Dear Jerusalem,
Ah, the holy city. I can feel the religion seeping from your bricks and mortar. I can see the religion in your markets, with the street peddlers pushing stars of David and crucifixes, the orthodox Jews draped in black, heads covered and beards flowing, the Muslim women covered from head to toe. I can hear the religion at five in the morning when I am awoken by the Muslim call to prayer, and again at six when the bells start ringing. Are you guys competing with each other, to get in early to God? He's always there, you know.
On your streets I met the Prince of Jaffa Gate. That's what he called himself anyway. He bought me beer and offered to buy me for camels. A charming courting process I think. Later I saw him following tourists, draping his arms around their shoulders, maybe offering them camels for their daughters, trying to usher them into his store. How appropriate, I thought, that the Prince of Jaffa Gate be a beggar.
I walked the path of Jesus, and his mother too. I went to the church of flagellation, only to be disappointed by the lack of flagellation. I watched a Jesus mosh pit as Christians queued to see his tomb. I tried not to laugh as all this worshiping was interrupted by the arrival of a little known politician and her entourage. Cameras suddenly swung away from poor dead Jesus and to the President of the Ukraine. How fickle your attention is. I thought of Jesus and his golden idols.
I pondered the Western Wall and the Jews rocking back and forth, pushing their prayers written on small pieces of white paper into the cracks between the stones. Do they clear them out at the end of the day, put them in envelopes and post them direct to God? Do they throw them away, bin upon bin filled with prayers? That seems oddly appropriate.
I met a Jew in a hostel who buoyantly informed me he was off the the Wailing Wall to complain. To who, I asked. To God. I am not satisfied, he said. The next day he did not leave his bed. I drank last night, he said, my body does not like alcohol. Whose does? I did not think I needed to ask how the complaining went, or whether God had answered his prayer for satisfaction.
I watched the Christian tour groups in their red and yellow hats, walking down the steps of the David Street Suq. I watched them point out the praying Muz-lims and stare at their covered women. I followed the tour groups across Jerusalem to find the churches and mosques. I watched the Muslims walk amongst the Jews, and the Jews amongst the Muslims. I saw the Christians throng together, sheep after all, looking for their shepherd. I silently applauded the opportunistic Arabs selling bread from wagons in the Jewish Quarter on Sabbath. I navigated your streets, Jerusalem, with a tourist map, and a belly filled with five Shekel bread. I did not find one of the Gods the people came to see.
But on your streets, Jerusalem, watching the Jews and the Muslims and the Christians, I thought, for the first time, that we might just get out of this alive. Hope, for Christ's, or Allah's, or Yahweh's sake, hope is what I found in Jerusalem. And maybe, just maybe, that's as close to God as I will ever get.
Sincerely,
Helenahandbasket
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Dear Kibbutzniks Part 1.
Dear Kibbutzniks,
So I realise that we volunteers come and go from your lives like tides. We stay at your home for a few months, make a few mistakes and leave. We're usually far from our families and our friends, we're usually female, and we're usually under twenty-five. Hell, most times we're still in our teens.
I understand that on a Kibbutz volunteers have pretty much the social status of, let's say, I don't know, rats. Attractive rats. Attractive rats that you guys want to fuck. So maybe that metaphor isn't working. Maybe it is. After all, you're all so pushed for variation in the female population here you'd probably screw a rat. If it was big enough. And maybe even if it wasn't.
In my time here -which may be brief if someone actually reads this, but hey, I'm really not holding my breath for that to eventuate- I've come to accept that you think of us volunteers in three ways. Sure, there are some exceptions, I'm not dismissing your entire community, just the majority. It's a generalisation; that's pretty much what I do.
1) Slaves: we do the shit work you don't want to do. Packing your fruit, cleaning your toilets and your dishes, making your food. Those kind of things. I'm okay with this. It's fine. I didn't come to a Kibbutz thinking, wow, I'll finally be treated like the princess I really am inside. Jolly Jeepers I'll sleep on beds made with fine linen and bake myself in the sun until I resemble a well rested leather hand bag. No. I came to a Kibbutz well aware of the fact I'd work like a dog, sleep on a metal-framed bed with a chip-wood base, communal sheets and some kind of bug infestation that keeps me up at night. Well rested I am not.
2) Disposable Vaginas: what a beautiful world you live in. Maybe you should explain the never ending round-about of vaginas that come into it to the Palestinians. Who needs forty-seven virgins and a bad case of "Mum I just exploded myself" when you have a constant flow of vulnerable young females coming into your life? Did I just solve the middle east crisis? I think maybe I did.
3) Potential Gene-Pool Diversifiers: Hey, I just made up a word. Good for me. Anyhoo. Kibbutzim are small communities. The families here are old. The gene pool must be shallow. So here we come, ready to live the Kibbutz dream. Maybe we'll fall in love with a long-haired, Fabio-like apple picker who'll teach us the joys of the simple life and make love to us under apple trees or some such shit. We're willing, we're ready, and you're waiting in the wings for the standards to drop until any man capable of speaking in full sentences with both verbs and nouns seems to have the verbal skills of John fucking Keats. And then you strike. Wham! Six months later we find ourselves imprisoned by perpetual teenagers, probably impregnated, and looking at a long -long- prospect free future where the skills we've learned in the actual real world don't mean dick. Yippee! Sign me up.
Sincerely,
Helenahandbasket
So I realise that we volunteers come and go from your lives like tides. We stay at your home for a few months, make a few mistakes and leave. We're usually far from our families and our friends, we're usually female, and we're usually under twenty-five. Hell, most times we're still in our teens.
I understand that on a Kibbutz volunteers have pretty much the social status of, let's say, I don't know, rats. Attractive rats. Attractive rats that you guys want to fuck. So maybe that metaphor isn't working. Maybe it is. After all, you're all so pushed for variation in the female population here you'd probably screw a rat. If it was big enough. And maybe even if it wasn't.
In my time here -which may be brief if someone actually reads this, but hey, I'm really not holding my breath for that to eventuate- I've come to accept that you think of us volunteers in three ways. Sure, there are some exceptions, I'm not dismissing your entire community, just the majority. It's a generalisation; that's pretty much what I do.
1) Slaves: we do the shit work you don't want to do. Packing your fruit, cleaning your toilets and your dishes, making your food. Those kind of things. I'm okay with this. It's fine. I didn't come to a Kibbutz thinking, wow, I'll finally be treated like the princess I really am inside. Jolly Jeepers I'll sleep on beds made with fine linen and bake myself in the sun until I resemble a well rested leather hand bag. No. I came to a Kibbutz well aware of the fact I'd work like a dog, sleep on a metal-framed bed with a chip-wood base, communal sheets and some kind of bug infestation that keeps me up at night. Well rested I am not.
