Viewport width =
August 11, 2008 | by  | in Features | [ssba]

Political Correctness: Creationism

In last week’s column, I told you about how I like to dress up in a French maid’s outfit and get spanked by an elderly gentleman who rubs his scrotal psoriasis on my nipples. This week I’m going to give you the lowdown on the important issue of Creationists. Are they too offensive? Or are they not offensive enough? Just who is the weakest link? Goodbye. When I interviewed the famous Biologist, Richard Darwins, he told me after a game of TF2 that he didn’t like Creationists one bit – and I had to admit, he had a point!

The reason I agreed with Darwins was that he kept on adjusting his glasses throughout the interview so he could see my French maid’s outfit, also – and this was the main selling point – he used big words I didn’t understand. So what he was saying must have been true. I took the lollipop and got in his car.

So for those of you who don’t know, a Creationist is someone who is ethnically suicidaler racisty and sexist toward other people’s creations. Our old Slave Cadaver ex –guitarist, Vivian Bung- Cowpat-Oblong-Compostwilly, was a Creationist, and a pretty fanatical one at that. Our vampire axeman Dave, or I, would come up with a riff, play it to the boys, and everyone would be cool, but Viv would be shaking his head and condescending to us. Like Dave would say “Hey guys, check out this brutal riffage of doom and slaughterous mayhemmic ear-bleeding Satan worship” – pour some blood onto his guitar, sacrifice a Chihuahua, and play some hardcore widdlies at us, and Viv would just stand there shaking his head and looking at Dave with what appeared to be a real sincere pity. “I thought that riff was brutal death metal as” Dave would say, confused, doing the horns, and frantically masturbating over the dead Chihuahua to celebrate NZ Music Month.

“Dave, that riff is not brutal” Viv would snort. “That riff is really gay. That riff is bouncing through a San Francisco meadow wearing purple pants with yellow polkadots listening to a Wham reunion album drinking champagne in poncy glasses with the pinky finger out in a public toilet with George Michael.”

“It’s not gay” Dave would say in defence, but Viv was a hardy Creationist, and totally insistent that his point of view was the only truth.

“That riff is gayer than Julian Clary mincing down Marion street wearing nothing but fishnets while Mr T in a corset massages Spanish olive oil into Chuck Norris’ buns, thighs, and chest hair while he does deep knee bends on the Total Gym in tight leather bike shorts with his top off” Viv would say in steely tones of non- PC Creationism.

Then, while Eli The Horrible (Yodelling) held my nose I downed four vodka shots in a row, to summon the almighty powerful Metal Gods of the Dark Realm. Once Jared (Pots n Pans) fed me my spots, I would be ready to step up to the plate. “Yeah check this shit” I would say once I’d grabbed the mike off Eli, and do some brutal bass thrashing, sometimes using as many as two notes in one of my riffs. I would also gyrate my spandex laden pubis, hump the amp like Hendrix, skull some more vodka and slash my wrists open in a huge fit of coolness so the guys knew I was okay with myself and didn’t have any self esteem issues. But Viv didn’t get it man, he wasn’t up to my level, he couldn’t handle the pace, man. I don’t think he was actually that interested in being a muso.

I think his problem lay in the fact that he didn’t believe in getting munted enough to understand the type of music we wanted to write. I think he stayed sober and didn’t do any drugs ON PURPOSE so he wouldn’t get the vibe, and would be in a better position to Creationisty. Needless to say, the Metal Gods of Fire and Brimstone were unimpressed.

I managed to handle Vivian’s abuse with a good solid alcohol habit, but Dave was of a more sensitive nature, and to cope, he had to go out and kill homeless people every night when he’d had his poppy tea.

But even through this Vivian would not let up. “Why don’t you go and jam with The Pointer Sisters, Dave?” he would say, as Dave, a mellow computer programmer by day, chased a confused, screaming Blanket Man down Courtenay Place with a wood chipper.

But Vivian was mean to me as well. “Guy, your bass lines are very . . . rudimentary” he would say as I shredded the open B string with an angle grinder and mainlined some horse semen into my carotid artery in an uber coolness-fest to make me more brutally muso-talent-xtreme per square x 10-3 of the inverting log.

“Why don’t you guys sober up a bit, and get off the drugs so we can make some decent music?” Viv said to us one day, when there was two of him. Well, that just took the cake. I mean you’re not going to be a rock star with someone like that in the band. We weren’t impressed, and an hour or so after we’d had our spots and could speak coherently, we told Viv he was out. I mean he’s got no right to go doubling himself and getting in our face like that.

