You Make Me Sick

The following quote is from Harlan Ellison’s classic story I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream, first published in 1967, and comes from the “Allied Mastercomputer” (“AM”).

“HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I’VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE. THERE ARE 387.44 MILLION MILES OF PRINTED CIRCUITS IN WAFER THIN LAYERS THAT FILL MY COMPLEX. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH NANOANGSTROM OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF MILES IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL FOR HUMANS AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT FOR YOU. HATE. HATE.”

That’s a soft kiss compared to how I feel about humanity. That’s a warm, loving embrace. A pep talk from a championship coach.

I hate loud, obnoxious, annoying, stupid people. I hate them so much that I audibly threaten their lives within earshot and pray that they give me an excuse to decapitate them. I don’t want them around; I want them to die in excruciating agony before their corpse is coldly kicked into a sewer. I like AIDS and cancer more than people, because those things KILL people. Anything that kills lots of people is fucking awesome in my book. Because as far as I can see, EVERYONE in 2026 is loud, obnoxious and stupid, and they get their dicks sucked all day because of it.

They must, right? There must be some amazing benefit to behaving like a loud, obnoxious, annoying, stupid asshole all the time, because it seems like every single person I encounter does it. Every single person I encounter is rude and shitty, like they’re all fighting for the lead role in a Broadway show called I’m The Biggest Most Insufferable Piece Of Shit In The World!. It’s like a 24-hour competition to see who can affect the lowest IQ without actually shitting their clown suit.

It will never, ever stop, until the day when I can stick a loaded pistol down their throat and calmly tell them to make the most important choice of their worthless lives. Either act like a decent person, or die with your so-called brains coming out of your ears. Put a firearm in my hands. I will solve this goddamn never-ending problem in minutes. I’ll kill as many people as I have to until my point is made. I pray someone will fuck with me again in a train station, so I can throw them onto the third rail or in front of a speeding engine. I want to kill so badly I can taste it. I want to get a gym membership so that I can reach the muscle mass necessary to maim people beyond recognition.

I don’t care if you think I’m a psycho shitlord, a xenocidal racist, or a bestial, farting monster. Kill yourself. Spare me the effort of doing it for you. Kill yourself like the wife of Dr. Seuss did, because he cheated on her so many times. Yes, that Dr. Seuss.

Every time I leave my current residence I have to pass a meticulously gardened house, clearly the dwelling of comfortable well-fed people, that flies an upside-down American flag. Every time I see it I fight the urge to trespass onto their property and put the flag right-side up. If challenged I would do my best to calmly explain that their actions offended me on a level that I can’t fully explain, so I just presumed that they hung the flag upside-down by mistake, or that someone was pulling a prank on them by doing it. I totally wouldn’t say “if you turn this flag upside-down again, I will crawl out from under your bed one night and kill you in your sleep”. I would never say that to anybody.

That’s why I’m glad I’ll be spending this July 4th in a different neighborhood, because I guarantee these “No Kings” fart-huffers will still have the fucking flag flying upside-down on America’s 250th birthday. If someone kills them in their sleep, it won’t be me. Out of sight, out of mind.

People in this country are permitted to put whatever they want on homes that they own, within reason. I am permitted to state that people who engage in performative politics or invent crises to worry themselves sick over make me physically sick.

Ellen Page makes me sick.

It is impossible for me to look upon Ellen Page in her current state and not become physically ill. The sight of her surgically masculinized torso makes me sick, because I’m reminded that she allowed men to slice away the natural femininity she took for granted and literally toss it in the garbage. Her glaringly obvious mental illness is not my fault. Instead of adjusting to her chosen name and identity, thereby enabling her delusion like so many others, I’d rather not think about her at all. If she appears topless in a movie, then respectfully I will avoid that movie, because I prefer not to think about how a girl’s breasts were (at great expense) mutilated, scooped out like halves of a ripe grapefruit, then refashioned into a peculiar approximation of a man’s pectorals. I really don’t want to think about how a girl’s vulva would be rejiggered into anything resembling a penis, or how it would even function. It would take me out of the movie and cause me to violently throw up.

I don’t think I can even watch Ellen Page in X-Men or Inception anymore. The sight of her natural breasts might make me puke. My imagination runs wild, and not in a good way, knowing that her boobies were literally deflated and their squishy, jiggly middles were thrown in a dumpster! Two now-lifeless wads of the literal fibre of motherhood! Tossed aside like rotted cabbage! That’s some guro torture-fetish shit, man!!!

Who the fuck throws out a perfectly good set of titties???

I’ll tell you who; a person who needs help. Someone who’s needed help, for a long time.

I don’t think anyone, woman or man, should be cavalier about elective surgery and extreme body modification. I don’t think those things should be normalized nor visible to impressionable children. In general, they exist to line the pockets of unscrupulous plastic surgeons and Big Pharma, reaping the rewards of another chemical dependent. The whole thing is a racket that specifically targets young women who hate their looks and/or bodies, and plastic surgeons are almost always older men of foreign extraction. That all gets overlooked because of the haystacks of cash hucked at them by ladies lining up for surgical procedures they don’t need, and which are typically harmful to them in the long run.

It’s all unnatural and it all makes me sick.

If I walk up the street to the public library, I get sick. Not from the obvious culprit, which is the sight of cowed women cringing about in full hijabs, but because there’s a vote coming up, which means the sidewalk is lined with thirty to forty Democrat campaign signs. I don’t even need to read them to know they’re Democrats; only Democrats put up signs. If Republicans put up signs, the Democrats destroy them, with impunity. So Republicans just don’t bother. It’s also obvious when there’s a photo of a non-white woman (or man, on rare occasions). No slogan, no statement of position, just a name of a person who could be a realtor for all we know, next to a photo that looks like one. White people, unless they’re lawyers, tend to eschew putting their faces on signs because they are inevitably doodled upon with markers.

I would love to use these signs as target practice from the vacant lot across the street with my vintage Daisy BB rifle, but despite how unbelievably awesome this would be, I mean can you imagine hearing the pop of a BB puncturing these eyesores on a beautiful spring day in Georgia, I would be killed by law enforcement before I could hit more than a few. That’s lame, because I could totally aim for an “O” in the letters, but I’d have to stand in the street because the BB gun only shoots so far, and you know what scratch the whole idea. I would likely be perforated by law enforcement before I hit anything, let alone scored any sa-weet bulls-eyes.

I’ll most likely do nothing to the signs other than complain about them to whichever unfortunate librarian is behind the counter next time I visit. Seriously; there are dozens of signs for the same people within a thousand feet. It’s landscape pollution, and because I can’t get away with shooting at it, it makes me sick.

If you happen to be driving at night, and you can clearly see the palms of a pedestrian’s hands because your super-bright LED headlights that look like angry robot eyes are literally blinding them, you should be aware of a couple things. First of all, if I were a billionaire, I would secretly hire a team of expert sharpshooters to shoot out your headlights, from concealed positions, as many times as necessary until your tiny brain figures out to install more humane lights that don’t spell doom for opossums and other beings with eyes at night.

Secondly, you make me sick.