2) Disposable Vaginas: what a beautiful world you live in. Maybe you should explain the never ending round-about of vaginas that come into it to the Palestinians. Who needs forty-seven virgins and a bad case of "Mum I just exploded myself" when you have a constant flow of vulnerable young females coming into your life? Did I just solve the middle east crisis? I think maybe I did.
3) Potential Gene-Pool Diversifiers: Hey, I just made up a word. Good for me. Anyhoo. Kibbutzim are small communities. The families here are old. The gene pool must be shallow. So here we come, ready to live the Kibbutz dream. Maybe we'll fall in love with a long-haired, Fabio-like apple picker who'll teach us the joys of the simple life and make love to us under apple trees or some such shit. We're willing, we're ready, and you're waiting in the wings for the standards to drop until any man capable of speaking in full sentences with both verbs and nouns seems to have the verbal skills of John fucking Keats. And then you strike. Wham! Six months later we find ourselves imprisoned by perpetual teenagers, probably impregnated, and looking at a long -long- prospect free future where the skills we've learned in the actual real world don't mean dick. Yippee! Sign me up.
Sincerely,
Helenahandbasket
Friday, October 2, 2009
Dear Mum and Dad
Dear Mum and Dad,
So I know I'm supposed to be a grown up now. I know, I know, I'm 25. Yeah, I know, at this point I should be able to like, make my own bed and I don't know, earn my own money and shit. And yes, I realise that I should be taking responsibility for myself and doing all other kinds of wonderful adult-like things that I'm pretty sure I haven't worked out yet. Like paying bills. And rent. But here's the thing. I'm on a fucking Kibbutz. Sorry Mum, I know you don't like me to swear when I write. And the thing is, right? The thing is I don't have to pay bills here. Or even cook. Or do my own laundry. Hell, they even supply us with free condoms and tampons here. I'm probably not learning the kind of life skills that would help me out in say, Brisbane. But on the plus side I can chop a mean carrot, or potato, or onion. My chopping skills are supreme. I'm so glad I went to university. That degree is really helping me out here. No seriously. My rapidly accruing HECS debt is so worth it.
Now this may be a testament to my immaturity. I'm pretty sure it is. I mean begging your parents in the public domain is not exactly the most mature and rational thing to do. But I'm going to do it anyway. Remember how before I went away, I put all of my clothes in boxes? Yeah? Cardboard ones. Brownish. You'll recognise them when you see them. I think I may have even neatly stacked them in my cupboard so they'd be out of the way. That was nice of me, don't you think? I think it was. Well the thing is, I'm freezing my tits off here. And seeing as 1) I'm still yet to write the definitive Gen Y novel; 2) I earn 11 Shekels a day; and 3) I'm 200 meters from the Lebanon border, and public transport here is not exactly, how do you say, existent, I can't really get anywhere to buy clothes. You wouldn't want me to hitchhike on my lonesome, would you? That's not safe! No, not safe at all. Not just because there are crazy people out there and I am, as you know, very, very pretty. But also because Israelis drive like tweakers on speed. I think the aim of their driving is to see just how fast they can go with their wheels still on the ground. And trust me, it's faster than you think.
So I'm begging you, in the most un-grown-up way possible, please, please, please, please send me some clothes. That little blue pea coat with the hood, the leather jackets. Yes. Please send them to me. I'm cold. Brrrr. Cold. Icy. Please? Mum? Dad?
Sincerely,
Helenahandbasket
So I know I'm supposed to be a grown up now. I know, I know, I'm 25. Yeah, I know, at this point I should be able to like, make my own bed and I don't know, earn my own money and shit. And yes, I realise that I should be taking responsibility for myself and doing all other kinds of wonderful adult-like things that I'm pretty sure I haven't worked out yet. Like paying bills. And rent. But here's the thing. I'm on a fucking Kibbutz. Sorry Mum, I know you don't like me to swear when I write. And the thing is, right? The thing is I don't have to pay bills here. Or even cook. Or do my own laundry. Hell, they even supply us with free condoms and tampons here. I'm probably not learning the kind of life skills that would help me out in say, Brisbane. But on the plus side I can chop a mean carrot, or potato, or onion. My chopping skills are supreme. I'm so glad I went to university. That degree is really helping me out here. No seriously. My rapidly accruing HECS debt is so worth it.
Now this may be a testament to my immaturity. I'm pretty sure it is. I mean begging your parents in the public domain is not exactly the most mature and rational thing to do. But I'm going to do it anyway. Remember how before I went away, I put all of my clothes in boxes? Yeah? Cardboard ones. Brownish. You'll recognise them when you see them. I think I may have even neatly stacked them in my cupboard so they'd be out of the way. That was nice of me, don't you think? I think it was. Well the thing is, I'm freezing my tits off here. And seeing as 1) I'm still yet to write the definitive Gen Y novel; 2) I earn 11 Shekels a day; and 3) I'm 200 meters from the Lebanon border, and public transport here is not exactly, how do you say, existent, I can't really get anywhere to buy clothes. You wouldn't want me to hitchhike on my lonesome, would you? That's not safe! No, not safe at all. Not just because there are crazy people out there and I am, as you know, very, very pretty. But also because Israelis drive like tweakers on speed. I think the aim of their driving is to see just how fast they can go with their wheels still on the ground. And trust me, it's faster than you think.
So I'm begging you, in the most un-grown-up way possible, please, please, please, please send me some clothes. That little blue pea coat with the hood, the leather jackets. Yes. Please send them to me. I'm cold. Brrrr. Cold. Icy. Please? Mum? Dad?
Sincerely,
Helenahandbasket
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Dear Humanity,
Dear Humanity,
Why, oh why did we create a society in which menial labour is a necessity? Now, I'm not talking menial labour in the sense that I'm supposing most of you understand it. No, no. I've worked shit jobs before, who hasn't? But there is a distinct difference between a shit job and a menial job.
Let me paint a little picture for you. Imagine that you wake up at quarter to six in the morning. The sun is not up. You pull on your clothes; anything you find on the floor will do. It's cold, but you don't bring a jumper. Where you're going not only will it get hot, but your status is so low there's nowhere for you to put your things. Those pigeon holes in the kitchen are not for you, and you better not forget it.
Imagine yourself shuffling up the slope from your dormitory; there are people with you, but no one has much to say. The job you're going to do doesn't exactly inspire lively conversation. Or any conversation for that matter. Your destination is a fruit packing factory: apples, nectarines, peaches, pears. Other fruits whose names you can barely speak out loud without cringing anymore. Fruit has become your enemy. You hate the fruit.
