Friday, May 7, 2010

Strictly Speaking, I'm on the Side of the Carnivores. They are Smarter.

Isn't horse racing kinda mean?

Isn't eating cows kinda mean?
And keeping gorillas in plaster rock climbing cages?
And not letting the pigs eat the truffles they find?
And letting little kids kick the shit out of ponies while learning to ride?
And keeping your cat inside an apartment, with his only link to the outside through screen windows, where the prey he naturally longs to kill is taunting him not 2 feet away?
Don't you ever lie in bed at night, thinking of all the animal muscle and skin and bone digesting inside your carnivorous unsatisfied gurgling cave of a body, and doesn't the guilt rise up somewhere in your chest like a smothered barely flickering light, reminding you of your untapped ability to evolve both in consciousness and digestion, if ever one day the light could make the dangerous journey to the part of your head where empathy lies? I feel it, I am capable of compassion after all. But for the moment, and probably forever, I am definitely a member of the ruling class.

Considering the rest of our sins, isn't racing horses, instead of making them pull carts or eating them or making glue out of their hoofs, kinda the least of it?

Do you like Emily Gould? Please say no.

I had to look up who Emily Gould was. I knew the name was familiar, but couldn't place it. Turns out she's a woman, approximately my age, who is currently out being way more successful than me at selling her words. I'm not sure why I'm supposed to dislike her? I haven't read her book, but she has one. Someone published it for her. I happen to like Gawker, a lot. So I don't hold that against her. I don't particularly like her blog, but not a lot of people like mine, so who am I to criticize?

One weird thing about internet celebrity is that since it's online, everyone is expected to have an opinion about you. It's like, why are you on the internet at all if you don't have an opinion, right? I don't need to have an opinion about Emily Gould. She doesn't intersect with my life at all in any way that matters. In the absence of any real conviction or need, I will go to my default setting, which is that I like her fine. I know, everyone thinks I'm so mean and snarky and pessimistic. But I totally like you all, until you give me reason not to. I think that's the first step to being a nice person.

I totally just schooled you on being nice. Next time I write about the lemon drop sluts at the bar last night, remind me of this.

What do you have against sweet monkey chaps?

My problem with the above sentence is threefold.

1) The word sweet means something amiable, pleasing, gracious, sugary. It does not mean cool. Cool doesn't even mean cool. But I prefer it's usage over "sweet", because while there are a million words for cold I can use instead, there are not that many flavors.

2) Chaps are offensive, period. Always. They are ugly. They are completely unnecessary unless you are driving cattle for weeks, and can't afford to buy multiple pairs of jeans.

3) Monkeys clothed in the dead skin of another animal is creepy, and really makes you think about your place in the universe in a very uncomfortable though thoroughly realistic way. Monkeys remind me of where we came from, and where we need to run from. It's hard to run in leather. It is, however, easy to wield a gun.

Ask Me Anything


  1. Ah, please write about the lemon drop sluts. Pleasepleaseplease.

  2. I have to go the Barley House tonight briefly, so you may get your wish.

  3. Suddenly I want to start a painting entitled "sweet monkey chaps." Yummers.

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