Muldertak
October 24th, 2005, 09:48 PM
Hello, faithful 'would-be' readers!
Since this is the third installment in the "View from the Hill" series (yes that's copywritten and I own it), and the other two - although submitted - were never picked up by the rag that we love to hate, I am pretty certain that I am qualified as a weekly columnist for the Stranger (after all, I already have the column named, and I am awesome).
With that in mind, I will forge ahead with my post in the forbidden zone. It's a pity you all didn't get to read the first two (I'm not at all surprised that you didn't, mind you. "View from the Hill No.1" was a complete indictment of hipsters and hipster culture. Mr.Savage does know where his readership lies, no?).
Right. Onto the work at hand.
Ok.
************************************************** *******
View From the Hill - No.3
I haven't given y'all a good view from the hill for a few months, and for that I apologize. I've been ill/away/just plain damned drunk for the last few months. The last thing I want to do after the normal gut-churning, skull-crushing daily grind that is my life is to write this column.
But I must perservere, if only for the fact that I certainly wouldn't want to deprive my loyal readers of my observations of today's culture - or lack of it.
Besides, Scots have to rant every once in a while, and usually do whenever a few big fat glasses of Dewar's have placed themselves within easy reach.
(Today, alas, the Dewar's is lacking, and I am forced to enjoy the dubious comfort of the "Swill of the Hill", Pabst Bloody Blue Ribbon. Ugh. Shoot me.)
So, fueled with the cheapest possible sewer-water, PBR, I must forge on.
Let's talk about spitting.
Yes, spitting.
I was convinced that the act of uncontrollable public spitting was limited to certain demographics: those unfortunate denizens of Kent, Burien, and White Center, or the CD.
I was wrong. Oh-so-wrong.
Not only do mullet-sporting men with rotten teeth and their own trailer park meth labs, or gangsta wannabees sporting picks in their 'fros -with pants 'round their ankles, engange in this disgusting display of public expectoration.
I.
Don't.
Understand.
I was standing at a bus stop recently, impatiently awaiting the number 43 bus (which, I don't know if you've noticed, is ALWAYS late! Goddamned bus. Why do they bother to print schedules? It is entirely irritating enough for another article, on another day) back up to the hill from downtown, when a beautifully dressed man walked up to the same stop.
He looked like a trader in bonds, stocks, or futures. Or maybe like he was a high-end mannequin for a stunning combination of Brooks Brothers and Banana Republic - with the typical Abercrombie looks.
There I stood, in awe of the complete and total look of this man: his perfectly coiffed do, his perfectly co-ordinated gear - down to the shoes, which were also perfect. I'm not gay, but this guy looked so together, so successful, and so altogether awesome and at peace with life that I would have considered giving him a quick discreet blowjob just for a hint of his secret.
Me? I'm there in five-day old jeans, sweating from the run from one bus stop to another(in vain), ballcap firmly on my head to hide the fact that I'm weeks overdue for a decent haircut, with a four day growth of man-hair happily sprouting away in patches on my wind-burnt cheeks. (Geez. No wonder I never score in the "Missed Connections" or "I Saw U's")
Suddenly,horribly, evilly, my entire image of this guy, along with every illusion I ever had about class and culture were shattered.
He leaned over at the signpost for the bus stop, hawked a massive loog, and forcefully spat it onto the sidewalk - as if, by taking two steps to the right and actually getting into the gutter, he would have been put out.
Then (oh no, kids, I am not even close to being finished), he proceeded to spit repeatedly onto the sidewalk in roughly a 360 degree circle around his awesome self.
This didn't occur all at once - as one may assume it would, had the offending person been afflicted with an awful taste in the mouth, or perhaps an overwhelming abundance of phlegm - it occured sporadically over the entire 15 minutes of the wait for the bus!
While we stood there (me accompanied by my disgust, he accompanied by his amazing fashion sense and horrible habit) he leaned over and SPAT at least ten times.
He would work his mouth in an odd fashion, then lean over, open his mouth, and allow all the saliva that had accumulated in his mouth to drop disgustingly onto the pavement below.
WHY?! WHY IN THE FUCK ARE YOU SPITTING?!
The sidewalk, when the bus eventually turned up, looked like it had been attacked by a flock of very ill - perhaps dysenteric - seagulls.
I do not understand why men (and not a few women) have decided that saliva, which occurs naturally in the mouth and can actaully be quite useful, must be expelled with a variety of force and delivery onto the pavement.
Are these spitters allergic to their own saliva? Must they rid their body of the offending liquid the moment it begins to accumulate, else they suffer hives?
Also, what do they do at home? Was SuitBoy's home littered with the remnants of his spittle - all over the English Oak hardwood flooring? Can anyone safely walk there? Does he lean over and drop bodily fluids from his mouth onto the floor at board meetings?
What of gangsta-boy? Does he, at the end of a long day, go home to his wife/girlfriend/BabyMomma/bitch, and spit all the live-long day onto his rental apartment's carpet?
Eewww!
I have been alive for several years. I have often had the need to spit, for a variety of reasons (I have no tolerance for peanuts or peanut oil for example). I have never, ever, ever, ever arbitrarily decided that I hated my own spittle enough to forcefully eject it repeatedly onto and into the path of strangers.
Give me a break, please.
Spitting is disguting, plain and simple. Stop doing it onto places upon which I have to walk/sit/spend any time!
I do not want to share your diseases, whatever they may be, any more than I want to actually want to watch that liquid horror escape the (relative) safety of your own body.
Eewww!
And THAT, kids, is my View from the Hill.
As always, please contact me directly with your stories, anecdotes, and examples of evilry (as you know - the dirtier the better).