At half past six exactly- any deviation from this time will result in an absolute bollocking- you take your place in an assembly line; in front of you is an endless and almost perpetually mobile conveyor belt looping around the factory floor. It starts up with a dishearteningly healthy whir. The fruit begins to come towards you. You have a box next to you. Your job is to fill the six plastic containers in that box with apples. There is a particular method to this packing, depending on the size of the fruit: seven apples down the bottom, eight on the top or some variation thereof. The top must look like a flower, the visible portion of the apples should be red. And so it begins.
There is no conversation, the machines are too loud, and almost everyone is plugged into their ipod. You have learnt that a fully charged Ipod will last you the necessary hours, but only if you turn it off on the few times the conveyor belt gently slows to a stop. By this point you have stopped looking at the people around you, it's too depressing. Faces are unwaveringly blank. Eyes are glazed. It is as though you come to the factory and die, your barely animated corpse taking your place for the hours you spend there. You hope everyday that you will reach some transcendental zen-like state. You hope that the menial labour will allow you time to think, to day dream, to digest. It does not. The tiny amount of brain power it takes to fill those boxes correctly stops you from thinking of anything but fruit. You have been dreaming of fruit for days now. When you finally leave you feel as though your soul has been left in that factory, gently twisting around the floor, on a conveyor belt that smells sweetly of apples.
Now imagine, for a moment that you are destined to repeat this until four in the afternoon five days a week, unless you can get yourself transferred to another job. This, my friends, is menial fucking labour.
Sincerely,
Helenahandbasket
Why, oh why did we create a society in which menial labour is a necessity? Now, I'm not talking menial labour in the sense that I'm supposing most of you understand it. No, no. I've worked shit jobs before, who hasn't? But there is a distinct difference between a shit job and a menial job.
Let me paint a little picture for you. Imagine that you wake up at quarter to six in the morning. The sun is not up. You pull on your clothes; anything you find on the floor will do. It's cold, but you don't bring a jumper. Where you're going not only will it get hot, but your status is so low there's nowhere for you to put your things. Those pigeon holes in the kitchen are not for you, and you better not forget it.
Imagine yourself shuffling up the slope from your dormitory; there are people with you, but no one has much to say. The job you're going to do doesn't exactly inspire lively conversation. Or any conversation for that matter. Your destination is a fruit packing factory: apples, nectarines, peaches, pears. Other fruits whose names you can barely speak out loud without cringing anymore. Fruit has become your enemy. You hate the fruit.
At half past six exactly- any deviation from this time will result in an absolute bollocking- you take your place in an assembly line; in front of you is an endless and almost perpetually mobile conveyor belt looping around the factory floor. It starts up with a dishearteningly healthy whir. The fruit begins to come towards you. You have a box next to you. Your job is to fill the six plastic containers in that box with apples. There is a particular method to this packing, depending on the size of the fruit: seven apples down the bottom, eight on the top or some variation thereof. The top must look like a flower, the visible portion of the apples should be red. And so it begins.
There is no conversation, the machines are too loud, and almost everyone is plugged into their ipod. You have learnt that a fully charged Ipod will last you the necessary hours, but only if you turn it off on the few times the conveyor belt gently slows to a stop. By this point you have stopped looking at the people around you, it's too depressing. Faces are unwaveringly blank. Eyes are glazed. It is as though you come to the factory and die, your barely animated corpse taking your place for the hours you spend there. You hope everyday that you will reach some transcendental zen-like state. You hope that the menial labour will allow you time to think, to day dream, to digest. It does not. The tiny amount of brain power it takes to fill those boxes correctly stops you from thinking of anything but fruit. You have been dreaming of fruit for days now. When you finally leave you feel as though your soul has been left in that factory, gently twisting around the floor, on a conveyor belt that smells sweetly of apples.
Now imagine, for a moment that you are destined to repeat this until four in the afternoon five days a week, unless you can get yourself transferred to another job. This, my friends, is menial fucking labour.
Sincerely,
Helenahandbasket
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Dear Jeff Buckley Biopic Producers
Dear Jeff Buckley Biopic Producers,
OH THE HORROR! THE HORROR! OH THE HUMANITY! OH GOD NO, PLEASE NO, I’LL CUT OFF MY RIGHT ARM WITH A FUCKING SPOON TO STOP YOU PUTTING EDWARD FUCKING CULLEN IN THIS MOVIE! I’ll do it I swear. I think you kind of get the gist of this letter, I could probably stop now, but I’m going to extrapolate on this theme just a little longer until you actually internalise the point I’m trying to fucking make.
First of all, let me clarify that, due in large to the fact I think Twilight is some of the most pungent shit I’ve ever been forced to watch cement its place in popular culture, I realise that there is a difference between Edward “the Sparkly Vampire” Cullen, and the unfortunate actor required to play him. I’m pretty sure that dear old Robert Pattinson thought of this piece of shit as a pay cheque and was unaware that as a result of baring his crystal encrusted chest to a multitude of prepubescent girls and their emotionally retarded elders, these hoards of hormone filled masses would literally be attempting to hump his legs every time he goes out in public. I’m sure he’s an okay guy, and hell, I don’t know maybe some credit should be given to his acting skills given that he managed to make the worlds’ most annoying fucking vampire marginally attractive to, it seems, every woman on the face of the planet bar me. Personally, if I met a vampire that didn’t kill or fuck and who spent his days listening to Debussy and I don’t know, learning fucking French or some shit, I’d cut his goddamn head off, no matter how pretty a face was attached. But I digress. It happens. The point is, I can distinguish between Mr. Pattinson and Edward Cullen but 99% of the female, and hell a good percent of the male population fucking can’t. And that, my friends, is a major freaking problem when you are making a movie about Jeff Buckley.
Now I understand that you have at least two valid arguments for casting Mr. Pattinson in your movie. First, he’s a draw card. But honestly guys, have you done any fucking research at all about Jeff Buckley? Any? At fucking all? So you’re going to cast in your movie a man who will whip teenage girls into orgasmic frenzies as he strums and broods. But this won’t have anything to do with Jeff’s music; it will have everything to do with their inability to distinguish between fiction and reality. You are going to turn this movie into Twilight the fucking musical. I’m sorry Rob, this ain’t your pretty self’s fault. But it’s my fucking problem. If you must make a movie about Jeff Buckley, and honestly I’m not convinced this is a good idea in the first place, then centre stage must be taken by his goddamn music. If this is overshadowed by the audience’s unwillingness to make a distinction between the actor playing him and a fictional character that same actor has played previously you’re shaming Jeff’s memory and his legacy. You are shaming Jeff Buckley. And that pisses me right off.
