March 12, 2004
Mixed RXNs

Madrid suffered a devastating bomb attack Thursday. It ripped apart the city's metro and killed almost two hundred people. The Spanish government immediately laid the blame at the feet of ETA, a Basque separatist group. Later on, a group called 'the brigade of Abu Hafs al-Masri in the name of Al Qaeda' took responsibility. At this point, no one is sure exactly who did it.

As terrible as the whole thing is, the possibility that the Spanish government may have initially laid the blame on the wrong group is interesting. It is reminiscent of the Oklahoma City bombing back in 1995, which was, at that point, the worst terrorist attack on American soil ever. The immediate reaction of the American government, the media, and the public was to assume that the attack was the responsibility of a terrorist group from the middle East. This would be correct six years later, but at the time, it was an absolute shock when they caught old Timothy McVeigh with diesel fuel on his pants and fertilizer in his pocket.

A country's perception of its enemies says a lot about the country, especially if they point fingers at the wrong people during an event like this. The Spanish government immediately suspected their long-time separatist group, the ETA, of the bombing. Maybe the ETA is guilty, maybe they are not. If al Qaeda is responsible, it will be an unwelcome surprise for the Spanish government, and it may affect the election in three days. It would have to be a shock for a country whose populace opposed the Iraq war, but was hauled into it by an inattentive government. Spain has been mentioned in the past as an al Qaeda target for its role in supporting the States, and perhaps this bombing is the materialization of that threat.

If al Qaeda is to blame, it will be a stunning moment, and Spain will have to address its new position in the world, and realize that a distant terrorist group hates it enough to kill two hundred of its innocent civilians. Spanish papers are already comparing the shock and outrage to 9-11, but more likely, they should compare it to the same shock that Americans ran into when McVeigh turned on them. The Spanish may have been caught looking naturally inward for their foes, where they expect trouble, when their new place may be to look outwards as well. The States looked outwards before McVeigh was caught, and was doubly taken aback when it realized it was being eaten from the inside.

It must be a frightening thing to wake up in the morning and to know there are people who hate you enough to kill you, but even more horrifying to turn around in the afternoon to realize those enemies are not alone.

March 11, 2004
Pedagogica

Apparently, when one is in a semi-functional relationship with a stage actress, it is in bad taste to hit her possible lover at two in the morning while one is sporting an uncovered erection. This much I have learned.

Or at least, I should have learned something from this. But I probably haven't. It's not like this is the first time that I've hit a man in the face with a full load of lumber on the truck. But I don't talk about that anymore.

Speaking of lumber, Ronnie filled me in on this weekend's activities. Apparently he got wood when he needed to get wood, got off when he needed to get off, and did a fairly decent job of pleasuring his intended house-bride. There's no reason to disbelieve him, 'cause he did show off his vial of little blue pills beforehand, guaranteed to stiffen a man's resolve for hours. He finds out soon if he'll be invited back, or if he'll spend the next year of his life filming his woman get ploughed from behind by some other plucky farmhand.

Speaking of fucked up meat, there might be a little something extra in everybody's hot dogs that were supplied by a certain BC pig farm. Officials dropped the bomb that Pickton's pig farm, which police suspect might hold the remains of around fifty missing prostitutes, may have shipped some 'contaminated' meat. That makes me feel great, cause so far this week, I have eaten twelve hot dogs and four pork chops.

I don't know what that's doing to my prostate, but one can always pray for justice. And pray for Chloe to get over this, and maybe pray that I should think about what it means that there's an accountant showing up at her house at two in the morning. Obviously, despite her assurances that she doesn't know what he was doing there, he was getting ready to plug her tail full of hot silver. Which just adds to the regular daily vitriol, and just means that he's gonna get hit every time he comes around till he stops coming around. It might be prehistoric, and it might be barbaric, but if you got a piece of pink you want to keep rapping and some other slimdick keeps knocking, the best way to tell him to fuck off is with a head snapping right hook. Or, like in Nunto 14, walk up to him and say:

You want to wake up
in my bathtub and
look up to see your legs hanging
from my towel rack
and me standing over you
in a lab coat and a welding mask
holding a straight razor?

if not
get the fuck out of here
before I rufie your next drink
and load you into my trunk

wrapped in the
burnt shroud of civility i keep stashed
between the hooker's head and my guns

i wear it like a superhero, you know?

