Role Reversals

It's been done before, but once in a while I like to see someone's vision of the guy/girl thing as they reverse the stereotypes to show how stupid (or absurd) some actions/pick-up lines are.

Dirty Old Dive Bar

One step in the poorly-lit bar and it already reeks of their sex. The walls are icky, slimy as snot but a translucent grey, like dying fish had been glued to it and never quite died but the stench intensified.

And I wouldn't mind it at all if it weren't for the vein in my left hand begging for the chance to rip my skin open and explode - I couldn't bear contracting the infection of dead cum without having at least fucked a 6 or a 7. Or a trashy 19-year old.

I keep wondering about the shit that goes on in there when I'm not around, seeing as they usually devolve pretty quickly even in my presence. And the shitty music never helps, either, fucking cock-rock classics of the 80s, country-rock classics of the 70s, nothing modern, nothing new - a fit representation of its patrons, who never would have seen the past 20 years if it weren't for the invention of penicillin.

Drunk fucking zombies on their automated poker machines, barely pausing for cigarette breaks, drinking 3% beer 'cause it's a dollar cheaper than the regular-strength stuff that, oddly enough, also tastes like stale piss.

This is the minor leagues of daytime drinking, populated with a few youngsters, sure, but mostly should-be-retired-by-suicide dreamers holding on to the last parcel of their youth, with memories of that one day in their life where it didn't rain shit on their heads, where maybe the right whore was a decent enough actress to make them believe in Love for even a second, their first used car, the first time seeing a plane in the sky, playing with a dog, or that first welfare check that seemed like so much money.

These dreams aren't broken, they're rusted, mouldy, holding on for their fucking life with fucking duct tape - but they're still there, alive. Working. Well enough to get from point A to point D in a haze, barely flipping over a few tables, perhaps with a black eye or two, but fucking standing.

And that's why the dried-up beer, the vomit, the blood - some of it clearly menstrual - and the cum add layer upon layer of goo on the tables, floors and walls, and why we all keep coming back. Hope.

Nappy New Year

I went out last night for New Year's with a couple of friends and the former Lady Of The House. We went to a bar that plays EBM (goth-dance) and shitty 80s songs by Depeche Mode and the like, and no one seemed festive. It was like a normal, boring winter day rather than a cause for celebration, or even a Friday night.

Maybe I'll blame it on the rain, yeah, yeah.

Eight Cop Cars, No Ambulance 2: The Song It Inspired In Me

8 cop cars, no ambulance
To deal with man-made decadence
She lies on the sidewalk in a pool of blood
Washed away by the rain...

Lining up the belligerents
Rather than attend to the victim
They act just like the system taught them
Efficiency over wisdom

8 cop cars, no ambulance
No action-takers just observants
She lies on the sidewalk in a pool of blood
Washed away by the rain...

Why the violence?
Animals of direct descendence...
Reflects on our society
Infects my own City...
 
8 cop cars, no ambulance
But the situation is urgent
She lies on the sidewalk in a pool of blood
Washed away by the rain...

Crescent Street is Douchebag Street (and the women who love them)
Skeleton-clad shirts by Ed Hardy (what did I think would happen?)

8 cop cars, no ambulance
No action-takers just observants
She lies on the sidewalk in a pool of blood
Washed away by the rain...

Eight Cop Cars, No Ambulance

Another late night working in a cozy downtown office... then the bars close and shit happens, in this case, violence outside a club on Crescent Street. Beer bottles thrown at people, at cars, one girl's head slit open, fights start - it's not a pretty scene.

It takes a couple of minutes before a cop car shows up, but when it does, reinforcements are called in. Quickly enough there's five of them, then six, then seven, then eight. But they never think to call the girl an ambulance, and she lays there in a pool of her own blood, shaking, convulsing, while onlookers take pictures with their phones rather than call for help.

And even amidst this chaos, despite there being 14 cops for less than 10 people, new fights erupt.

Some time passes, and the commotion reaches a cold silence - from my distance at least. But the girl still lays on the cold, wet rainy Montréal cement.

Fuck you, you stupid assholes - I'll call her one myself.

Now I'll shut my window, because they forced me into their shit - and I enter and leave shit on my own terms.