Please be aware that none of the views within are in any way endorsed by me. Other than that, fill your boots.
♬ Suggested Audio Jukebox ♬
 Benny Goodman Sing Sing Sing
 The Pogues featuring Kirsty MacColl Fairytale In New York
 Pitchshifter Everything’s Fucked
 The Prodigy Breathe
 Rage Against The Machine Killing In The Name
 Gene Kelly Singing In The Rain
Welcome Grueheads and, if you’re wondering where Keeper is, well I’m afraid he couldn’t be here tonight so I offered to fill in for him in his absence. It’s no biggy really, we’re pretty much exactly the same person, aside from a handful of vague distinctions. Firstly, I positively loathe body hair so you may recognize me by the all-over electrolysis. Secondly, his inside leg is 33 inches and mine is 29 which is why he never asks to borrow my chinos. Finally, and perhaps most notable, is the fact that his incessant optimism makes the desire to punch his face straight through to the back wall too great for one man to withstand. That’s right, I hate his very guts, but that’s no reason for him to feel hard done by as I hate everyone else’s guts too. I even hate my own guts and, had it not been for the slow bleed-out that would ensue, I’d have them out of me before you could say “look at his perfectly symmetrical prostate”.
I believe the term is cynical although I highly doubt that any real thought went into naming it. Should you swear blind that something is black then, chances are, I would wait until you arrived at one shade darker than blue in the face, before chipping in that it’s quite clearly white, reclining back into the shadows, and watching you spontaneously combust. When the fire service eventually show, likely several minutes later than promised, I’ll blame the blaze on faulty electrical wiring and go and spoil someone else’s day. Please allow me to further demonstrate my cynical nature by way of a short rant about just one of the depressing seasons we are forced to endure annually. We commonly refer to it as winter which roughly translates to The Season When All The Old People Die.
Can you feel that? It’s coming ever closer. Whether we like it or not, winter will soon be upon us and those long, bitterly cold nights will start drawing in. As children we are gifted the additional sweetener of Christmas in its bid to win us over and, let’s face it, the appeal tends to wane as we discover that Santa Claus is a crock of shit. Suddenly it can appear more of an ordeal than anything else, stretched taut across an entire month of relentless cheer in every other place than our hearts. Of course, there is always the joy to be gleaned from viewing this event through the wide eyes of our children (which is the reason I had a vasectomy at twelve), and that’s one of the thirty-odd days made slightly less harrowing. But is it all worth it when you consider the hardship we are forced to endure in order to see it through to its anti-climatic conclusion?
By the time New Year’s Eve stumbles onto the scene and we prepare to wave adieu to another twelve months of bitter disappointment, celebrations are more of the “thank fuck that’s over” variety than anything else coupled with a vague slither of hope that next year will be the one where we return the ass-whooping to life. Does that happen? Does it fuck. What’s far more likely is that the next twelve months will suck even harder, chip away our resolve even deeper, disappoint us even greater, and be forgotten even faster come the following after party. By the way, good luck with November. Not wishing to dampen the mood (alright you’ve got me, perhaps just a smidgen), but I hear they’ve applied fresh upgrades to seasonal affective disorder this year and I’ve officially requested that they chuck another day at the end of the month just to drag things out a little farther.
Are you starting to get an idea of what grinds my gears? I know what you’re thinking – what a pitiful excuse for a human being – and I would remind you that flattery will get you nowhere. Indeed the only way you could even vaguely impress me right now would be by finding a baby bird who has recently dropped from a tree and is desperately attempting to hang in like the little trooper that he is, cradling the injured little soldier in the palm of your hand, and ushering him ever so gently into the cycle lane. Let’s be realistic, he’s fucked anyways. If you ask me, I think my way is actually rather humane. Yet still I recently made Forbes List of 100 Most Hated People and will throttle Donald Trump if I ever see him for pipping me to the number one spot. Then I’ll straighten his hairpiece, pat him on the back, and congratulate him for doing such a bang-up job of pissing off the entire population of Mexico. Does that make me a bad person? And if not then I’d like it to be known that I’m open to any suggestions.
Have any of you ever been in love by the way? And how did that work out for you? If you say that you’ve been married to your soul mate for sixteen blissfully happy years and have three beautiful children then I may just vomit in your face and make sure that shit is citric. What I’m looking to hear is that love has never paid you any mind or, even better, that you’ve loved and lost through means of long-term deception. The whole concept of one person for everyone is utterly preposterous when you think about it. If that were the case then why did John Merrick die sobbing in his bed after being chased three blocks by a lynch mob and pelted with spoiled aubergines? Some of us are just too butt-ugly to ever hope of landing ourselves a keeper and, for those who do, make the most of the honeymoon period as it’ll all come out in that internet history six months after you’ve shelled out $20k for that big elaborate church wedding.
