My PAX 2007 Report

The Marching of the Cunts

Six thousand by six thousand stood they,
The stalwart cunts,
Weaponless and exposed, they marched on

And sixty thousand by sixty thousand, did they face
Of men, both terrible and strong.
And quickly were they trodden upon.

Those brave cunts, those brave cunts!
The bards would someday sing.
Those cunts, which stood against the dawn.

And as they were slaughtered, they stood braver still
No queef nor complaint did they utter.
They stood upon that hillside slaughterground,
Like floppy pink pillars of stone.

For theirs is not to reason why,
Theirs is but to do and die.
O cunts, O stalwart cunts.


ADDENDUM:

It's been too long.

It's 3:45 am. You're on the road, completely alone, except for the music pumping out of the speakers. Your name brand portable music player is hooked to your car through an adapter plugged into the tape deck, bridging the gap between old technology and new. Your car cannot handle the new device; it is in a transitory state, as are you. You don't know what you want to listen to, so you tell your player to play all your songs in random order.

You are not alone for long, as you soon detect the flash of headlights in your side mirror. A red light up ahead soon brings you side by side as you stop, waiting for no one. As your playlist flips over to the next song, the opening strains of “Don't Stop Believin'” fill your car. Not long ago, these notes played over the final moments of the last episode of a popular TV show, and you are embarrassed to seem so predictable. Of course, it wasn't your choice, but all the same you turn to see if the person next to you has noticed, knowing full well there's no way they could have.

The person is alone in their car. It seems like this late at night, everybody is alone. They remain alone, for as you regard this person, they look straight ahead, taking no notice of you. Their face is half obscured in shadow, so it is hard to make out their expression, but the overwhelming neutrality of it shines through the darkness. They show absolutely no emotion, yet you're drowning in pathos. The situation says it all, they like you, and all the other cars on the road, that now are nothing but pale flashes off in the distance, you're all in a state of transition.

Authors have long probed how a physical transitory state reflects something of the human condition. They tell of brief meetings on buses, planes, trains, in waiting rooms, stations, and terminals. But as far as I know, none have documented the phenomenon at stoplights. I suppose these locations are more seductive; you have plenty of time to kill, and the people involved can engage in conversation. This works better in a novel, but as an experience, nothing is so perfectly succinct as these 30 seconds.

Back in the car, the light changes, and instantly you're alone again. The other person now cares only for the road ahead, and try as you might, you cannot lose yourself in that person again. Your old companion remains practically as close as ever, but now you are insurmountably divided. You've been bitten by a snake, and now it has gone, and you have only the sting to keep you company. And then you hear these lyrics:

Strangers waiting
Up and down the boulevard
Their shadows searching
In the night
Streetlights, people
Livin' just to find emotion
Hidin', somewhere in the night

And suddenly what seemed so cheesy before is now uncomfortably appropriate.

Sometimes life is maddeningly clichéd.


SIDE NOTE: Today's Pearls Before Swine is fucking awesome.