Menstrual Mondays – A Prayer for the End Times

Where is the appeal to humanity? Once upon a time we had purpose, drive, a sense we were making this corner of the galaxy a better place. Now anyone ever cares about the latest iPod app, how much that new “salmon” shirt with the collar turned up cost, who Brad Pitt is banging, or if Hannah Montana is putting out another 45 minutes of aneurysm-inducing shite before summer.

Maybe I’m turning into the grumpy old man that scares kids off his lawn with a shotgun, but I just don’t get it anymore. No, I don’t want to listen to your shitty dance music. Yes, I DO have a dozen of the same coloured bonds shirts (navy blue if you’re wondering) and I AM wearing knee-length cord shorts – feel free to shove you’re holier-than-thou sense of fashion up your ass, you mindless slave to the hive mind. I don’t give a shit if they’re not hip or cool – they’re warm, while still letting my balls breathe. Fuck off back to your flat-packed Ikea home and express your disdain for the fashion-ignorant with all your cookie-cutter friends. You can all be individuals – just like everybody else.

Who’s calling the shots around here? Seriously? Cause it sure as hell isn’t a sane deity. I personally believe in a higher power – not God, Allah or Vishnu, but a gorilla called Colonel Sherberton who’s seated in an enormous control room, on the edge of the universe, filled with levers and a huge control screen dictating it all. For the most part the Colonel just tinkers curiously with a few of the nearby shiny brass levers – watching the results on the screen then giggling and drooling like an autistic 8 year old who’s spend an afternoon sucking on his helium-filled birthday balloons. But a glitch in the programming causes an image of the Colonel’s long lost gorilla girlfriend to flash up occasionally, snapping him out of his power-induced stupor and sending him into a blind, heartbroken rage, hurling genetically engineered bananas about and tearing the levers from the walls and throwing our existence into a tail-spin. It’s the only plausible way of explaining the universe we live in.

I envy all you, you know. Really, I do. I know I say alot of different things on here, but the honest to goodness truth is that I envy every damn one of you. I wish I could just ignore it like you all do, quietly content with mediocrity. I envy that glazed-over look you all bimble around with, drug-fucked cattle slowly tottering about like dementia patients who’ve just washed their prozac tablets down with a healthy glassful of lithium. How the fuck do you all do it? Look at your lives: You’re born in an orgy of blood, sweat and placenta; get spoon fed and have your ass wiped as a toddler by your doe-eyed parents, go to school and get told how to think and what to feel just like all the other pod people; get a dead-end job where either you whore yourself out selling meaningless shit people don’t need, or whore yourself out as a cog in the machine that maintains this whole fucking charade; get married to some sub-par pond-dweller because you’re too afraid to face the awful truth of our empty existence alone; flop out a couple of screaming fuck trophies because it gives your life “purpose”; and then you die, finally making a worthwhile contribution to this planet as fertiliser. Unless you get cremated – then you’re just a greenhouse polluting cunt.

So, tell me again – how do you all keep doing it? How do you wake up each day and not drop the toaster in the bath with you? How do you sit through an hour of peak hour traffic to and from your suicide-inducing jobs each day without going on some sort of homicidal rampage with a rake and a windscreen wiper? Not that any of this all will matter in a few years time I suppose in our post-apocalyptic future, where the aftermath of global nuclear war will leave you all scrabbling around on all fours, emerging nightly from your radioactive spider holes to fight to the death to over the last morsel of putrefied horse meat hanging from Mr Ed’s sun-bleached skeleton, then fucking like rabbits in a vain attempt to repopulate the planet with your mutant, tumour-riddled spawn.

Personally I’ll be awaiting the blast wave with a smile and open arms, ready to finally be taken from this forsaken planet. But it’s still polite to ask…