Second, I hear Rob can sing pretty well. Good for you Rob. But no one, and I mean no one, can sing like Jeff Buckley. And I don’t want to listen to someone trying to sing like Jeff Buckley. I want to listen to Jeff fucking Buckley. See I remember the first time I heard Jeff sing. I remember it well, because it was the day they pulled his body from the waters of the
I now have this recurring nightmare. It’s horrible. I shake as I attempt to relay it to you in all its horror. Trembling fingers. No shit. In this nightmare I am at a CD shop. Just your average CD shop, nothing special. I am rooted to the spot, unable to move, paralysed as it were, by sheer and complete terror. All around me are teenage girls, their developing bodies cloaked in too-tight t-shirts splashed variously with slogans: “Team Buckley” reads one, “I kissed a Jeff and I liked it” reads another, “There’s a Flaming Red Horizon” on yet another, a picture of a perfectly coiffed Edward Cullen- garishly distorted by the heaving breasts underneath it- staring at me from a black and red background. The air is so laden with rushing hormones it is almost wet; it leaves a shiny, metallic taste in my mouth. Still I can’t move. The girls all hold in their hands an object that turns my legs to rubber, an object, the very sight of which dries my mouth in an instant, palpitates my heart, fills my eyes with tears that overflow and wont stop, not for a second, not even for a moment. Because of this object a dam has been burst inside my chest and it feels, it truly feels as though my heart is literally breaking in two. When I open my mouth to beg for reason no words will come out, none at all, just a sound, so deep and low, so despairing it is beyond explanation; it is primordial, it is uncontrolled, it is beautiful and it is the perfect articulation of a heart that is broken. I fall to my knees, and that is when I see that I too hold in my hand this same object. A CD, innocuous at first, but it reads “Jeff Buckley: The Soundtrack”, and when I turn it over I read the words that stop my heart: “all songs performed by Robert Pattinson”.
Sincerely,
Helenahandbasket
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
What happens when you shoot someone, then run them over with a tank?
You may be surprised to learn that I actually do have some limits on what I am prepared to make funny. Not many. But Tiananmen fucking stumps me. Somehow I just can't seem to keep up the irreverence when considering hundreds or thousands of unarmed civilians being mowed down by tanks and guns. Crazy huh? Who would have thunk it? Surely there's a joke in there somewhere? So here is some decidedly unfunny shit about Tiananmen. Consider it my commemoration of the 20th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square Massacre.
What Happened? When fearless leader Mao Zedong- you know him, he had that great idea about melting down pots and pans to make steel, guess how that ended? no seriously, guess- died in 1976 the Communist Party took on a new policy of opening up China economically. They failed to realise that maybe, just maybe, this might open the country up to other influences. An obvious oversight, you'd think, but hey, they were pretty much a bunch of uneducated peasants. Anyhoo. Meanwhile, in the Soviet Union Mikhail Gorbachev was introducing perestroika and glasnost- google that shit people, I don't got time to explain it- which inspired young Chinese to aspire for more liberal reforms. In shorter terms, the situation leading up to June 1989 can be described thus: weeeeeeeeeee! unrest! reform! crackdown! weeeeeeeeee! Or something more eloquent. Whatever. In China the shit was a fucking tinderbox waiting for a spark. The death of reformist Hu Yaobang in April 1989 provided said spark.
After Hu's death tens of thousands of students took their protest to Tiananmen Square. Protests continued through April and May. China's fearless leaders pretty much twiddled their thumbs and wrung their hands. What to do? What to do? Kill them all? Hmmm, maybe. But they had this pesky little problem of having invited the international press to Beijing to cover Gorby's visit which was set to culminate in a ceremony at, you guessed it, Tiananmen Square. And that, my friends, is probably the only reason we know about this; any other month and the international press would not have been allowed in the capital. Ah fickle chance.
Fearless leaders were determined to clear the square before Gorby arrived, and so, and this is totes logical, I'm sure you'll agree, started blaming the US and declared martial law. The PLA started clearing the area, and by that I mean shooting unarmed civilians and running them over with tanks. Cos, you see, when you shoot someone with high calibre ammunition from a semiautomatic weapon at close range you can never really be sure that they're dead. They might have that special skin, you know the one, which deflects bullets. That why you need to run them over with a tank just to be sure that they're not going to get back up and beat you to death with a cardboard placard. It's only when you've squished someone flat that you can be certain that their unarmed arse is no longer a threat to you. But you already knew that. It's common fucking knowledge.
We don't really know how many people were murdered. Obviously official Chinese estimates are low (250is). Many who survived were later tracked down and sentenced to death, or sent to labour camps (you know the ones where they don't feed you until you die- super fun!). What we do know is that these people protested and died for freedoms we take for granted, abuse, or ignore every day.
We treat democracy like a right, something we are inherently entitled to by virtue of being Australian, but it's not a right, it's a fucking privilege. That I can write as I do without being arrests is a privilege. That you can google without censorship is a privilege. That you get to cast your vote to choose your shitty government is a privilege. Every free step you take, every choice you make to determine your own future, every time you choose your degree, where you live, who you fuck, what you eat, what you read, what you say, that is a privilege. And it is a privilege we need to honour, and honour every day, if for nothing else than out of respect for the millions all over the world who have lost their lives asking simply for that which we take for granted, abuse, or ignore every day.
So Tiananmen, we remember.
Sincerely,
Helenahandbasket.
What Happened? When fearless leader Mao Zedong- you know him, he had that great idea about melting down pots and pans to make steel, guess how that ended? no seriously, guess- died in 1976 the Communist Party took on a new policy of opening up China economically. They failed to realise that maybe, just maybe, this might open the country up to other influences. An obvious oversight, you'd think, but hey, they were pretty much a bunch of uneducated peasants. Anyhoo. Meanwhile, in the Soviet Union Mikhail Gorbachev was introducing perestroika and glasnost- google that shit people, I don't got time to explain it- which inspired young Chinese to aspire for more liberal reforms. In shorter terms, the situation leading up to June 1989 can be described thus: weeeeeeeeeee! unrest! reform! crackdown! weeeeeeeeee! Or something more eloquent. Whatever. In China the shit was a fucking tinderbox waiting for a spark. The death of reformist Hu Yaobang in April 1989 provided said spark.
