I’m sorry to take a dump on your favourite childhood passtime, but dump I must. You see, I disagree with the idea that the 8s were “crazy”. The 8s were the trailblazers. The 8s were the ones who bucked tradition.

All the other cards have to “follow suit” — you know, oh, a club, well, you have to be another club if you want in.

That shit is basically racist!

Not to mention conformist.  It’s sad really, it makes me sad.  Sad like a boy stroking the hair of his pony, right before it’s time for his pony to die.  His pony has gangrene.  His pony has gangrene! Guess riding through the rustswamp wasn’t such a great idea, huh?

So what is so CrAzY about the 8s?  They just change the suit.  In some versions of the game you can lay down multiples of the same number to effectively change the suit.  And in all versions, I can lay the same number card on top of yours to change suit.  Is that so crazy?  I don’t think the 8s are crazy at all.  If they are, then the game should be called “Crazy 8s And Sometimes All The Other Cards”.

But even the 8s aren’t always “crazy”.  Sometimes, when a player wants the suit to remain as-is, they will play the 8 and leave the suit unchanged.  Now that seems crazy!  But certainly it’s not the 8s fault.  It’s the fault of the player.  So the game should be called “Occasionally Crazy 8s And All The Other Cards Too”.

But what’s so crazy about changing suits?  A business man does.  A business man changes suits. Does that make the business man crazy?

If that business man is crazy, why are so many people investing in the business man’s business?  Maybe he’s only occasionally crazy too.  Perhaps while his suit remains constant at work, he’s not crazy.  But when he switches suits in the morning, or to go for an evening swim, then the business man is crazy.  Or maybe the investors are crazy.  But so many?  That almost seems like everyone is crazy.  But is everyone crazy?

I think it would be crazy not to change suits.  After all, nobody wears the same suit every day.  So really, everything other than changing suits is crazy, so the 8s are the least crazy of all.  So the game should be called “Crazy Everything Other Than The 8s Ocassionally, and Sometimes the Others Too”.

But ultimately, it’s up to the player using the cards, is it not?  For the player could pass, leaving all of his or her cards from being crazy.  Maybe holding on to your cards is the sanest possible thing– after all, holding on to a baby isn’t crazy.  Holding on to a baby isn’t crazy. So the game should be called “Crazy Players”.

But are the players crazy?  It seems to me that the players aren’t crazy at all.  They can, for example, remember all the rules.  Presumably they aren’t sociopaths, because this is a fairly social game after all.  Certainly playing cards isn’t crazy.  So the game should be called “Crazy”.

But is the game crazy?  It doesn’t seem like it’s really any different than any other game.  You have tokens, rules, and players.  So the game should be called “normal.”

But is the game normal?

Naw, that shit is CRAZY!

How many times has some fuckhead been like “good morning!” to you, all chipper? This makes a number of GROUNDLESS assumptions.

Groundless Assumption #1 : That this is a morning.
Groundless Assumption #2 : That this is good.

Okay, generally it is morning. Though, oft is the case, I will call someone who works in a “place of business” at around 12:05pm and they will proudly answer the phone with “Good morning, Gerhardt (for example) speaking…” and I will be quick to say “this is no longer morning.  If you check the time, it’s past noon.  Well past.  So stop fucking wasting my time giving me well-wishes for a time long past, which, thanks for asking, wasn’t good in the first place.”  I might as well say “Good September 11, 2001!” the next time I answer the phone.  Was September 11th good?  No.

It’s really important to consider that starting a day on a high, good note, may prime you for a day that doesn’t meet expectations.  You may be skewed towards high-hopes.  The day will very likely let you down.  After all, if every day is average on average, then starting the day well with a series of “Good morning!!!”’s from friend and family is going to give you an unrealistic positivity.  The day will let you down, and you’ll be full of hopelessness and misery by sundown.