March 10, 2004
Desultory Immolation

and after i pull my cock out of her and step over to the counter to pour myself another rum and coke and there is a knock at the door and it is two in the fucking morning and she is looking at me confused-like and uncertain and then a bit fearful and the moon plays well on her features and her tits shine through the sheets

so i answer the door and there is a man there and i knew who it is. the money lender. and so i don't bother to put my pants on. cause i got no respect for that fucker and yeah maybe i want him to see me standing there with her joice still sprayed all over my legs and so i answer the door and he is shocked.

but i don't care so i ask what the fuk he wants and he aint got nothing cause he is all bitch whip paul when it comes to this business but i can tell he was thinking that it wouldnt be me answering the door naked and when i look back at her i can tell that maybe this wouldnt be the first time that fucker showed up at two in the morning.

so i feel that foul mood sink in. like it sank in all day. like it been sinking in for weeks, every time i think the word cuckold and think the money counter on top of my stage hand, and it sinks in right behind the eyes. murderous like. and i forget all about everything my old polish fighting coach said and i splash the rum in his face and when he is still standing there shocked and wet i twist the body one way and back and follow it up with that hard right hook that hits just below the left eye. and the knuckle hits it just right on the cheekbone that it splits and there is blood. just a trickle. leaking out. sounding like a dropped grapefruit on concrete when it hits.

i wait a second to see if hes got any more but hes too shocked or too stupid or too unaware of how pathetic he looks to step back up the stair and take a run at me. i spit. it hits his jacket. and i dont say anything but shrug at him and close the door. girl still looking at me from the sheets two nipples staring at me like angry caterpillar heads but i dont give a fuck. shes still wet and hungry and waiting for the rest of her fuck.

so i walk over to the counter where the rum bottle is still out and i pour a shot in and look in the fridge and theres no coke and the top knuckle of my right hand is throbbing but i dont give a fuck. fill the glass with a bit of water. slug it back. go back to bed. give her a kiss that tastes like thick thick liquor and roll over and let her sit there wet and let her fuck herself cause fuck you moneylender come to fuck you and i got your blood on me and his blood on me and maybe like donnes flea you two are fucking.

whatever. go fuck yourselves. just seeing his blood got me off

March 9, 2004
Mingus & the Pope-ah

Nice to see that John Paul II has decided, at the ripe old age of eighty-three, to squeeze back that Polish prostate just far enough to blast one last squirt of piss in my face. It's not enough that he's got an iron grip of the balls of one of the world's most powerful religions, so he has decided to publish a collection of his own poetry.

The lingering taste of urea in my mouth is due to the fact that he has published over a million copies of the book. So far, advance sales for Nunt total six.

No, wait. I lie.

Advance sales total zero. This seems cosmically unfair. Especially when we take a look at the quality of said poetry:

If you want to find the source
You have to go up, against the current
Tear through, seek, don't give up.
You know it must be somewhere here.
Where are you, source?
Where are you, source?

-JP2, The Stream

Wow! Now, I'm not one to knock the pope, or invent a word that should sign my death warrant, but boy, was that ever shitty! I mean, he might be eighty-three, but he sure knows how to lay a turd.

If he and I had collaborated on this, instead of him and his buddy Skwarnicki, I think we could have come up with something much better. A few subtle changes would have given his work that much more meaning. Let's take a look.

If you want to find the source
You have to go up, against the current
Tear through, seek, don't give up.
You know it must be somewhere here.
Where are you, tampon?
Where are you, tampon?

You must be found
before the jam sandwich
begins

-JP2 and Mingus Tourette, The Stream


Now that's poetry! I can't wait for the papal blessing to roll in, and we'll be making money like hog over fist!!!

March 8, 2004
The White Whale

Ahab in all his thoughts and actions ever had in view the ultimate capture of Moby Dick; though he seemed ready to sacrifice all mortal interests to that one passion ... It would be refining too much, perhaps, even considering his monomania, to hint that his vindictiveness towards the White Whale might have possibly extended itself in some degree to all sperm whales, and that the more monsters he slew by so much the more he multiplied the chances that each subsequently encountered whale would prove to be the hated one he hunted. -Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Better than dipsomania, I suppose.

Blurred lines exist on the field between passion, obsession and good old-fashioned monomania. Where one stands between these lines often means the difference between egoist-style success in the pursuit of one's goal, and the outright devastation of one's life. In the case of Ahab, monomania cost him his sanity, his ship, his life, and the lives of his crew (minus lucky Ishmael).

Yes, it is important to identify the possible manias that one might suffer from, because if one recognizes a mania, and suspects that one is subject to it, one is obviously too concerned for one's mental health to possibly be subject to that mania. In this situation, good old Catch-22 protects one from potential insanity.

The original Catch-22, as written by Joseph Heller in his 1961 novel, is defined as:

a military rule, the circular logic of which most notably prevents anyone from avoiding combat missions:

• One may only be excused from flying bombing missions on the grounds of insanity;


• One must request to be excused;


• One who requests to be excused is presumably in fear for his life. This is taken to be proof of his sanity, and he is therefore obliged to continue flying missions;


• One who is truly insane presumably would not make the request. He therefore would continue flying missions, even though as an insane person he could be excused from them for the asking.

Copyright © 2006 Mingus Tourette