Humans! You just never cease, do you?! The bewilderness of my ancient existence continues to flourish, strange new trees of screeching insanity bursting through the ground, sprouting into life all about me until I can barely see the moon of logic! This week, this week, it is your incessantly ghastly health trends that are driving me to MURDER AND MADNESS…
It all began, you see, with this: https://www.elle.com/beauty/health-fitness/a28600/amanda-chantal-bacon-moon-juice-food-diary/
I stared, bemused, at the arsecrack of 4am, my 17th joint hanging idly from my fingers, as I lethargically scrolled down this perplexing list of complete bollocks that one of you refers to as ‘food’. And I thought…this woman is fucking mad! Her fear of death has driven her completely, and totally mad. More mad than I am, and that’s quite an impressive feat, so they say. But I mean it, she really is! She’s so utterly terrified of even catching a sniffle, that she spends her entire life snuffling around the world, finding reams of herbal bullshit to eat and drink and snort and bathe in and shove up her arse, that she has absolutely forgotten how to enjoy anything EVER! You can see it in the words, in the ‘this is such an easy meal’ (meal, MEAL?!!) and the ‘drunk in the car!’, with its casual exclamation mark as she throws back her head and laughs uproariously at the notion of being so WILD, so crazy and subversive as to drink a beverage in the car, like some big fat normal person with a fucking 7/11 slurpie made out of lurid neon chemicals, HaHA! HA HAAA! WE DRANK IT IN THE CAR! It’s fucking ANARCHY with me around, haHAAAAAAA!!!!!! …and then you realise, this woman hasn’t had any fun in about twenty years. Don’t smile, or you’ll wrinkle, don’t drink that water, it’ll shrivel your pineal gland and rot your soul, and don’t even THINK about BREATHING that polluted filth, unless you do it through a spongy membrane woven by blind Tibetan monks out of the fossilised faecal matter of the last dodo! And when you eat, it must never be food, you must never use your teeth – JUICE! JUICE ALWAYS! YOU’LL NEVER FIT IN ALL THE MAGICAL BULLSHIT IF YOU DON’T JUUUUUUUUICE EVERYTHING!
The vegans are just never done, are they?! Raw veganism, it seems, still isn’t an extreme enough trend for the frothing overweight mentalists who believe that the ONLY WAY they will ever cease to resemble a Krispy Kreme is if they leap aboard a wobbling ship made entirely of broccoli and flatulence, and sail away into the horizon to a rousing cry of, ‘NOOO, I DON’T MISS FOOD AT ALL!’, occasionally punctuated by piteous weeping, or the sound of the fattest one stuffing his face with mustard-smeared napkins from the nearest rubbish dump. No, no, not mad enough, never mad enough, we still have to subsist on farty broccoli, but now we can’t even chew it! MORE MISERY, THIS DIET NEEDS MORE MISERY, OR NOBODY WILL EVER MAKE IT INTO A GAMESHOW, AND HOW ELSE CAN A THING POSSIBLY EXIST, IF NOT TO BE A GAMESHOW?!! SHOULDN’T ALL HEALTH ADVICE BE BASED ON THE STRENGTH OF ITS HASHTAG?!!!
I told you I’m psychic, didn’t I? Well, I can’t just turn it on and off like a light-switch, inconveniently for everyone, but I don’t even need my third fucking eye (and by god I loathe that saying, it’s very discriminatory! JUST because I happen to be psychic does NOT mean there is something hideously deformed about my face, on any astral plane! I have two eyes, which are in perfectly natural locations, just like everybody else! You shan’t make a FREAKSHOW OUT OF ME!), I don’t even need to be psychic to see the future of juicing vegans! Evolution is a harsh mistress, and if you don’t need something, she’s going to damn well take it away! The vegans of future generations will be born with no teeth at all, no mouth, just a blubbery gaping maw like a moistly prolapsed rectum, pulsating with angry red veins and slippery, greasy juices, to be plopped down into a puddle of green broccoli slime and slurped grimly up. In fact, their arse will probably look exactly the same, and nobody will ever know which end is which due to their habit of eating their own liquefied shit, after all, it all looks the same, and organic shit is simply bound to have spiritual properties.