I propose that we greet eachother in the mornings in a different way: by reminding eachother of the pain and suffering inherent to modern life.  Enough of this “good morning!” cheery bullshit.  Instead, say “FAMILY DIES IN FIRE” or “HEADLESS CHILD DISCOVERED”.  They don’t have to even be true.  It could be a general statement of malaise: “EVERYTHING ENDS IN PAIN AND DEATH.”  It could be made personal: “I’M GOING DOWN AND TAKING YOU WITH ME.”  Conjectures of what could be: “IF IT WASN’T FOR LAW YOU’D BE MY BITCH.” or of what never was: “MY LIFE IS AN ONGOING FAILURE WITHOUT HOPE.”

It could just be an unfortunate concept: “RAPE.”  Or a more illustrated concept: “RAPE WITHOUT JUSTICE.”  Or an appeal to a well-known narrative: “SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION THE MOVIE EXCEPT AT THE END THE WARDEN ISN’T DISCOVERED HE JUST KEEPS PROFITING AND TIM ROBBINS DIES IN SOLITARY AND NOBODY CARES.”

After a morning like this, a minefield of macabre, depressing, horrific, and tragic ideas and images, the most-likely-average day that follows will, by comparison, be a great day.

If it weren’t already past noon I’d tell you: “GANG BANG ULTRA AIDS-RAPE: NO JUSTICE.”

Back in the day, so many musicians either hated the idea of a song ending, or just collapsed at the finish-line of the effort and couldn’t commit to a solid finale, that the song fade-out became commonplace.  But how could this be?  How could any discerning listener accept a fade-out as any way to end any sort of work??

No, the song doesn’t end.  It goes on forever.  Don’t you see?  It’s just receding into the distance!  It’s just being taken elsewhere– you, stay put.  The art moves on.  But take note that the song lives and plays on for forevertude in Plato’s heaven!  …That’s some serious goddamned artist hubris right there.   Fuck THAT shit.  No art should end in a way that is a simulation of me walking away.  How passive.  How effete!

Films don’t fade away to nothing leaving the viewer feeling unresolved.  Nor do paintings.  Or photographs.  Nor books.  Somehow, musicians felt that they could get off easy with a little bit of audiophonic legerdemain, but it isn’t going to work anymore.

In non-collectivist societies, most individuals seek to impress upon others their distinction, their originality, their uniqueness– this isn’t surprising, considering the emphasis on individualism in assessing the value of a person.  Personal value– value as a human, and social status, run in lockstep with job status, income, intelligence, and other indices that all rely on exclusivity: something that one individual has that others do not.  These indices and collections, of friends, of money, of unique attributes, serve not only to reinforce an individual’s value but establish it.

Money is a valuable commodity whose acquisition is difficult (and generally requires a withdrawal from another individual), so the more you have, the more unique you are.  Intelligence is not a limited resource in the same way but scarcity is arrived at through deviation from the norm; a “collection” that distinguishes the highly intelligent from the average.  These collections and indices must be socially appraised as positive, otherwise you achieve bad uniqueness.  Being crusted in dried smegma and reeking of human feces is extremely unique, but even the staunchest non-conformist would be unlikely found in such a state: despite the quick path to non-conformity.

A minority of people vociferously reject any idea of conformity with the sweaty heaving masses.  The sweaty, heaving masses, i.e. the average person, are seen as despicable, contemptible, and incapable.  By their appearance and behaviour the non-conformist seeks to establish, in a trivial way, the aforementioned uniqueness.  However, there are a few caveats: as it turns out, nearly all attempts at non-conformity are shallow and contradictory.

Conformity to Physics – at the grandest scale of all, the non-conformist must obey the laws of physics.  This may seem trivial: it isn’t.  Try as they might, the non-conformist must, with great anger, feel their flesh tugged downward (near something big and heavy, anyway).  With great anger, they must note that a balloon will attach itself to the wall after acquiring a static charge from them– in the very same way it would with any of the other conforming, interchangeable humans.

Conformity to Biology – The non-conformist is appalled: to have animal cells that function in the same way as the cells composing the balance of the world.  To have bones and joints supported by a musculature that has developed over millions of years.  To have eyes and white blood cells.  To have the same goddamned internal organs as that oafish turd on the subway.

