.ili. Devil Shat Forty Seven .ili.
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Fake Vs. Real, Glam Vs. Suck ....................... by Morbus
A Devil Called Grim ........................... by MaddGoddess
This is Devil Shat Forty Seven released on 02/25/99. Devil Shat is
published by Disobey and is protected under all copyright laws. All of
the issues are archived at the Disobey website: http://www.disobey.com/
Submissions, email, and news should be sent to morbus@disobey.com. Your
comments are welcome. What do you want us to write about? Send an email
and let us know.
I'm sorry. Make that 378 MODs.
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.ili. Fake Vs. Real, Glam Vs. Suck .ili.
---------------------------------------- by Morbus
It's a funny thing, really, knowing what the differences between
opposites are. What's the difference between an elephant and a mouse?
They both have tails, ears, four legs, and make noise. They have all of
the normal characteristics of life. Our difference is size.
Or the difference between driving someplace and walking? Both are
getting you somewhere, both are expending energy, both need to be
refilled, whether it be with gas or with food. Both can be refreshing -
the calmness of sitting down and getting a million miles away or the
warmth of the sun as it beats on your back. Our difference could be
speed, wheels, paint job, or method. No one knows.
What about the difference between Bush and a good band? Both have
instruments, both have music, and (possibly) vocals... both could go on
tour and both could have millions of fans. Our difference in this case
is the lack of good taste.
Or the difference between Fake Radio and
Real Audio? Both use sound and computers, both are good in their own
private ways. Both are worked hard at by a group of dedicated
individuals and both have people who like them. One uses the other to
make money, the other uses the one to make entertainment. Our difference
could be motivation, wealth, or any number of personality driven
characteristics.
The difference between differences, between opposites, between
situations? Interpretation, perspectiveness, and motivation could be
some answers. On the other hand, I could simply be babbling for the sake
of entertaining a plea.
A difference in people might be if they like beating around the bush or
not. Those in favor will waste time to say they cut down the cherry
tree; those who have better things to do will say it with a smile.
The thing about beating around the bush is that when we're waiting for
the explanation, we're always against it. We want it now, Now, NOW, we
have things to do and they're late already! I don't care about how you
met Ms. Witherspoon on the way to the "Expensive Chandelier" store, just
gimme your wallet and we'll discuss this over some tea.
That's one of the chief contributors to why there is no real or fake, no
glam or suck. In my mind, the "Expensive Chandelier" store is real: I
can see the outside, the inside, and the crotchety old man that watches
me like a hawk as I open its door. I could point it out to you on a map
of my hometown. The only difference between what other people see it as
and what I see it as is its representation. One is "The Lighting
Place", the other is the "Expensive Chandelier" store.
We don't take the time to listen, to understand, or to interpret
correctly. Are you laughing at my idiocy? "Interpret correctly"? How the
hell can someone do that? We don't have the same minds, nor the same
experiences.
It'd be nice if I could stand up and shout out "THERE IS NO RIGHT AND
WRONG! NO REAL OR FAKE! NO GLAM OR SUCK! THERE IS ONLY INTERPRETATION!"
The problem being, of course, that someone out there will say "No, I'm
sorry, Morbus. I think Bush is a REAL good band. They DON'T suck, so you
can go burn in Hell."
Now, will ya look at that. I don't believe in Hell.
On the other hand (the third one), you could forgive the incomprehension
and listen to Fake Radio . It's neither real
nor fake, yet IS Real and Fake. Just another jumbled thought for you to
put into order.
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.ili. A Devil Called Grim .ili.
------------------------------- by MaddGoddess
Back when I lived in New Orleans, I used to spend many an evening at a
local diner, swilling coffee, sucking down my favorite brand of cancer,
and swapping lies with the other flotsam cast up from the sewers of that
stinking whore of a town. One of the regulars there was this fellow I'll
call Grim. He was one of the few people I've ever met who made me seem
chirpy. I was never sure when I'd run into him, but it seems in
retrospect that he was always lurking in the shadows, lounging on a
corner, or sitting in a back-booth chainsmoking and drawing dirty
pictures. Though he never dressed all in black, there was always a
shadow around him, and a chill. When he took notice of someone - say, a
drunk staggering in after the bars closed, or Tulane students yapping in
their puppyish way - you'd swear you felt the temperature in the joint
plummet. A strange man, not really gloomy, but pathological, gleefully
morbid, optimistically bitter. Like he not only expected life to suck,
but enjoyed it. Grim... He was almost always formally polite...not what
you'd call warm or anything, but amiable enough after his own fashion.
He seldom invited it, but never objected to company, except when
bible-thumpers tried to prosletyze over him - then he got really mean.
Never bothered with names, either. Always called me "doc." And he
usually had some kind of fucked up illustration of his point of view, a
story - true, he'd always maintain, real life - which somehow punctuated
his often repeated view that when life isn't pain, it's strange.
One night after I got fired from Kinko's - yes, Kinko's, don't pick,
you've done worse - I went to the diner to get on a solid
caffeine-death-buzz, and there he was, like he was expecting me. Or
someone in the same boat, somehow I don't really think it mattered who I
was as long as I was primed for the ugly. He flashed that razor thin
grin at me and said, "Got yer teeth knocked back, I see."
Yeah, I nodded, and he waved me over.
"Fired?"
Yeah.
"Mad?"
Yeah.
"Wanna kill someone?"
.........
"Hypothetically?"
Yeah.
"Had to clean up a dead guy today."
(uh oh).
"What he left behind, at least."
(oh, boy...)
"Yeah, Doc. He was a mess. Burned to a cinder, Boo. We came inta tha
site on Barronne, y'know, that big brick shithouse we're renovating?
Yah, well, when we got there, it was like nothin' but bacon, Doc. Me an'
Greg just kinda looked at each other, an' then it was 'Nah, man, after
you!' all over. You know, Greg Redman, my foreman?"
Yeah.
"Tough dude, but he saw his breakfast twice... See, we finished wiring
the junction box to the street drop yesterday, and it SEEMS some
desperate crackhead motherfucker decided the box looked like a good
piece to nab an' hock. Pity the damn thing was live... sumbitch was
fuckin' charcoal, doc. All but his left foot, that was all in one piece.
After the cops and meatwagon swept him up, me an' the crew had to
repaint the floor where he charred it. What a way to start the day, huh?
Y'know, I can't say what bugs me more, the bacon smell or that perfect
foot? Why didn't it BURN, Doc?"
How the FUCK should I know?
"You was a college-boy, I thought you'd know."
And he shrugged and went back to drawing his impossibly flexible women.
And, dismissed, I sat back and began to wonder about that perfect
foot... and realized I didn't give a fuck about having been fired
anymore. I paid the man's bill, walked home, and slept like a saint.
Thanks to a devil called Grim.
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