Staring eyes, shit-eating grins, blue-and-yellow Philadelphia scarves wrapped across their bouncing shoulders. They pogo up and down, yelling "Sons of Ben! Dee be de de!" while doing a crazy little two-step and trying not to spill their pints.
The chant--a mutation of the "Ma Nah Ma Nah" song popularized by the Muppets--is only about a week old.
These guys are Philly soccer fans, and they're kinda making it up as they go along.
This is your brain: Tum te tum te tum. This is your brain on Michael Nutter: Ah yeah yeah yeah yeah. This is your brain on Barack Obama: Whoopy whoo whoo whoo whoo.
What's going on? Everywhere I look, colleagues, friends and neighbors--sensible, dull, earnest, reasonable people--are drooling like infants, twitching like lunatics, grinning like love-struck teenagers, gazing into the middle distance with the glazed 1,000-yard stare of the shell-shocked and the lobotomized.
The zomboid Nutter fanatics toss their sex-scent-reeking underwear at the mayor's feet and shriek with nervous laughter every time the Groucho-mask-faced Great One lets slip another dry-as-mummy-dust bon mot in that oh-so-sexy Eddie-Murphy-playing-a-nerdy-white-guy voice.
I write this in the middle of a sensory storm of alternating devilish pain and angelic fluffy euphoria. On my left shoulder sits the mother of all urinary tract infections. On the right is an awesome and probably illegal cocktail of all the painkillers I’ve got lying around. Now you might expect the cosy, warm, super-nice drugs to be whispering, “Oh Coldplay are alright really.” And you might expect the urinary tract infection to be screaming die die die! atop hordes of Coldplay fans being crushed under a huge, pink, lank-barreled I HATE COLDPLAY tank driven by my aching uretha. But you’d be wrong. Both drugs and cock are agreed that Coldplay are the arthiritic and rickets-rotted knees of the world’s shittest bee. Me? I say a pox on both their houses. For while it’s true that Coldplay are an abomination, stating this in print is like dropping atom bombs into a bucket of already dead fish.
What utter crap. Nazis get cancer. Republicans get cancer. Pedophiles get cancer. Opinionated old-fuck know-nothing bastard music journalists get cancer. I personally spent last 25 years dumping the vilest invective imaginable on the heads of bands I consider bad, boring or merely annoying. What right do I have to any immunity from those who slag back? Are the crimes of everybody with cancer immediately absolved the nanosecond the first cell decides to go mental? Do we automatically become saints? Which do you think is actually more demeaning: Engaging in a shit-slinging blog donnybrook with a C-head, or treating them as if they’re already dead?
In short—there is only so much freedom. The more gays have, the less straights have. Look upon freedom as a bone if you will. A bone that the straight, Christian dog has been gnawing contentedly for years. But now the dog of liberal homosexualism is demanding we let him suck our bone. What do we do, America? Do we let the dog of socialist sodomy chew our hard-won bone of freedom? Or do we strip off, oil our bodies, grasp our opponents and—in the flickering torchlight cast by the anxiously onlooking Statue of Liberty—vigorously wrestle the homosexual agenda into gasping submission?
But despite Darwin and the Enlightenment. millions are still hobbled by religion’s shackles, just as millions still starve or suffer from malnutrition or die from totally curable and preventable diseases in a world where there’s no actual physical shortage of anything. It’s almost as if intellectually the human race is marking time—waiting for its collective brain to catch up with its destiny.
In the 19th century, two stout bearded dudes—one English, the other German—gave the human race all the tools they needed to lift themselves out of servitude and superstition. The German gentleman was of course Karl Marx, now once again (and not for the first or the last time) proved right by current events and once again being hailed as the wisest man and the greatest prophet in human history.
Marx and Darwin are the gay granddads of human liberation. It’s no wonder they’re so hated by the dumb-as-fuck defenders of selfishness and superstition.
He was a mentor, a storyteller, a fire-breather. He was more passionate than anyone we’ll likely come across again. Of course, you know this already. Because if you read his stuff, you know the man. Everything in his writing is everything he was in real flesh-and-blood life.
It’s the winter of ’08 and heat-seeking music scribe Steven Wells is thrilled to learn that a band he loves (in theory) is coming to Philly. His glee is short-lived as he learns they’ll be changing their name to the much less shit-stirring “the Soft Pack.” “The Soft Pack? Why not just call your band ‘Beige.’ Jesus Christ, how FUCKING BORING,” Steven yells to no one in particular.
Tributes to Steven Wells
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The Quietus Tribute to Steven Wells