Conformity to Ontogeny – The non-conformist, undoubtedly with immense discomfort, notes the progress of his or her physical being from single cell through all the same stages of development to the present.

Conformity to Species – All humans are humans.  How infuriatingly conformist.

Conformity to Broad Social Rules and Customs – Even the most clever non-conformist won’t brandish their genitalia in public, spit in an elevator, make prolonged eye-contact with a stranger, sleep on the floor of a bookstore, defecate in H&M, ride a dog about town, etc.

Conformity to Law – Similar to above: most non-conformists will conform to the laws of  a given society, such as rules for parking or punching people’s faces.

Conformity to an In-Group – The most disturbing fallacy of non-conformity is the existence of the in-group; this is the group to which the non-conformist conforms to a much higher degree than the average person.  In this way the conformist demonstrates a level of commitment to a peer-group that is not seen amongst “average people.”  It could be argued that having a very strong identification to a much smaller group is more non-conformist than a weak identification with a larger group: however as above, such weak identifications are already made in addition to the strong one.  This type of in-group behaviour could be called desperate uniqueness or pseudo-individualism.

Taken altogether, the above paint a bleak picture for the non-conformist: the options for alternative configurations are scarce and shallow.  Indeed, few are those who can be found to believe themselves “average” in the first place, a fact that renders the non-conformist’s rejections flaccid and hopeless.  In distancing themselves from and repudiating the idea of this mythical average every-man they contradictorily nurture an ignorant conformity that betrays a fundamental misapprehension of the world and their role within it.

People are always so polite.  Sometimes, if you are impolite, polite people look at one another and slowly, gently, and disappovingly, shake their head.  They slightly and politely pucker their lips and slightly and politely sneer-up their nostrils.  They glance at eachother so slowly, so politely, and with such brevity, that the shared message is “the fellow is so impolite that I’m giving you the bare minimum response needed to acknowledge what we both know: that this urchin is despicable.”

I contend, however, that their politeness is false; is a travesty.  That below the large scale artifice of politeness is a whirlwind of nasty.

A rare candid shot of Queen Victoria during a lacrosse match

Take, for example, the Queen.  Who politer?  Why, she must define polititude.  Indeed.  However, politeness cannot run through the depths.

In fact, this queen sits uncomfortably on a chair.  Her queen blood is likely collecting in pools in her ass-cheeks.  Nothing polite about that.

As she sits stiffly, breathing measuredly in and out through her most noble of noses, the mucus membraine within dries to a crisp, forming large crusty snotballs that sit steadfast in an ocean of slime.

As she listens to the instructions of her handlers and the photographer, the inner walls of her ear canal become smudged in a sludge of yellow, fetid wax.

While waiting for the shutter to snap, the queen’s noble anus is clenched firmly shut by muscles largely outside her conscious control.  These muscles prevent the massive landslide of feces from sliding from her regal intestine.  If it weren’t for that one involuntary muscle, she’d be as malodorous and depraved as the most thoroughly alcohol’d reprobate.

Certainly the porcelain queen wouldn’t have armpits where odors fester and hairs slither out with reproachful  slowness– certainly, so polite is she, that a massive pubic bush is not straining against itself to levitate her regnant underpanties?  Certainly not.

While gripping her mighty staff, a raging orgy of bacteria is staged on every square inch of her body.  Her hands, her lips, her gums; all are ceaselessly engaged as host for a saturnalian fuckfest of microbes of all race, colour, and creed.

And yet, as her bowels churn and her anus grips and her viscera moan and her mucus dries and her earwax thickens and her bush explodes and her armpits fester and her microbes fuck, we still think her the paragon of politeness.

True politeness would have these foul bodily diseases under wraps.  True politeness isn’t merely engaging in behaviours that hide the unpleasant, it’s about eradicating such.  Yet modern politeness is little more than a collection of banal deceptions; legerdemain for a crusty upper-class to appear dignified over the savages.

I’d ask the Queen myself how she came to be so duplicitous: but I wouldn’t want to break up the orgy.