The Cerebral Catalyst

This month's column has been hijacked by space aliens of the most villainous kind. The kind that seek to destroy man's will to create. After this sentence, expect a bunch of "mumbo-jumbo" or "gibberish" about astrology and cavemen; expect a lot of raging confused, self-aggrandizing crazy talk from the man who killed Tony Robbins with the sheer power of his ability to motivate.

I am having a "war hell ride" of a time, to quote the sagacious Wesley Willis. Thinking about the period I am currently experiencing, which is astrologically referred to as "Saturn Returns". Saturn is the planet of responsibility. Basically, the shit is hitting the fan. I am realizing there are many things I want to do with my life that haven't "taken off" yet. And goddamnit, if it doesn't feel like if I don't do them today, that I will miss my chance and that everything's fucked, and the planet will die and blow away like burnt paper and more aliens will come around, but they'll be really fat and dirty and smelly and smoke cigars and leave their kids unattended to shit all over everything and kick your shopping cart and roll on the floor screaming for Mr. T. cereal and "Smurfberries" or whatever rude and ignorant alien children eat (come to think of it, at that point the universe will resemble Wal-Mart, or what will be left after Wal-Mart has sucked all the planets dry with their cursed Smiley Face Price Chopper World Destroyer). But I digress. I know there will be time to do all of these things:

Recording a "lost treasure" of an album; writing the Great American Novel; winning the Oscar but declining it due to "artistic merit"; fathering 10 children, all boys, with the ability to chop down trees with their cocks; marrying a woman (this should come before the children because I think it would be too hard to assemble such an army from foster homes — and this also assumes a very "conservative" type of life; I should also meet a woman willing/worthy to marry me first); writing many fresh, raw, misunderstood novels which lead to cult status; breeding poodles that love the taste of human flesh; finding ultimate peace and acceptance within the universe; writing the best TV sitcom ever, which with its broadcasting simultaneously kills every cast member of Friends; losing about 90 lbs.; looking like David Bowie... you see where this is going.

I've gotten a bit off track. That's what happens when you lose your shit and you think, hey, I'm alive and I have to do something with it. So what do you want to do? People a hundred years ago did more stuff with their pinky finger than we do before 7 a.m., as the old saying goes. They were goddamn savages that would crawl out of their graves and bludgeon us with the very Tupperware containers we embrace as "the greatest invention of all time". Fuck it man, they didn't need Tupperware. They ate everything on their plate because they didn't know where the next meal was coming from, and they needed the calories to wrestle bears and skin moose. And what do we do with the past? We mock it in commercials, like those cavemen ads for Geico. Well, what happens when the souls of those cavemen come knocking on your door, Mr. Geico? What happens when they want blood for their suffering? So, yes, people are pussies now. They say 90% of advice benefits the advisor. I need to stop being a pussy. I let people walk all over me sometimes. Not any more. All I needed to do was start driving to learn that. People are cowards, especially behind a wheel. Would you walk behind someone that close? Cut someone off running down the hallway in the library? Hell no; they'd smack the shit out of you. Look for the white in their eyes. They can't look you in the eye when they do it. They don't have the sand. I have the sand. Or at least a little more sand in my box than I had last year. You have to have some sort of tact or decency. I am not Emily Post. I talk with a Pittsburgh accent. I have used "Pittsburghese". But I can talk about literature and movies and all that happy intellectual shit that the women go "goo-goo, ga-ga" for. And I have respect for other's privacy (most times), and I don't cut people off when I'm driving (unless they deserve it), and I don't give people the evil eye if they make less money than I do or have a shitty job compared to mine (unless they look like a serial killer and I have to in order to hide my fear that they will skin me and make a hat out of my ass).

I like to think that things wouldn't be so shitty here if people wouldn't be so selfish. We're all stuck here. Are you going anywhere? Give people the smallest amount of power and they abuse it. The one way to make yourself important is to make people hate you. Be such a ruthless twat, they talk about you 20 years after you're dead. They see you in their dreams and hear your shrill voice in their nightmares. I hear the "blip" from Microsoft Outlook whenever the frequency of any sound matches the blip's frequency, like that dog they trained to salivate with a bell; you might remember that one if you've taken psychology courses. And for what? E-mails from Big Brother that read, "We possess your soul. You will dream of this in twenty years. It will be your final thought." No thank you, corporate America. I will not consume your lies. Until next month, or whenever I can get that lazy asshole who lives in my brain to do something, have fun being a real human and try not to kill needlessly or shout out that you have to take a shit in public or give someone the evil eye because they work in the mailroom. It will help your time here infinitely and you just might feel better about yourself. Or you can cut off every car you see, trip old people outside the senior citizens home, and watch the latest Jim Belushi sitcom. The choice is yours, dear readers. Choose wisely.

Yours,

The Captain (of fun)

Visit Captain Fun's Swarthy Archives.

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Joseph L. Conty, Jr. wears a buffalo hide tunic and sips peach nectar from a chalice. Known to drink multiple flagons of mead for breakfast and chew bear fat for gum, he would like to remind the public that anyone else who dares to use the moniker of "Captain Fun" isn't fit to carry his merkin.

posted 07.09.07.

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