to control the less competent. And you'll be pleased to know I did not have to resort to reason in order to draw that conclusion.
Anyway, the publishers sheepishly loved the idea. They announced that The Whimper would shut down for the good of the community. And that, simultaneously, they would let me start writing editorials. And then they took off on an extended Princess Cruise.
Miserably, the scheme worked. Certainly you all were less happy, with one less thing -- this unreadable [see page 2 - ed.] paper -- to complain about. Furthermore, you were clearly suffering less, without this paper patiently reminding you to do so every awful week, and thus your lives lacked direction and gave you, you know, angst. Trust me.
Oh, and myself? I could not have been more pleased with me. I won a special award from an appreciative local journalism group. I had changed the lives of dozens of fired staffers. Family trust fund. And smoking? Finally got the hang of it. Try as I might, I would lay awake at night and have nothing to complain about. Nothing. Emptiness. Darkness. Death. Then I realized: jeez, I am complaining. Shitty or not shitty ... life is shitty.
Gadzooks! That's why they hired a curt, fascistic women's-libber. Hating my life is more than just some ... hobby for me. It is my motherfucking passion and joy. I had much work to do.
Well, the irritated life is not worth living unless it is shared, and I am a sharing soul. So here we are. Your teen-friendly weekly. Each week a new editorial, each of which will be pretty much like this one. And I do this in order to make myself miserable. And if you don't like that, I am doing my job right, there is nothing to complain about, and that simply will not do.
Oh, and as for Scott and the pig parts? He wrote a hit song about the experience and became a vegan, which will make him hate life all the more. And the cycle continues.

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