DO YOU WANT THIS FOR YOUR CHILDREN?!!
Anyway, I thought all of this, and then I took another drag on my joint and the tides of the internet lapped over the whorls of my brain, until I was washed away to some other distant shore…whereupon, I found this:
These are reusable water bottles – all very noble, very eco-friendly, I approve of that, since after all, I shall still be here, in an immortal sulk, when your crappy species has murdered the planet and nothing exists except for hungry vampires and bags of Wotsits. ACT AGAINST CLIMATE CHANGE NOW, and all that! However, these water bottles, are stuffed with fucking crystals, which supposedly charge the water with all sorts of magical fucking properties, and you’d better get the right one, goddamnit, you’d better buy several and make sure you don’t botch the recipe, because this website constantly reminds you how POWERFUL these crystals are. Dear god, thought I, what if I’ve been doing it wrong all these centuries?! I’m sure there are some stone items around the house, and now they all have POWERFUL PROPERTIES! What if everything that’s ever gone wrong in my life is because I disrespected a lump of labradorite, or looked at an amethyst in a state of sexual excitement?! A mad, wild road lieth that way…how do we know, for instance, if we are to swallow this concept, that other things don’t have Powerful Properties too? I mean, what about BMWs, for instance, they seem to roundly turn their drivers into arseholes (I should know, I’ve owned them, and it appears I never quite recovered) – is there a property, innate to BMW cars, and wakened into being the moment they leave the showroom? And what about Volvos, are they unavoidably soporific in nature? Should I seek, for the most bounteous snooze, the cradling embrace of a lumbering Volvo covered in dog slobber?
And the worst thing is, the worst fucking thing about these fucking water bottles, is that I actually WANT ONE! Because they’re BEAUTIFUL! I had been eyeing them with scorn and derision, until Kate peered over my shoulder, and began exclaiming over the beauty of it all, and I was CORRUPTED! I looked again, and shitfuckingbollocks she was right, they were pretty, and I wanted one, and then my brain and soul were mangled into a BLOODY WARFARE of materialistic lust, and the desire to not look like an incurable fucking hippie wanker, until in a fury I slammed down the lid of my laptop and stormed out to buy some heroin, and got lost for hours in the fucking armpit of Sparkhill, until I was sitting in the dark in my Audi, twiddling my thumbs and waiting for my never punctual dealer and wondering if it was the innate properties of an Audi, or just my increasing need for drugs that was making me fidgety and tetchy and impatient, and that maybe if I had some crystal-steeped triple filtered broccoli-shit to drink, I might feel better about my dealer’s concept of ‘about five minutes’ stretching out into seeming aeons…
But then, then, the FINAL INSULT to my failing, flailing sanity, has been…the Fit-Bit…
You can guess, can’t you?
As ever, his infinite delight with the wonder of science has prompted him to buy into this demented trend, and he has spent the past three days with multiple watches around his arm, some of which have also been worn by temporarily kidnapped humans, as they don’t seem to work with great accuracy on us, much to his extreme frustration. And of course, with Samuel, it’s always the human element that intrigued him the most – he would never make a detached scientist, nor will he ever, I suspect, truly attain that hideous, cold, reptilian stare of some of the truly ancient ones…no. Samuel always liked the human element, in his science. Books were interesting, but he wanted to fit in, he wanted to know the right modern opinions, about everything, from Queen Vicky’s wedding dress to high-definition porn – what do the humans think of it? That was the question that mattered, that still matters.