After Hu's death tens of thousands of students took their protest to Tiananmen Square. Protests continued through April and May. China's fearless leaders pretty much twiddled their thumbs and wrung their hands. What to do? What to do? Kill them all? Hmmm, maybe. But they had this pesky little problem of having invited the international press to Beijing to cover Gorby's visit which was set to culminate in a ceremony at, you guessed it, Tiananmen Square. And that, my friends, is probably the only reason we know about this; any other month and the international press would not have been allowed in the capital. Ah fickle chance.
Fearless leaders were determined to clear the square before Gorby arrived, and so, and this is totes logical, I'm sure you'll agree, started blaming the US and declared martial law. The PLA started clearing the area, and by that I mean shooting unarmed civilians and running them over with tanks. Cos, you see, when you shoot someone with high calibre ammunition from a semiautomatic weapon at close range you can never really be sure that they're dead. They might have that special skin, you know the one, which deflects bullets. That why you need to run them over with a tank just to be sure that they're not going to get back up and beat you to death with a cardboard placard. It's only when you've squished someone flat that you can be certain that their unarmed arse is no longer a threat to you. But you already knew that. It's common fucking knowledge.
We don't really know how many people were murdered. Obviously official Chinese estimates are low (250is). Many who survived were later tracked down and sentenced to death, or sent to labour camps (you know the ones where they don't feed you until you die- super fun!). What we do know is that these people protested and died for freedoms we take for granted, abuse, or ignore every day.
We treat democracy like a right, something we are inherently entitled to by virtue of being Australian, but it's not a right, it's a fucking privilege. That I can write as I do without being arrests is a privilege. That you can google without censorship is a privilege. That you get to cast your vote to choose your shitty government is a privilege. Every free step you take, every choice you make to determine your own future, every time you choose your degree, where you live, who you fuck, what you eat, what you read, what you say, that is a privilege. And it is a privilege we need to honour, and honour every day, if for nothing else than out of respect for the millions all over the world who have lost their lives asking simply for that which we take for granted, abuse, or ignore every day.
So Tiananmen, we remember.
Sincerely,
Helenahandbasket.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Dear Immigration Department
Dear Immigration Department,
Hey you guys! Yeah, you guys over there! You must have the best biceps in town, what with all that stamping you do. Oh to wield that mighty "application denied' stamp; I'd never have to go to the gym again.
Hey, I heard a little rumour, you may have heard it to, after all it was published nationally in The Australian- our last mighty bastion of media impartiality- that the "flood of asylum seeker has swollen (Christmas) Island's population by almost 60%". Holy shit balls batman! 60%! Well fuck me sideways, but that must mean there's thousands of the fuckers right? Right? Run and hide genuine Australians, run and fucking hide; there's a god damn flood of refugees coming your way. According to The Australian this flood is made up of, wait for it, wait for it, 73 "suspected" asylum seekers. 73? 73? 73 is a 60% increase? What the fuck? Hang on while I make someone else do the maths. So that mean that there were 122 before this flood, and there's 195 now? Jesus Christ on a motherfucking chariot. Immigration Department you astound me! I simply cannot fathom how you cope with your immense workload, it is truly astonishing. Big round of applause everyone for the Immigration Department! Woo! Yeah! You guys fucking rule!
On another note you'll be shocked to learn that Christmas Islanders resent asylum seekers, despite the fact that they're pretty much the only reason people stilll deliver food and toilet paper to that barren rock. Always here to help, I've come up with some suggestions as to where to put them:
1. Under the sea. Everybody want to live under the sea, right?
2. Ghettos. Australia lacks ghettos. Let's build some. After all the ghetto is the birthplace of hip hop. And, let's face it, Oz hip hop sucks balls. "I got paint on my shirt on the Beenleigh line"; enough said.
3. Canberra. Even the allure of weed and porn can't make Aussies want to live in this shithole. So let's give it to the refugees, it's not like they do anything useful down there anyway.
4. Greg Sheridan's house. Oh the fun they'll have, skipping and jumping and performing rousing renditions of 'Michael row the boat ashore'.
5. Tasmania. Given that the Tasmanians managed to kill all of their own black people, I think they could do with some more.
Send me your suggestions as to where to put the refugees and I'll send them through to the minister of Immigration. No seriously, I fucking will.
Sincerely,
Helenahandbasket.
*shit taken from Paige Taylor and Nicola Berkovic p3 "New Boat Stokes Island Tensions", The Australian 25/05/2009.
*what the fuck type of reference system is that. Didn't you go to uni you moron. Shhh, stop writing to yourself, people are starting to stare.
Hey you guys! Yeah, you guys over there! You must have the best biceps in town, what with all that stamping you do. Oh to wield that mighty "application denied' stamp; I'd never have to go to the gym again.
Hey, I heard a little rumour, you may have heard it to, after all it was published nationally in The Australian- our last mighty bastion of media impartiality- that the "flood of asylum seeker has swollen (Christmas) Island's population by almost 60%". Holy shit balls batman! 60%! Well fuck me sideways, but that must mean there's thousands of the fuckers right? Right? Run and hide genuine Australians, run and fucking hide; there's a god damn flood of refugees coming your way. According to The Australian this flood is made up of, wait for it, wait for it, 73 "suspected" asylum seekers. 73? 73? 73 is a 60% increase? What the fuck? Hang on while I make someone else do the maths. So that mean that there were 122 before this flood, and there's 195 now? Jesus Christ on a motherfucking chariot. Immigration Department you astound me! I simply cannot fathom how you cope with your immense workload, it is truly astonishing. Big round of applause everyone for the Immigration Department! Woo! Yeah! You guys fucking rule!
On another note you'll be shocked to learn that Christmas Islanders resent asylum seekers, despite the fact that they're pretty much the only reason people stilll deliver food and toilet paper to that barren rock. Always here to help, I've come up with some suggestions as to where to put them:
1. Under the sea. Everybody want to live under the sea, right?
2. Ghettos. Australia lacks ghettos. Let's build some. After all the ghetto is the birthplace of hip hop. And, let's face it, Oz hip hop sucks balls. "I got paint on my shirt on the Beenleigh line"; enough said.
3. Canberra. Even the allure of weed and porn can't make Aussies want to live in this shithole. So let's give it to the refugees, it's not like they do anything useful down there anyway.
4. Greg Sheridan's house. Oh the fun they'll have, skipping and jumping and performing rousing renditions of 'Michael row the boat ashore'.
5. Tasmania. Given that the Tasmanians managed to kill all of their own black people, I think they could do with some more.
Send me your suggestions as to where to put the refugees and I'll send them through to the minister of Immigration. No seriously, I fucking will.
Sincerely,
Helenahandbasket.
*shit taken from Paige Taylor and Nicola Berkovic p3 "New Boat Stokes Island Tensions", The Australian 25/05/2009.