Anyway, I am still using the drink to handle Viv’s abuse, but I’m getting better. I’m just steadily increasing the intake, and it’s helping a lot. Dave is improving too, but he took it pretty brutal. His ego is somber and painful, and he spends all his time now in his room, brooding, and being dark and emo, in depressive fits of zombified self-absorption. I just cradle myself and drink to forget. When we have guests it’s always the same: “Hey Dave! And Guy! What are you two up to?” “. . . . . . Slitting my wrists . . . .” It actually worked out for the better because our riffage is extremely brutal now and our combined playing is driven by cruelty and malignance, making our music nice and heavy and psychotic. The Metal Gods feed off our pain. When Dave emerges from his sarcophagus this Saturday evening in the form of a cloud of cigarette smoke, he and I will come to your party, once we’ve patched up each other’s wrists. Even if you didn’t invite us. Even if we don’t know you, we’ll still come to your party. Don’t worry, we’ll just turn up. We don’t need an invitation. That’s what good mates we are – it’s just the conquering spirit that Dave and I have. So be cool, man, give Dave a beer, he’s cool. You know Dave, right? From Slave Cadaver? Come see him jam at the Valve one night. He’s a muso, man, give the bro a beer. Give me one too. In fact, better give me two; I want to be tiddly before I start drinking my own stash. And give me a cigarette, come on! That’s better. What about one for Dave? What kind of host are you anyway? Hey, hold on! Have you got a fifteen pack? You can afford to give me four – no, five beers! Come on, mate! What do you mean, “got my own”!

These are my back up beers! So gimme! What do you mean selfish! Now give me those five beers! That’s still ten for you and Dave! It’s being fair! Now GIVE ME THOSE BEERS!!!!

Chelax, man. Don’t freak out at me. Jeez. So anyway bro, what papers are you doing this semester? Oh wow! And did you see that last Hurricanes game? Man, that was –


Dude, Dave just got with your girlfriend! Whoops! Looks like you and her have a few things to talk about! Look, you won’t feel like drinking anymore tonight, will you, might as well give the rest of those beers to me. Anyway, cheers, but me and Dave better be going now, after all the ruckus we’re a bit thirsty, and hey: these wrists aren’t going to cut themselves . . . Me and Dave are off to do some coke, anyway.


Summary Remarks

I’ve got one more thing to beef about: I walked into New World the other day, and do you know what I saw? Chestnuts. Chest – Nuts. How offensive. I mean they’re called breasts. I think it’s degrading to women here. And testicles – not nuts! What’s wrong with calling the organs by their proper names? Are we that uptight these days? I mean what are our children supposed to be learning? That it’s funny to call things other than what they are? It’s just immature, and we all know it. These things should be called ‘Breasticles’ – I’m writing an immediate letter to New World management.

So to end this column, I would like to quote from the great not necessarily gambling, but if he did it would be of his own volition and not a stereotype Native American chief “Sitting Around Gambling With A Few Beers Talking Shit With Mates”:

“Only when the last blade of grass has been farmed, when the last pantyhose have been flung, when the last RuvABC protein has been catalysed by alpha-keto-glutarate-dehydrogenase enzyme, we’re free before the thunderstorm, when the last Holliday junction has been repaired by DNA Polymerase, when the last person has been given a good bollocking by a minority group, through the fire and the flames we will go on, then, and only then, will you realize the tension mounts – ON WITH THE BODY COUNT!!”

Yeah, I’m just so sick of all this gross behaviour that we get away with; I think it’s about time all of us became a bit more politically correct, okay? I think some people are just saying things that are deliberately offensive, and childish and smutty, and it’s totally fair enough that minority groups are gettting their knickers in a twist. Now I would love to stay and chat, but these breasticles are giving me diahorrea poo, wherein I squeeze my anal passage and pebbly, gravelly, poos erupt out of my vomiting anal tract that is all greased up by my sloppy turds that are covering the toilet bowl with wet gurgly bowelish-bum-blast.

So, when you send your CV in to Il Bordello with a Corn Cob, just remember to paint yourself grey so Bill Gates knows you’re one of us aliens, from Zeta Reticuli.

Anyway, what do you call one white guy surrounded by 200 black guys? “Warden” – Ahhh ha ha ha – hang on. Oops.


About the Author ()

Comments are closed.

Recent posts

  1. VUW Halls Hiking Fees By 50–80% Next Year
  2. The Stats on Gender Disparities at VUW
  3. Issue 25 – Legacy
  4. Canta Wins Bid for Editorial Independence
  5. RA Speaks Out About Victoria University Hall Death
  6. VUW Hall Death: What We Know So Far
  8. New Normal
  9. Come In, The Door’s Open.
  10. Love in the Time of Face Tattoos

Editor's Pick

Uncomfortable places: skin.

:   Where are you from?  My list was always ready: England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, puppy dogs’ tails, a little Spanish, maybe German, and—almost as an afterthought—half Samoan. An unwanted fraction.   But you don’t seem like a Samoan. I thought you were [inser

Do you know how to read? Sign up to our Newsletter!

* indicates required