Feb. 1st, 2006

On Bullshit

Feb. 1st, 2006 03:01 pm
icesamzero: (Default)
Okay, I don't tend towards the--hell, I hestitate to even utter the word--bitchiness in this hallowed publication, but even I have my limits.

(Noooo, you say.)

Bullshit is prevalent in our culture, as befits our most habitual predeliction. In short, this installment of the On Bullshit series focuses on absorbative reading. Or readers.

Ah, hell. It's one of my rants.

When did people stop reading for fun?

I mean, I had a class, based on the creation of original ideas in story structure or some approximation thereof, in which the grading and critical practices were, sadly, very...

Well, fucked up.

An example--I start a story thus: "A man was walking down a dusty road."

Immediately, my instructor or several 'readers--'I use the term rather loosely--would break in with various objections.

"Who is this man? Where does he come from? What is/are his motivation(s) for walking this particular road? What are his eye color, hair color, height, weight, ethnic persuasion and star sign? Why is he walking this road now? I need more information. Why, why, why?"


Jesus Christ. Seriously. Learning what made someone tick used to be the fun of the thing. Finding out why and when and who was what you read further in the damned story. You don't demand this person's blood type right off the damn bat, you sit back and enjoy the fucking movie and find out. It's much cooler to find out after a steamy love scene which way he tucks it than on a goddam dossier.

This insane whorish demand for information prior to immersment (?) in a story defeats the purpose, the mystery, the fun. I counter these questions: Why the fuck are YOU reading it? Get the hell away from my book!

It's a dishonor to the material and the author. Constant justification is the slutful demand for authors to give it up on the first page.

Kiss my ass.

On another note, I find the manner in which poetry, be it good or bad, accessible or obscure, is read to be asinine. Nobody wants to hear a great poet butchered by 'Dick and Jane.'

Z out.
icesamzero: (Default)

I say that, and immediately images and concepts zap along little neuron pathways in your brain. You know what one is.

Okay, then--howzabout a buttprint?

I mean, handprints are rather similar to fingerprints as they have ridges which can identify an individual, but most other parts of the body excluding the hands and feet to not possess such unique and accessible characteristics.

Well, I took a potty break, entered a stall, and today my world changed.

I was beholding an honest-to-God buttprint. As in a perfectly formed residual image of someone's bootie on porcelain--or whatever imitation plastic shit institutions use. The print was perfectly preserved, heart-shaped, and I bet law enforcement could use it to identify the individual.

A fucking assprint.

Good lord.

Z gone.


icesamzero: (Default)

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