May I suggest making a short trip across the fine line to our old friend hate? You’ll end up there no matter what so may as well get a head start and learn of its many benefits. If you wake up in the morning and the sun is beaming through the clouds wearing its very best Trilby, then try something other than tenderness and loathe its very orbit. If you find ten bucks when making your morning journey to the local convenience store, then go and slip it into a charity box as they’ll likely never see a red cent of it and the cashier will probably have raided it by lunchtime. Should you happen across a senior citizen waiting patiently by the side of the road for some awfully kind person to assist them in crossing safely, then do the dutiful thing and help them across until the midway point. Once there, spin them in circles until they throw up their dentures, remind them that nobody gives a shit what it was like back in the day, and leave them to ponder what purpose they actually serve until the next eighteen wheeler comes along and condenses them into pâté. You see, hate is healthy, hate is good, and think of all the glorious death metal that celebrates it.
What about hopes and dreams? Where do you lot stand on aspirations? A complete and utter waste of our time and best efforts right? I mean, let’s be honest, over 6.5 billion of us won’t ever amount to much anyways, while the rest have no great desire to spread the wealth and will take whatever ludicrous riches they’ve accumulated by screwing over every last person who gave them a leg up in the first place straight to their graves. May as well live off the government instead and sit around in your own filth and excrement until ours refrigerator resemble chemical weapons. Think of all the exertion you’ll be saving yourselves, all the bitter disappointment you’ll never have to recover from, and the daytime television you can use to fill the void. It’s a no-brainer if you ask me and you become fully self-sufficient in the process. Who do you have to trust then? Who’s gonna let you down when you need them most if you’re flying solo? It’s a gig worth considering if you wish to end up like me. And look how I turned out. Tell me my loafers wouldn’t fit rather snugly right now and I’ll blatantly call you a liar to your face. For the record, that isn’t gingivitis stinging your nostrils right now, I just never bother brushing my teeth.
You know what gives me the greatest kick about getting stuff off my chest? Passing it on to others. It’s actually rather a charitable act on my part and helps free up some space for more of that delicious resentment. I try my level best to dampen at least one person’s spirits daily and, if I fail because of reasons out of my control, then I make sure to double-up the next day. Indeed, why stop at one when I could potentially cause an entire town to turn on each other? Just the other day I printed off a thousand bills for XXX channels, marked them as utility, and beat the postman by a full hour just to wreck some relationships for the sheer helluvit. What a rush that was, I gleaned a great sense of achievement from knowing that I’d given something back to the community. After all, it has been nothing if not magnanimous to me. I was bullied in school, bullied in the workplace, bullied in wedlock, and just recently my nemesis added me on Facebook just to bully me some more for old time’s sake. The least I can do in return is a little public disservice. Maybe then he’ll stop bullying me and we can become firm pals who secretly despise one another.
I would like to say that I’ve taken up far too much of your time but only so I can take up some more and hopefully wipe out your daily quota of serotonin in one fell swoop. However, the time has come for me to pass you over to your sponsor, and retreat to the shadows to watch on gleefully as you all kick seven bells of shit out of his sickeningly exuberant ass. Remember Grueheads, blame every last injustice on him, make him feel positively wretched for taking away your natural sunlight and replacing it with splenetic darkness. Shoot the messenger as it is his sign off at the end of the correspondence after all. This hateful bluster falls directly under his jurisdiction and perhaps he should be a little more careful when electing his guest speakers. Above all else, make him feel entirely worthless as I hear that he loves that more than anything else. And remember I’m also available for weddings and bar mitzvahs. Until next time, here are some balloons I rustled up to bid you adieu and they come from the heart I assure you. Apologies as I didn’t have sufficient balloons left over for the word cunts.
Well I have to say that it feels glorious to be back amongst good people and I’ve missed you lot terribly while I’ve been away. Don’t keep me on tenterhooks, how was my temporary replacement? And why so many frowning faces? Never mind, we’ll soon have you picked up, dusted off, and full of the joys of spring again. You see, it’s only a few months away now and we have Christmas to celebrate while we’re waiting. In just a short time, the snow will start falling, and there’s no more picturesque a setting for those long, romantic walks than a winter wonderland right? What do you mean you’ve split up? But you made such a perfect couple. What’s that? You’ve quit your job too? But you were this close to being made vice president. Next you’ll tell me you voted for Trump. Oh how could you? Has nothing I’ve said over the past three years meant anything? And what’s that smell of burning I discern? Never mind, the sprinkler system should kick in momentarily. What do you mean it’s on the blink? But I only got it serviced just last week.
Okay then, perhaps we should reconvene at a later date as you seem just a touch cranky right now. I’ll check with my secretary Ethel for my next available slot, she’s a dear that one and will be eighty-two next week. Curiously she didn’t turn up for work this morning. Her bunions must be playing up, they do that when the cold weather draws in. Honestly I have no idea what has you so rattled but it’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix. By dawn’s early night, the sun will be shining bright, and the early bird catches the worm remember. If you wish hard enough, you may happen across ten bucks on your morning stroll, and I would suggest giving it to charity just to do your daily good deed. Pay it forward Grueheads and you will reap the benefits tenfold in the long run I’m sure. And why did somebody just call out “pfft”? Anyhoots, I can see that I’ve caught you at a bad time so does anyone know where the nearest fire exit is? My seventy-three-year-old mother has a tendency to open my mail and she sounded a little disgruntled on the phone so I’d better get back and smooth things over. One last thing, is it just me or is that the sound of approaching sirens I hear? Guys?..Guys?
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor
Copyright: Grueheads Films 2016