Killing mofos.

If you could shoot someone, who would it be? Bear with me. The theory we’re working with here is that you are given a gun and a bullet and it’s understood that at that point you'll be allowed to shoot one single person and there will be no repercussions. Furthermore, the person will be brought to you, or you will be brought to the person (depending on your preference) and you can shoot them in any way you see fit. So, if you want the person to see you and be scared and know exactly who’s killing them and why (if you choose to disclose that information) you can do it that way. BUT if you’re kind of squeamish about the whole thing, you can do it from a distance or from a window or from behind (heyo!). What? Oh, don’t worry about missing the person if you shoot from a distance. This is a hypothetical situation and in this situation, you’ll be a guaranteed sure shot. You can kill one person on the earth. Who’s it gonna be?

Really? Nobody? Well, obviously your uncle never snuck into your room and blew you as a child. Come on! Killing is our most exalted and exciting from of crime. It’s capriciously taking someone else’s life, and then continuing to live as they die. You can pick Amadinejad if you want. You can pick that pervy football coach that just got arrested fro fucking the ten year old, at-risk youths in the Penn State showers (who’s autobiography is called [and I’m not shitting you, folks] “Touched” by Jerry Sandusky, which is laugh out loud funny if he HADN’T been actually fucking little boys, but as is…yipes) or you can pick the guy who’s currently fucking your ex girlfriend much better than you ever fucked her. Anyone! So who is it?

Look, I get it. Killing is gruesome and mean and even George W Bush has daughters and people who love him and Casey Anthony is still pretty hot and she hasn’t done porn yet. Fred Phelps is really a pretty ineffectual old man that ultimately is living in a fate worse than death as a closeted, cock starved self loathing queer. I’ve thought of all this. That’s why I’m prepared to suggest that maybe you should consider killing a hobo. Think about it. He’s old, he’s drunk as shit. He’s unhappy. No one’s gonna miss him. Kill the hobo. Go ahead. Just kill him. You CAN’T tell me that you’re just gonna pass up this once in a lifetime opportunity to kill someone and walk away scot free, are you? Seriously? That’s fucking stupid.

Nah. I couldn’t do it either. I’ve thought about this a little since the blog last Thursday where we discussed how murder is sometimes totally okay and celebrated…(dig the Osama/team 6 duality, doubly interesting because Osama was ALSO celebrated in certain circles for killing people). Based on a few arbitrary circumstances, the exact same act, snuffing someone’s life out of them, can be something that will get you hunted down, tortured and killed, or a seat in the head float at a parade that’s being conducted in your honor. Killing’s a weird thing. I can’t imagine what it’s gotta be like to see someone get killed…although, I DID see someone get killed once.

It was like ’93 and I was walking with some people from a minivan that we were drinking 40’s inside of back to the Fireside Bowl where my band, Slapstick was set to play a show with Paul Think and the Bad Kids. Across the street a crackhead type was approaching what appeared to be a gangbanger. They had an extremely short conversation which culminated in the gangbanger type guy knocking over the crackhead, jumping up and landing with both feet on his face over and over and over and over again. The gangbanger guy then ran off. A girl, I believe her name was Michelle, ran over to see if the guy was okay (he was not) and I ran back to the Fireside to call the cops.

The whole thing was a complete fucking donkey show after that. Michelle was (understandably) pissed off that no one went with her to see if the guy was okay (the neighborhood was apparently a little dangerous, as evidenced by the murder we’d witnessed just seconds before) and I was pissed that she went over there at all and didn’t run back and call the cops, as the dude was obviously very dead. Looking back, she was probably right, although I was sixteen and probably 115 pounds and scared shitless. I wasn’t thinking about anything other than “oh fuck. Oh fuck ohfuckohfuck!” It was a quick reaction that I remember thinking was the most responsible thing to do at the time. Whatever. Probably not my finest hour, but I wasn’t the only other person there anyway. I don’t know. This was fucking decades ago.

Anyway, I called the cops, which led to Paul Think getting pissed and going on a rant on stage about the inequity of the police state or something and me sarcastically yelling “fuck the system” and him getting furious with me and almost jumping off the stage and the whole evening was generally a huge series of cock slaps front to back. I don’t even remember if we played.

The moral? I don’t want to be around people when they depart the coil, bros. It’s stressful. And I DEFINITELY don’t want to be the person responsible for their demise. That’s heavy. No matter how evil they are. Well, I guess if someone had harmed my family I’d want them to die and/or suffer, but I don’t know that I’ve got the constitution to be the person that doles out retribution. Besides, those pasty, shirtless, hooded guys with the danzig bodies and the axes need jobs and I don’t want to be just running around executing people and fucking up their economy more than it already is, you know?

In conclusion, I’d kill that woman who is trying to sully the good name of Justin Bieber. What a monster.