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July 3, 2002 July 3rd. The eve of the end of the world. Heavy drinking will cure the jihad toejam terror motherfuckers. I don’t even think any more. What’s the point? Scorned Indian princess forest rangers burning love letters and taking down forests, towns, insurance companies. I stopped reading the news after the towers came down. Doctor’s orders. Me, who doesn’t even own a tv but wouldn’t you know I was house-sitting that day at a friend’s, a rocket scientist friend with a whopping satellite dish he no doubt pilfered from NASA along with enough plutonium to boil his eggs off the grid for the next seven millennia. So I saw it all, from every angle and every country’s coverage, from countries like Turkey and Russia and Brazil where they’re not afraid to show horrid carnage on tv. I saw too much that day, and for several days after, and finally the goddamn bad news heebie jeebies got to me and one morning over breakfast I ignored the cantaloupe and started carving up my left arm instead. Why not? People are dying. Children are skipping rope and growing scales from the future (I stole that last line from my buddy Loutzenhiser). And they want ME to read the news. BE a concerned citizen. Get involved. I say fuck you. In the words of Doctor Atomic, the world belongs to the stupid people, and I am just a visitor in their strange, strange land. Visitors don’t vote. They don’t make policy. They have no vested interest in the long term results of what the local idiots are doing to screw their children’s future. In short, they don’t GIVE A RATS ASS. And neither do I. And just the other day, I achieved a new level of detachment from the human race: I became a hero. Or rather, I discovered that I had long been a hero to a friend. Sadly, I learned this fact by attempting to engage said friend in that most lowly human/animal function called sex. And with the same conviction that the airborne brigade captain in Apocalypse Now shouted “CHARLEY DON’T SURF!” I’m here to tell you, heroes don’t get laid. Why? Because in order for someone to be a hero, they have to take on non-human qualities like, well.. like.. FUCK, I don’t know. Ask her. Anyway, heroes, legends, gods, all those brave and silly tightrope walking, edge-dwelling, `goers where no man has gone before’ superhuman types apparently DON’T HAVE GENITALS, or so those who worship them think. Think about it! MARY was a VIRGIN! And hellfire and damnation on anyone who says JESUS ever did the Nazarene nasty. And so on and so forth. Moral of the story: if you wanna be a legend, great. Do something legendary. But don’t plan on getting laid because heroes get put up on pedestals, and it’s damn hard to sprawl out and get funky on a 10-foot riser with a 12-inch top. And if you do manage to get the girl to join you up on high and give it a whirl, ninety-nine percent guaranteed you’re gonna pull a Humpty-Dumpty and you know what happened to him. So fuck heroes. Don’t be one. Or if you must, make sure you keep your best girl in the dark so that at the end of your heroic day you got a guaranteed lay. -RSM, reporting live from Malden, Massachusetts
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