Blowing for Columbine
Yesterday I was on the DART back home. I was reading “Love all people”, the book on Bill Hicks. It was rush hour, so there weren’t too many seats available. I ended up with two crack heads and their lovely spouses. These guys were passing around five doobies between the four of them, whilst gulping down large amounts of pills with J&B. High? Their pupils were so dilated I could see the back of their skulls. Nothing but thin air there. So your man, who’s been hooked on crack since he was in the womb, asks:
“What ya reading?”
“Bill Hicks.”
“He’s that writer, isn’t he? What’s he been up to?”
Oh boy, Bill would have had a field day with you, man. I mean, I can understand how the two working brain cells in that head of yours connect the dots and go: book…person…dingdingding: Writer!
Your claim to knowledge would have been that much more credible if I couldn’t see black holes in your eyes, buddy.
“Euh, no, he’s a comedian. And for the last eleven years, he’s primarily been dead.”
They continued expanding their minds with natural substances as I went to the toilet. I came back wearing my black trench coat and carrying my long rifle. As I blew the first one’s brain out, I felt a slight remorse. All this strawberry yoghurt-like mash on the walls and seats...
Nothing! I blew away everything above his eye-lids and he didn’t even blink.
“Pass me that Dutchie again, Phil, I feel a splitting headache coming on.”
“Like the new hairdo, Neil!”
Damn, I’m trying to better the world here, man, you could at least pretend to co-operate. But then again, you can’t kill the undead with a shotgun. I suppose I'd need to drive a silver spike through their heart or sever their heads from their bodies. A bit to messy for me, I don't like handy work. They weren’t even that more zombie-like than the rest of those comatose rat-racers on the train. It’s hard being a psycho-killer in a world of braindead.
Yesterday I was on the DART back home. I was reading “Love all people”, the book on Bill Hicks. It was rush hour, so there weren’t too many seats available. I ended up with two crack heads and their lovely spouses. These guys were passing around five doobies between the four of them, whilst gulping down large amounts of pills with J&B. High? Their pupils were so dilated I could see the back of their skulls. Nothing but thin air there. So your man, who’s been hooked on crack since he was in the womb, asks:
“What ya reading?”
“Bill Hicks.”
“He’s that writer, isn’t he? What’s he been up to?”
Oh boy, Bill would have had a field day with you, man. I mean, I can understand how the two working brain cells in that head of yours connect the dots and go: book…person…dingdingding: Writer!
Your claim to knowledge would have been that much more credible if I couldn’t see black holes in your eyes, buddy.
“Euh, no, he’s a comedian. And for the last eleven years, he’s primarily been dead.”
They continued expanding their minds with natural substances as I went to the toilet. I came back wearing my black trench coat and carrying my long rifle. As I blew the first one’s brain out, I felt a slight remorse. All this strawberry yoghurt-like mash on the walls and seats...
Nothing! I blew away everything above his eye-lids and he didn’t even blink.
“Pass me that Dutchie again, Phil, I feel a splitting headache coming on.”
“Like the new hairdo, Neil!”
Damn, I’m trying to better the world here, man, you could at least pretend to co-operate. But then again, you can’t kill the undead with a shotgun. I suppose I'd need to drive a silver spike through their heart or sever their heads from their bodies. A bit to messy for me, I don't like handy work. They weren’t even that more zombie-like than the rest of those comatose rat-racers on the train. It’s hard being a psycho-killer in a world of braindead.