*what the fuck type of reference system is that. Didn't you go to uni you moron. Shhh, stop writing to yourself, people are starting to stare.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
today's winner is
Centrebet. Centrebet has opened bidding on the projected jobless rate in Australia. Just so we can have a little fun with the unfortunate, a group I strongly suspect I will be joining out very, very, soon. Hey, let's face it, if the jobless rate continues to rise as it is, gambling may be the only icome I have.
I'm pretty sure that this is the most Australian thing anyone has done all year. Seriously, I am nominating whoever the fuck runs this joint for Australian of the year. What a country we live in. That we can turn the economic recession into a competition is truly astonishing. I'm thinking of making team jerseys and selling them on ebay (necessity is the mother of all invention, afterall).
So choose a team: in the red corner we have the optimistic, the unaffected, the blind, go team reeeeeeeeeecoooooooooooooooooveerrrryyy! And in the blue corner with have the unemployed, the students, those permanently locked out of the property market, team impeeeeeeeeennding deeeeeeeepprrreeeeeeeeeeessssssssion! Who's it going to be, friends? Recovery's got the financial backing, but lacks the bite, impending depression's got a mean right hook, but moves damn slow through that melancholic fog.
Go on, bet on the quality of other people's lives. I've got no moral hang ups about profiting from the misfortune of others. Fuck it, I'm taking bets on Darfur: I'll take odds on instances of rape, torture, displacement, or murder. Any takers? Come on, it's the Australian thing to do.
Sincerely,
helenahandbasket
I'm pretty sure that this is the most Australian thing anyone has done all year. Seriously, I am nominating whoever the fuck runs this joint for Australian of the year. What a country we live in. That we can turn the economic recession into a competition is truly astonishing. I'm thinking of making team jerseys and selling them on ebay (necessity is the mother of all invention, afterall).
So choose a team: in the red corner we have the optimistic, the unaffected, the blind, go team reeeeeeeeeecoooooooooooooooooveerrrryyy! And in the blue corner with have the unemployed, the students, those permanently locked out of the property market, team impeeeeeeeeennding deeeeeeeepprrreeeeeeeeeeessssssssion! Who's it going to be, friends? Recovery's got the financial backing, but lacks the bite, impending depression's got a mean right hook, but moves damn slow through that melancholic fog.
Go on, bet on the quality of other people's lives. I've got no moral hang ups about profiting from the misfortune of others. Fuck it, I'm taking bets on Darfur: I'll take odds on instances of rape, torture, displacement, or murder. Any takers? Come on, it's the Australian thing to do.
Sincerely,
helenahandbasket
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Dear Edward Cullen
Dear Edward Cullen,
You and I need to have a little talk. I’m sure you know why. Don’t worry, I’ll meet you somewhere dark and rainy if you like. We wouldn’t want those pesky sunlight induced crystals to ruin your “normal boy” façade. I’ll even let you bring your likewise afflicted friends, if that would make this process any easier for you. But you can leave that Bella girl at home; I know you really, really want to eat her, and I’m pretty sure you’re just keeping her around in case you feel like a tasty snack during your long sleepless nights, but she and I wouldn’t get along too well, you see I require actual brain activity in my friends, and teenage girls clearly suffering from neuro-vegetation just don’t make the cut. But from the signals you’ve been sending, I don’t think frigid virgins are on your mind either.
You can tell that I’m putting in a lot of effort to be diplomatic here, and under the circumstances, I think you’ll agree this makes me a pretty fucking understanding human being. But I think we can dispense with the niceties now, don’t you? Let’s just admit to what’s really going on here: you’re stalking me. Everywhere I turn there you are. You lurk in the gloom filled corners of my favourite bookstores, your pale face and golden eyes trying to lure me to you. You stand in the windows of CD stores, skin like marble, unmoving as a statue, silently begging me to join you. From the covers of magazines you entice me with forced human emotions, smiling here, laughing there, thoughtfully smoking a cigarette over there. You try to look natural, but we all know what’s going on. You’re obsessed with me. It’s okay, I understand, I’m a little bit obsessed with me too.
Who could resist my abrasive personality? My tendency towards the introspective, the antisocial, the offensive; these are simply irresistible qualities in a woman, I know. Perhaps you recognise a little bit of yourself in me. After all, neither of us is particularly good in social situations, you because you’d like to eat everyone, me because I’d like to kill everyone. We neither of us tolerate the inanities analogous with social interaction. The “how are yous”, the “I like your shirts”, the nodding and smiling as people tell you details of their lives that you have no interest in: stories about their dogs, their mothers, their dying siblings, their sexuality, their suicidal tendencies, these interactions drive us both practically homicidal.
I know you can read thoughts, and I don’t envy you this curse: people in general are stupid and boring; I can’t imagine their interior lives would be much different. Me on the other hand, I have a technicolour fictional world, my fantasies are accurate to the point of obsession, and they must be fascinating to eavesdrop into. I mean fuck, I’m far more interested in what’s going on in my made-up world than the real one. And speaking of fucking, I have a general proclivity towards that activity as well, unlike Miss Bella “my hymen’s still intact” Swan. That must surely be another reason for your growing obsession with me.
But you see, Edward, we’ve got a problem. You are a pretty fucking lame vampire. And I have to admit, I’ve done other vampires. I had a thirteen year relationship with the original vampire with a soul, Angel. His whinging and whining got to me too. All that crap about being a monster, atoning for sins, the trepidation about fucking in case he went all Angelus on me again, it got truly dull. I honestly looked forward to evil Angel; I mean sure people tended to die, and sure, apocalypse was never far from his mind, but man, he looked great in leather pants. That relationship was intermittently punctuated by my dalliances with the peroxide-haired Spike, who really knew how to party, and had no qualms about killing or fucking. Until that whole got a soul thing came up again, and then he got all pathetic and annoying too.
So you see by comparison, you are a total pussy. I’m sorry there’s simply no other way to put it, I've searched high and low for gender neutral expletives. You are a pussy. Sure you’re strong, you’re fast, and yeah, I’ll admit it, you’re pretty fucking hot too, but you’re not much fun are you? Lots of girls might swoon while you listen to Debussy, teach yourself French, and play lullabies on the piano for them, but not me. Uh uh. I like my vampires the same way I like life: fast, dark, and dirty. And you, my faithful stalker, are none of those things. A vampire that doesn’t kill or fuck goes against all of my morals.