As a result, we have been enduring the unspeakable company of a health fanatic named Mike, who spent an entire fucking night with us, proudly discussing the capabilities of his Fit-Bit, followed by a demented exercise session, wherein he and Samuel ran around the local countryside, covered in watches, with Rob and I floating above, drinking whiskey and trying to spit on their heads. I confess that the latter was at least a little bit fun, but it didn’t forgive what was still to come! Dear Christ these people are self obsessed! I mean, Jesus, I’m about as egocentric as they come, with my hair, and my eyeliner and my multiple wardrobes, and my photo collages that inevitably feature me to a rather greater degree than is polite, but even so, I am not so completely self obsessed, as to feel the need to wake up every morning then immediately and extensively study a personalised graph about how well I just slept! These people, they know fucking everything about themselves, they want to talk about it all, and it’s duller than rounding up all the dogshit that seems to breed in front of our garage these days! How many steps they’ve done, what their blood pressure is, how many miles they might have walked if they hadn’t just been standing on the stairs going up and down and up and down andupanddownandupanddown like a fucking hamster on crack, they even know their blood oxygen statistics, and the only use I can see for that is to decide whether they taste better after a little light suffocation, which is a hypothesis I have yet to confirm, but volunteers are always welcome, just bring along a Fit-Bit and I will joyfully eat you for the betterment of vampiric science.
On the second day, Rob ran off with one of the watches, on a quest to see how many calories a wank might burn. He returned somewhat later, to report, in tones of mild awe,
“They can tell the difference! It knew I was just wanking, not walking, so it wouldn’t work, or…well, to be honest it might’ve just sensed my absolute apathy, because there I was, with Clara ready and willing in the bedroom, and instead I’m hiding in the bog having a miserable old wank just to impress a plastic watch. I wasn’t up for it, if I’m honest. I let us down there, in the Pure Wanking category, but when it comes to jogging on the spot slapping your cock about the place, well, that does burn quite a few calories! Maybe I should make an exercise dvd – you’d buy it, wouldn’t you?”
I scowled at him, and he grinned, continuing,
“I burned a lot more calories with Clara – actually think it improved my performance, because I was so focussed on jiggling around as much as possible, it was a really vigorous session, and after that, when I saw my heart-rate chart, well, I’d done so much work I was just wasting away, really – didn’t want to end up all weedy like you, so we went into town and murdered a couple of chavs, just really, really murdered them, I smashed them face first into all those hubcaps on the Bullring, and then— Shit, don’t tell Samuel that bit, you know how he gets when we try to wangle ‘but he was wearing Adidas’ into his self-righteous ‘we only kill the evildoers’ rulebook…best not mentioned, he’s still being weird about that bloke I killed for wearing a man bun and hippie trousers. I burned a lot of calories beating the shit out of them, though – these watches are pretty brilliant! D’you want to wear it tomorrow night, see if you can beat my shagging and killing score?”
I hurled my book at his head in furious disgust, and stormed upstairs to WRITE THIS LETTER!!
You have GONE TOO FAR this time! Health is a futile crusade! Human beings, you are all going to DIE, and there really isn’t anything you can do about it, so please stop making up nonsense that makes you feel marginally more in control of your own rotten mortality! You are a small, squishy, helpless pink worm, surrounded by electronic equipment with the capability to zap you into a drooling cabbage, and a kitchen full of knives sharp enough to chop off your fleshy little toes, and a bathroom you could drown in at any moment, and outside there are cars zooming around smashing into each other and blowing up, and there are nuclear warheads stationed all over the planet ready to flatten entire continents, and all of us crawl around shitting and screaming and flailing about in our own filth as the rock we inhabit whizzes through endless suffocating nothingness filled with exploding chemicals and boiling lava and mysterious black holes that are probably portals to hell, and nobody has any control over anything, not even their own bladder in the end! You, unlike me, are ABSOLUTELY DEFINITELY GOING TO DIE!!!
…and if I see you wearing a Fit-Bit (or Adidas) or drinking a green smoothie, you may find yourself dying rather sooner, and more violently, than you may have hoped!
MY PIECE IS SAID!!!!
It is time for bed. Soon it will be Saturday night, and then I will have better things to do, like death and destruction and blood and drugs, and maybe a spot of dancing. With glowsticks. Because we currently have some very, very good drugs, and just because I bear the heavy responsibility of being demonic and fiendish, doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy gurning my face off while thrusting luminous twigs up and down like I’m possessed, when I’m in the grip of modern medicine.
Ah, drugs – they are the one scientific wonder that gives Samuel and I the perfect patch of common ground. I like the human element too – why read about a drug when you could just eat it, instead?
Onwards, to Adventure…
Eden the Profoundly Unholy, the Slighted and Wronged and Despicable, etc etc.