BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART THIRTY: DAYS OF WRATH
It was the first day of summer, and the sun was still up well after most people had gotten home from work, and the streets where Count Justin Victor and Cadger Tandy walked were relatively uncrowded. The setting sun was beating slantwise on the streets which were steaming from a sudden but brief thundershower.
“I ask you, Yob,” said Count Justin Victor, “Was there ever a race of men so deprived more simple good horse-sense when it comes to women, as the men of the United States? I think not. When you’re an Empire, of course, the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world. The men here are under every incentive to treat their Zooks right. Must have babies, plenty of itty bitty babies–pitiful little slobs who are loud and helpless. Do they ever stop crying? Not really. Seems as though the loochers always want something from you, if not some actual piece of you. And they demand your attention and your help for the rest of your foreshortened life. Until the day you die. This is something the Church never tells you. Be fruitful and multiply, they say. They never tell you why. The answer is simple. Any good Christian who spawns a child is too damn busy and wracked with guilt to ever get up to any monkey business. Sure, there are obvious exceptions. But let this sink in once and for all: the family is the health of the state, and any man who doesn’t have as many children as he possibly can is either an anarchist or an enemy of all that is good and decent. Of course, you know that I am being ironical. But…am I? Now, I can’t prove to you a damn thing that I’m saying, but I will tell you this much–the game is rigged. It is particularly rigged in favor of the man who just don’t give a damn, and has plenty of ooftish to back him up. I’m not saying that every chump with a mortgage hanging over his brain is bound to die in the poorhouse. What I am saying is that unless you can come up with some legalized way of theft or extortion, some legalized way to force a chump to give you his money, then playing it on the straight and narrow is a sucker bet that pays 10 to one against. I know that people say that life is a game, a race, or even a bowl of cherries. Well, let me tell you what life really is–life is a deadly serious business. You got your profit and loss statements, your shrinkage, your accounts payable, and your break-even points. Time was, a long time ago, plenty of sons meant cheap labor so you could run the farm. But now that we live in big cities, have most of our own teeth, and wear shoes most of the time, that kind of thinking is old hat.
“Time was when you used to feed whiskey toddies to the young’uns, morning, noon and night–and I’m not saying it done ’em much good, but I don’t see how it done ’em much harm, either. Time was when if any boy of eight who didn’t know how to chew tobacco ever showed his face around our back yard, he wouldn’t never hear the end of it. Time was that every family of means had a Nigra maid and a Nigra Mammy, too. That is why, to this very day, there are plenty of Southern Gentlemen who have a decided taste for brown sugar. They will slap a Nigra wench around in the afternoon, and rest in the arms of an Octoroon in the steamy evening-time. A queer lot, those Southerners. I guess I’ve gained some perspective on ’em, having been away from ’em for thirty-odd years. When I was but a wee tad, we used to live on cornbread and fat-back, and a mess of greasy greens, and very little else. Poor folk went without shoes, and suffered something awful from hookworm, and dysentery, and malaria. Of course, it’s hard to do a job of work when you’re so afflicted, which is why Southerners just naturally count on the Nigra and on convict labor to take up the pick and shovel.”
As Count Justin Victor continued his talk, he had a sad expression on his face, as though he still hadn’t forgotten the faces of those degraded specimens of humanity. His face turned slightly red as he bent over in their perambulation to tie his shoelace, and when he stood again he was slightly winded, and paused for a moment to catch his breath, but then resumed.
“Quite frankly, Old Boy, the womenfolk have got us over a barrel. They are good to look at, good to touch, and they also smell mighty good. We know it, they know we know it, and they act accordingly. Enticing us with their wiles. They manage to suppress nearly all their faults during that courtship phase. The Zooks will take infinite pains to please a man. They will keep their mouths shut. They will not complain about his drinking and gambling. They will provide him with the best home-cooked meals, even if they have to have their mothers help them. They will terrorize their families into being on their best behavior when Froggy comes a-courtin’. And they will go to restaurants and pick at their food like little sparrows. They will take one sip of sherry and proclaim that it makes them ‘tiddly’.
“And then you say ‘I Do,’ and all the bets are off. You discover that beneath the corset and the bustles you’ve married a coarse beast with a prominent slob-belly, an insatiable appetite, and a decided thirst for strong waters. A perpetually hectoring harridan who will talk your ear off should you make the mistake of giving her the slightest back-sass, or even a cross look. Her prim and proper family will suddenly become a murderous, back-stabbing, mouth-breathing congregation of lazy slobs and loochers.
“Sic transit gloria mundi! I tell you, it’s enough to bring a tear to the eye of a stone gargoyle!”
cum fuk with my pack bruh, ull get fukin slobered on into eternity, fukin swer to god they will fuking end ur life
Social workers come to Jillson Square to pass out mint- and berry-flavored condoms from a wicker basket to heroin-addicted prostitutes.
There is the category of chuckleheaded Hollywood extravaganzas
which exist solely in a hermetic world known as Hollywoodland.
Shallow, hateful, solipsistic. There is reality–and there is Hollywood
reality. You could write a book if you were so inclined, in which every
aspect of false Hollywood reality is placed under the griddle. MAD
Magazine was at one time quite waspish about this very topic.
Vide “Book! Movie!” in Mad #13.
I had a 1981 Deisel Rabbit, and every time I started it, it said “Warum,” which is German for “Why?”
WHY? Because it’s virtually impossible to get a job with a decent salary if you don’t own a car.
WHY? Because the Iron Law of Wages demands that employers only pay the minimum wage necessary to sustain the life of the worker.
WHY? Because I live in a first world country where every stable adult is virtually required to own a car.
WHY? Because evil despoilers ruined the public transportation grid.
WHY? Because they want everybody to be on the grid and tied down with the expense of maintaining a personal vehicle.
WHY? Because the powers that be want an acquiescent population who only imagines that they are truly free.
WHY? Because the movers and shakers of the world truly fear only one thing: That they will be overthrown by people with nothing to lose.
WHY? That’s enough questions for today, you Nazi death buggy!! Start, damn you–START!