There’s no future for you and I, Edward, you need to let it go. You have to stop following me like a bloodsucking, immortal puppy. I don’t want to see you anymore, not in the bookstores, not in the music shops, not in the window at Supre, not on the covers of magazines. I know it’s hard, but you have to let me get on with my life. I suggest you go home, fuck that virgin bride until your blue balls are cured, kill some irritating human beings- that Stephanie Meyer is pretty fat; she’d have a lot of blood to give, why don’t you start there?- take off your chinos, tone down the bouffant, stop plucking those eyebrows, and grow the fuck up. In short, I really just need you to go back to wherever the hell it is from which you came, and leave me the fuck alone.
Sincerely,
Helena Handbasket
You and I need to have a little talk. I’m sure you know why. Don’t worry, I’ll meet you somewhere dark and rainy if you like. We wouldn’t want those pesky sunlight induced crystals to ruin your “normal boy” façade. I’ll even let you bring your likewise afflicted friends, if that would make this process any easier for you. But you can leave that Bella girl at home; I know you really, really want to eat her, and I’m pretty sure you’re just keeping her around in case you feel like a tasty snack during your long sleepless nights, but she and I wouldn’t get along too well, you see I require actual brain activity in my friends, and teenage girls clearly suffering from neuro-vegetation just don’t make the cut. But from the signals you’ve been sending, I don’t think frigid virgins are on your mind either.
You can tell that I’m putting in a lot of effort to be diplomatic here, and under the circumstances, I think you’ll agree this makes me a pretty fucking understanding human being. But I think we can dispense with the niceties now, don’t you? Let’s just admit to what’s really going on here: you’re stalking me. Everywhere I turn there you are. You lurk in the gloom filled corners of my favourite bookstores, your pale face and golden eyes trying to lure me to you. You stand in the windows of CD stores, skin like marble, unmoving as a statue, silently begging me to join you. From the covers of magazines you entice me with forced human emotions, smiling here, laughing there, thoughtfully smoking a cigarette over there. You try to look natural, but we all know what’s going on. You’re obsessed with me. It’s okay, I understand, I’m a little bit obsessed with me too.
Who could resist my abrasive personality? My tendency towards the introspective, the antisocial, the offensive; these are simply irresistible qualities in a woman, I know. Perhaps you recognise a little bit of yourself in me. After all, neither of us is particularly good in social situations, you because you’d like to eat everyone, me because I’d like to kill everyone. We neither of us tolerate the inanities analogous with social interaction. The “how are yous”, the “I like your shirts”, the nodding and smiling as people tell you details of their lives that you have no interest in: stories about their dogs, their mothers, their dying siblings, their sexuality, their suicidal tendencies, these interactions drive us both practically homicidal.
I know you can read thoughts, and I don’t envy you this curse: people in general are stupid and boring; I can’t imagine their interior lives would be much different. Me on the other hand, I have a technicolour fictional world, my fantasies are accurate to the point of obsession, and they must be fascinating to eavesdrop into. I mean fuck, I’m far more interested in what’s going on in my made-up world than the real one. And speaking of fucking, I have a general proclivity towards that activity as well, unlike Miss Bella “my hymen’s still intact” Swan. That must surely be another reason for your growing obsession with me.
But you see, Edward, we’ve got a problem. You are a pretty fucking lame vampire. And I have to admit, I’ve done other vampires. I had a thirteen year relationship with the original vampire with a soul, Angel. His whinging and whining got to me too. All that crap about being a monster, atoning for sins, the trepidation about fucking in case he went all Angelus on me again, it got truly dull. I honestly looked forward to evil Angel; I mean sure people tended to die, and sure, apocalypse was never far from his mind, but man, he looked great in leather pants. That relationship was intermittently punctuated by my dalliances with the peroxide-haired Spike, who really knew how to party, and had no qualms about killing or fucking. Until that whole got a soul thing came up again, and then he got all pathetic and annoying too.
So you see by comparison, you are a total pussy. I’m sorry there’s simply no other way to put it, I've searched high and low for gender neutral expletives. You are a pussy. Sure you’re strong, you’re fast, and yeah, I’ll admit it, you’re pretty fucking hot too, but you’re not much fun are you? Lots of girls might swoon while you listen to Debussy, teach yourself French, and play lullabies on the piano for them, but not me. Uh uh. I like my vampires the same way I like life: fast, dark, and dirty. And you, my faithful stalker, are none of those things. A vampire that doesn’t kill or fuck goes against all of my morals.
There’s no future for you and I, Edward, you need to let it go. You have to stop following me like a bloodsucking, immortal puppy. I don’t want to see you anymore, not in the bookstores, not in the music shops, not in the window at Supre, not on the covers of magazines. I know it’s hard, but you have to let me get on with my life. I suggest you go home, fuck that virgin bride until your blue balls are cured, kill some irritating human beings- that Stephanie Meyer is pretty fat; she’d have a lot of blood to give, why don’t you start there?- take off your chinos, tone down the bouffant, stop plucking those eyebrows, and grow the fuck up. In short, I really just need you to go back to wherever the hell it is from which you came, and leave me the fuck alone.
Sincerely,
Helena Handbasket
Monday, May 18, 2009
I Love the War on Drugs
Battle stations! Load the torpedo tubes, man the guns, because we are at war people, we are at war. Who’s the enemy? Osama Bin Laden? No. Kim Jung Il? No. Boatpeople? Maybe. But not quite. Indonesia? No, although they’re a pesky problem. The Taliban? Getting close. It’s…Drugs. Oh… Ah, that’s terrifying. The scariest Goddamn enemy I’ve ever faced. Getting all mind altered and shit must surely be the most horrifying prospect in the world. And it’s not as though we have the capacity for independent thought that would allow us to make our own choices about narcotics. Not at all. The youth of today, as soon as we see that juicy bag of weed, or a couple of pills with a clever stamp on them (Kelly Slaters anyone? Now those were the days) our mental acuity is diminished to the point that all we can do is light up, sit back and wait for the high. Ahhhhhhhh! I’m scaring myself. Turn on the lights, quick! Check the closet! I’m shitting myself here. Drugs are in the closet! I repeat, and I do not mean to alarm you, there are drugs in my closet, and I’m scared they might attack and…and…and…make me feel really good about life. And then hungry. And then really good about life. And then tired. Ohhhhh, deadly.