Coming soon: View From the Hill No.4 - Seattle Metro (sepcifically the numbers 3,4, and 43 busses)
Since this is the third installment in the "View from the Hill" series (yes that's copywritten and I own it), and the other two - although submitted - were never picked up by the rag that we love to hate, I am pretty certain that I am qualified as a weekly columnist for the Stranger (after all, I already have the column named, and I am awesome).
With that in mind, I will forge ahead with my post in the forbidden zone. It's a pity you all didn't get to read the first two (I'm not at all surprised that you didn't, mind you. "View from the Hill No.1" was a complete indictment of hipsters and hipster culture. Mr.Savage does know where his readership lies, no?).
Right. Onto the work at hand.
Ok.
************************************************** *******
View From the Hill - No.3
I haven't given y'all a good view from the hill for a few months, and for that I apologize. I've been ill/away/just plain damned drunk for the last few months. The last thing I want to do after the normal gut-churning, skull-crushing daily grind that is my life is to write this column.
But I must perservere, if only for the fact that I certainly wouldn't want to deprive my loyal readers of my observations of today's culture - or lack of it.
Besides, Scots have to rant every once in a while, and usually do whenever a few big fat glasses of Dewar's have placed themselves within easy reach.
(Today, alas, the Dewar's is lacking, and I am forced to enjoy the dubious comfort of the "Swill of the Hill", Pabst Bloody Blue Ribbon. Ugh. Shoot me.)
So, fueled with the cheapest possible sewer-water, PBR, I must forge on.
Let's talk about spitting.
Yes, spitting.
I was convinced that the act of uncontrollable public spitting was limited to certain demographics: those unfortunate denizens of Kent, Burien, and White Center, or the CD.
I was wrong. Oh-so-wrong.
Not only do mullet-sporting men with rotten teeth and their own trailer park meth labs, or gangsta wannabees sporting picks in their 'fros -with pants 'round their ankles, engange in this disgusting display of public expectoration.
I.
Don't.
Understand.
I was standing at a bus stop recently, impatiently awaiting the number 43 bus (which, I don't know if you've noticed, is ALWAYS late! Goddamned bus. Why do they bother to print schedules? It is entirely irritating enough for another article, on another day) back up to the hill from downtown, when a beautifully dressed man walked up to the same stop.
He looked like a trader in bonds, stocks, or futures. Or maybe like he was a high-end mannequin for a stunning combination of Brooks Brothers and Banana Republic - with the typical Abercrombie looks.
There I stood, in awe of the complete and total look of this man: his perfectly coiffed do, his perfectly co-ordinated gear - down to the shoes, which were also perfect. I'm not gay, but this guy looked so together, so successful, and so altogether awesome and at peace with life that I would have considered giving him a quick discreet blowjob just for a hint of his secret.
Me? I'm there in five-day old jeans, sweating from the run from one bus stop to another(in vain), ballcap firmly on my head to hide the fact that I'm weeks overdue for a decent haircut, with a four day growth of man-hair happily sprouting away in patches on my wind-burnt cheeks. (Geez. No wonder I never score in the "Missed Connections" or "I Saw U's")
Suddenly,horribly, evilly, my entire image of this guy, along with every illusion I ever had about class and culture were shattered.
He leaned over at the signpost for the bus stop, hawked a massive loog, and forcefully spat it onto the sidewalk - as if, by taking two steps to the right and actually getting into the gutter, he would have been put out.
Then (oh no, kids, I am not even close to being finished), he proceeded to spit repeatedly onto the sidewalk in roughly a 360 degree circle around his awesome self.
This didn't occur all at once - as one may assume it would, had the offending person been afflicted with an awful taste in the mouth, or perhaps an overwhelming abundance of phlegm - it occured sporadically over the entire 15 minutes of the wait for the bus!
While we stood there (me accompanied by my disgust, he accompanied by his amazing fashion sense and horrible habit) he leaned over and SPAT at least ten times.
He would work his mouth in an odd fashion, then lean over, open his mouth, and allow all the saliva that had accumulated in his mouth to drop disgustingly onto the pavement below.
WHY?! WHY IN THE FUCK ARE YOU SPITTING?!
The sidewalk, when the bus eventually turned up, looked like it had been attacked by a flock of very ill - perhaps dysenteric - seagulls.
I do not understand why men (and not a few women) have decided that saliva, which occurs naturally in the mouth and can actaully be quite useful, must be expelled with a variety of force and delivery onto the pavement.
Are these spitters allergic to their own saliva? Must they rid their body of the offending liquid the moment it begins to accumulate, else they suffer hives?
Also, what do they do at home? Was SuitBoy's home littered with the remnants of his spittle - all over the English Oak hardwood flooring? Can anyone safely walk there? Does he lean over and drop bodily fluids from his mouth onto the floor at board meetings?
What of gangsta-boy? Does he, at the end of a long day, go home to his wife/girlfriend/BabyMomma/bitch, and spit all the live-long day onto his rental apartment's carpet?
Eewww!
I have been alive for several years. I have often had the need to spit, for a variety of reasons (I have no tolerance for peanuts or peanut oil for example). I have never, ever, ever, ever arbitrarily decided that I hated my own spittle enough to forcefully eject it repeatedly onto and into the path of strangers.
Give me a break, please.
Spitting is disguting, plain and simple. Stop doing it onto places upon which I have to walk/sit/spend any time!
I do not want to share your diseases, whatever they may be, any more than I want to actually want to watch that liquid horror escape the (relative) safety of your own body.
Eewww!
And THAT, kids, is my View from the Hill.
As always, please contact me directly with your stories, anecdotes, and examples of evilry (as you know - the dirtier the better).
Coming soon: View From the Hill No.4 - Seattle Metro (sepcifically the numbers 3,4, and 43 busses)