Terrible Beast

There is this terrible beast. It stays up late at night and drinks rum. Tsk, tsk. It writes silly stuff. Sometimes it writes funny stuff, or cynical stuff. Occasionally it writes pathetic stuff. Once in a great while it writes good stuff (well, that is what it flatters itself). It knows better, but it drinks rum anyway. If it would just stick to wine, things would be better, but, well, it doesn’t. It wouldn’t be a beast if it did what was good for it, would it now?
Listening to Battle March Medley from the Pogues, by the by.

The Animal in Me (Letter from the Editor)

Many authors choose an animal to represent their persona. It might be a kangaroo, or a swamp rabbit, or whatever. Aesop used animals to illustrate his ideas, in order to make them more accessible. It’s easier to read things about animals, things that might actually apply to yourself, than to believe that a human being might think so.
I’ve chosen a human: Mr. Hellstrøm. He’s an animal too, of course; we humans are all animals. And that’s the point, in a way.
Did you know that animals smell sweet? Have you ever smelled the forehead of a young dog? It’s the sweetest smell imaginable, apart from the smell of your own baby. Of course, animals also sometimes smell like shit. Babies too.
In any case, when you present ideas, no matter how nonsensical or enlightening, as if they came from an animal, people are more ready to accept them. That is exactly what I want to avoid.
I don’t want you to accept what I present here, I want you to think about it. Maybe those thoughts will lead to nowhere, but at least you will have thought them. I don’t want to make it easy for you. Unlike Aesop, I am not trying to propagate. I may seem opinionated, and arrogant . . . and I am. But that’s just part of believing in what you believe in, and presenting it with verve; it’s not propagating. Now, don’t get me wrong here, I am not dissing Aesop. Definitely a cool dude, and I personally love his fables. But I want to go to a level beyond that. I am assuming you are able to deal with it. If you are still reading, then read on.
If you’ve read around here, then you know that Hellstrøm is a cynical animal. He is a sophisticated animal, otherwise he could not possibly be cynical. Cynicism presupposes a certain level of sophistication, a certain level  of self-detachment that is not, as far as we know, present in animals. Who knows, maybe the animals laugh about us for being so arrogant as to suppose that . . . but I doubt it. So, let us assume that attributing these feelings to an animal is unrealistic, though it may make said feelings more edible for the reader.
Uhh, where was I? So much for the editor being in control.
I’ll tell you one thing: in every blog entry is a sliver of truth, a tiny sliver of me. It’s like I am a loaf of bread, and I take a microscopically thin slice of me and turn in to an entire loaf. That is what makes it interesting for me, and, I hope, for the readers. Slivers of truth contained in wild stories and insanity and musings and ravings and fuck it all. But do not believe that you will come to know my soul, just because I let the little animal in me speak here. It’s just a slice of bread, dammit, it’s not the whole truth. It’s not my life, and you should not take it literally. Each blog entry is just a tiny piece of me, extrapolated upon ad infinitum by Mr. Hellstrøm.
So it would seem that Mr. Hellstrøm is my animal after all, no matter how he or I may buck up against the fact. He might as we’ll be a fucking kangaroo. He boxes when threatened, doesn’t that count? A drunken foolish kangaroo who just can’t stop writing crazy things. Well, if it’s easier for you to think of him like that, so be it.

Save the Silent Cynic

Oxymoronic, that is, me writing about being a silent cynic. I really should just shut up, and keep my cynical views for myself. But obviously, in this day and age of fucking blogs, someone has to speak up for the silent. So I will be the poor fucking victim, I will make the bloody sacrifice, and speak.
So, the willing reader might ask, why should we save the silent cynic, what function does he serve, what the fuck does he do? The unwilling reader has already stopped reading, so we won’t trouble ourselves any further with him or her as the case may be. Oh, but there is then the reader who isn’t quite sure yet… well, read on, you’ll see soon enough if you’ve got the gumption to keep going.
So, where was I? Ah, the function of the silent cynic in our society, yes. First and foremost his function is (isn’t there a nicer, more intelligent word than “is” I could use here?) to be silent. But, through his silence he is not tacitly consenting to a damned thing, no, he is very patently making plain his disgust with mankind and all things in general. Through his refusal to say a damned word about what he thinks he is blatantly crying out his absolute negation of the sovereignty of the non-thinking assholes of this world.
By the way, I am listening to the song I Put a Spell On You, as rendered by Nina Simone. I dislike Nina pretty consistently, but this song, well, she does it right.
So… God, how I hate it when I continually start paragraphs with the same word. It’s something all the English teachers I ever had have tried to exorcise: to no avail. Oh well, fuck it.
So… what do silent cynics gain by their behavior? Not a damned thing, which confirms them in their estimation that humankind does not understand them or, for that matter, anything else. One more reason to be silently cynical. Vicious circle. Recyclable behavior patterns. Very efficient. Practically the greens of the philosophical world, or something.
By the by, I am now listening to Kaukapol, from 17 Hippies, a great band from Berlin. When I hear this song I have to drum on my tummy so hard my landlord hears it on the floor above, and if you think that’s just because the walls are so thin, well, the walls and floors are so fucking thick that my WLAN often can’t reach his repeater through them.
So… haha. So, you little fuckers, you little… twits. This little silent cynic is signing off for today, for the moment, to go and get even more drunk and think his little silent cynic thoughts all alone in cynical silence.