So let me explain this in terms I understand. You guys are probably a couple of steps ahead of me, but hey, all this drug use has really fucked me up. There’s this war on drugs right? Right. Because drugs ruin lives, right? Right. So who’s this war against? Drugs. Right, so you’re telling me we’re fighting a war on inanimate objects? Yep, that pretty much sums it up. What the fuck? I know, I know, they’re trying to stop drug smugglers and the drug trade and shit, because that really ruins lives. Take Afghanistan. Their biggest commodity is heroin, that’s all they’ve got to sell. Why? I’d say it’s 50% Taliban 50% the Coalition of the Willing. So we’re going to stop the trade of pretty much the only commodity the Afghans have because some morons think it might be a good idea to jack needles in their arms and tune the fuck out. No offence or anything, but fuck them. If you’re stupid enough to have a heroin addiction, and I mean this in the nicest possible way, I don’t give a rat’s fat arse if, when or how you choose to kill yourself. Seriously go for fucking gold. No one’s got a gun to your head saying “Shoot up, dipshit! Shoot up!” I say let them, and keep the Afghans fed.
I don’t want to talk about junkies. If you are one, I don’t care, you’re a douche. So hate me. Whatever, you’ll forget about it the next time you’re high, in 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1. And the junkies have left the rant. I want to talk about good, old fashioned, recreational drug use. Why do we take drugs? Why, why, why, why, why? Why? Because they’re so much fun. You know it; you just aren’t stupid enough to put it on the internet. Lucky for you, I am.
Drugs are fun. Just like booze is fun, smoking is fun, and sometimes, casual sex with strangers is fun too. We know these things aren’t good for us, but you know what? They’re not as bad as authorities make out either. The way they go on, you’d be forgiven for thinking that ecstasy= certain death, or at least really bad teeth. Bullshit. In the ten years I’ve been partaking in recreational drug use, I’ve not known anyone to die from ecstasy. I’ve seen people fucked up, for sure, but seriously dudes, everything in moderation. But booze, fuck, I’ve seen people get the shit beaten out of them, I’ve had the shit beaten out of me, I’ve seen friends fall of the rooves of moving cars, fights, spats, disappearances, morning afters, regret, regret, regret. And this shit is legal? What the hell? The drug that heightens your aggression, disinhibits you to the point that you’ll go home with Jabba the fucking Hut if he offers, this shit is legal. Alcohol kills. Ecstasy makes things look pretty. Scary!
But surely Helen, you’re not advocating drug use? Well, this might get me arrested, but, yes, yes I am. Not the, “go get mama her crack pipe”, or the “can I use your needle after you?”, type of drug use. But the roll a j sit around, talk shit, laugh your arse off, and eat some pizza type of drug use. Or the, hey it’s new years eve, let’s have a pill and stay up all night talking about how much we value each others friendship type of drug use. Which is, contrary to popular belief, perfectly possible to partake in without: cracking your teeth, scratching your eyeballs out, attacking your mother and stealing her jewellery, or ending up living on the streets selling your arse for the money. Seriously. Drugs aren’t bad. People are just stupid. You’ve got to distinguish between the two.
So every time you see that little “Drugs: you don’t know what they’ll do to you” thing pop up, why don’t you make up your own mind, and find the fuck out. Because until the government makes alcohol and cigarettes illegal too, I refuse to pander to the arbitrary designation of these particular narcotics as illegal by not taking them. You want me on board, government? Either decriminalise it all, or criminalise it all, but until then, I’m pretty sure you don’t really give a fuck, so long as you’re making money.
Sincerely,
Helena Handbasket
So let me explain this in terms I understand. You guys are probably a couple of steps ahead of me, but hey, all this drug use has really fucked me up. There’s this war on drugs right? Right. Because drugs ruin lives, right? Right. So who’s this war against? Drugs. Right, so you’re telling me we’re fighting a war on inanimate objects? Yep, that pretty much sums it up. What the fuck? I know, I know, they’re trying to stop drug smugglers and the drug trade and shit, because that really ruins lives. Take Afghanistan. Their biggest commodity is heroin, that’s all they’ve got to sell. Why? I’d say it’s 50% Taliban 50% the Coalition of the Willing. So we’re going to stop the trade of pretty much the only commodity the Afghans have because some morons think it might be a good idea to jack needles in their arms and tune the fuck out. No offence or anything, but fuck them. If you’re stupid enough to have a heroin addiction, and I mean this in the nicest possible way, I don’t give a rat’s fat arse if, when or how you choose to kill yourself. Seriously go for fucking gold. No one’s got a gun to your head saying “Shoot up, dipshit! Shoot up!” I say let them, and keep the Afghans fed.
I don’t want to talk about junkies. If you are one, I don’t care, you’re a douche. So hate me. Whatever, you’ll forget about it the next time you’re high, in 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1. And the junkies have left the rant. I want to talk about good, old fashioned, recreational drug use. Why do we take drugs? Why, why, why, why, why? Why? Because they’re so much fun. You know it; you just aren’t stupid enough to put it on the internet. Lucky for you, I am.
Drugs are fun. Just like booze is fun, smoking is fun, and sometimes, casual sex with strangers is fun too. We know these things aren’t good for us, but you know what? They’re not as bad as authorities make out either. The way they go on, you’d be forgiven for thinking that ecstasy= certain death, or at least really bad teeth. Bullshit. In the ten years I’ve been partaking in recreational drug use, I’ve not known anyone to die from ecstasy. I’ve seen people fucked up, for sure, but seriously dudes, everything in moderation. But booze, fuck, I’ve seen people get the shit beaten out of them, I’ve had the shit beaten out of me, I’ve seen friends fall of the rooves of moving cars, fights, spats, disappearances, morning afters, regret, regret, regret. And this shit is legal? What the hell? The drug that heightens your aggression, disinhibits you to the point that you’ll go home with Jabba the fucking Hut if he offers, this shit is legal. Alcohol kills. Ecstasy makes things look pretty. Scary!
But surely Helen, you’re not advocating drug use? Well, this might get me arrested, but, yes, yes I am. Not the, “go get mama her crack pipe”, or the “can I use your needle after you?”, type of drug use. But the roll a j sit around, talk shit, laugh your arse off, and eat some pizza type of drug use. Or the, hey it’s new years eve, let’s have a pill and stay up all night talking about how much we value each others friendship type of drug use. Which is, contrary to popular belief, perfectly possible to partake in without: cracking your teeth, scratching your eyeballs out, attacking your mother and stealing her jewellery, or ending up living on the streets selling your arse for the money. Seriously. Drugs aren’t bad. People are just stupid. You’ve got to distinguish between the two.
So every time you see that little “Drugs: you don’t know what they’ll do to you” thing pop up, why don’t you make up your own mind, and find the fuck out. Because until the government makes alcohol and cigarettes illegal too, I refuse to pander to the arbitrary designation of these particular narcotics as illegal by not taking them. You want me on board, government? Either decriminalise it all, or criminalise it all, but until then, I’m pretty sure you don’t really give a fuck, so long as you’re making money.
Sincerely,
Helena Handbasket
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