
.ili.   Devil Shat Sixty One  .ili.
-----------------------------------
 

   Lions as Children, Lambs as Adults ................. by Morbus
   ASSHOLIC: The Greatest Column Ever Told ...... by Rown Garnbii
      
   
This is Devil Shat Sixty One released on 02/10/00. 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.

Don't bring a lighter to the house tonight. 


----------------------------------------------
.ili. Lions as Children, Lambs as Adults .ili.
---------------------------------------------- by Morbus

I asked my girlfriend what I should write about this fine issue of Devil
Shat. She rambled off some rhetoric, much like the suggestions on 'Whose
Line Is It Anyways?', and eventually landed on "elementary school
dodgeball".

Gasp! The memories! Fully erect balls (uhh...), packed with air so tight
that a simple bounce would cause havoc, the metallic smacking sound
cringing our eyes yet whetting our appetite.

Our appetite for the one thing that kids know how to do so intuitively:
causing pain to others. Yes!

When we ran out for our recess kickball, there was always a hidden rule
that stated no matter how many times someone would yell out "no pitchy
patchy's", the rule would never come into effect ("no pitchy patchy"
meaning that you can't throw the ball at the runner to get them out).
No. We relished the chance to evade a ball whipped furiously from a
distance, performing insane jumps in order to get an especially
ferocious high five when we landed home. I remember vividly how one kid
threw a ball from the outfield, dead on to the runner. The runner jumped
high, but the ball slammed into his air born feet, sending him spinning
with a audible slam to the pavement.

And then dodgeball. Wonderful dodgeball. Gone were the cross field
throws. Gone the single target running around the bases. No. dodgeball
was ten feet away. dodgeball was a bunch of ducks sitting in front of a
stone wall with two feet of leeway on either side, trying to hide from
the meteor that some kid would whip as hard as he could. Getting hit
with that thing was worse than what'd you see on the news. News is
reported. dodgeball had the unspoken rule that if you got hurt, you go
whimper in the corner and tell no one. Enlightening teachers to the
torture meant eviction from future games.

I gotta tell ya, those were the days.

What the hell happened though? There's no more fun physical pain! And
"fun" is the key. Back when we were kids, we loved getting hurt and
hurting other people. Now that we're all "grown up", we've lost a
certain threshold of our lives for something we've been told is
maturity.

I don't know how the hell that happened, but I know that if my work had
a dodgeball game where all bets were off every Friday, and physical pain
would be laughed off when the game was done, I'd be a lot less stressed.

No, instead, I've got to go home and beat my wife, and then get
penalized for doing so! What the hell is THAT all about? I know some
people who'll defend battered women who stay with their husbands. These
people will say they're weak, have ten kids, can't support themselves or
are in a situation they can't get out of.

That's just plain old bullshit. They're one of the few people in this
world that still grasp onto elementary dodgeball...

... and the immense, satisfying joy it brought them.


------------------------------------------------------
.ili. ASSHOLIC: The Greatest Column Ever Told... .ili.
------------------------------------------------------ by Rown Garnbii
                                                    HolisticFP@aol.com
                                                    
(Part Six of Ten)

Because I never paid attention in English class, and as a result never
learned proper technique and writers etiquette, (I even started this
run-on sentence with 'because') I'm going to start this months tirade on
a completely unrelated note which I'm sure will later be edited out of
the collected edition of "The Greatest Works of Rown Garnbii" on sale
soon. I apologize for the resulting poor flow, but dedicating ten months
to a single subject can get tedious for anyone so consider this an
intermission.

Ahem...

What's up with Cracker Jacks? If you haven't bought a box recently and
you've got a buck to waste, get some. Now, out of politeness I'll ignore
the obvious discrepancy of peanuts to popcorn, but I will not, will not,
WILL NOT excuse the disgusting introduction of lame prizes.

Our parents had it good. Whistles, toys, compasses, pocket knives,
decoder pins. There was no end to the cool things you could get at the
bottom of a Cracker Jack box. Even when I was but a child, we could
always count on good prizes. The most coveted of which was the booklet
of "lick 'em, stick 'em" tattoos. Now they were cool.

What is our newest and most precious generation subjected to in today's
oppressive, politically correct culture? Crap. Absolute crap. Pieces of
paper suitable for folding into one of two amazing shapes. Poorly
lenticulated lenticular mini-baseball cards, etc... crap.

We do this to children... in America... We actually subject kids to this
and then have the audacity to ask why they shoot up schools. I'm not
going to put all the blame on the semi-fine people at Cracker Jack, Inc.
They are guilty of nothing more than having no balls whatsoever, and
cashing in on it.

I blame the fucker, and you know he/she's out there, who sued Cracker
Jacks because their bastard child choked on that whistle, or toy soldier
or even (sniff) my tattoo booklet. Sound the alarm!!! Choking hazard on
aisle three!!! Come on people, it's wrapped in a giant piece of paper,
covered in bright red and white stripes with "PRIZE" written all over
it. Only a monkey would choke on a Cracker Jack prize. The only real
choking hazard in Cracker Jacks ARE the Cracker Jacks. Those large,
puffy, sometimes spiky, caramel covered death traps that are SUPPOSE to
go down your throat. That's the real hazard. But keep it down or they'll
take that away too.

And speaking of stupid dead children, onto the Sixth Commandment!

"Thou shalt not kill." (God, Exodus 20:13)

Four simple words and the most straight forward, unmistakable, and
morally correct commandment... nay, guideline, ever written anywhere by
anyone. So simple... don't hurt people. Don't judge them and don't take
them from this world. Do not assume you are the Lord nor attempt to
become him.

So simple, yet so complicated a concept for so many.

The problem stems from insecurity and fear. From the first person who
said you should fear the Lord. Hell, He's probably the one who said it
because that's what got the shitball rolling. People, fueled by fear,
completely mistook the decree, and I think it happened a little
something like this...

ENTER - Quaint Medieval Village

Peasant - Hello, quaint medieval preacher.

Preacher - Ah, faith and begorra, good mornin' to ya Sinner.

Peasant - Eh?

Preacher - Sinner. That's what we, in the know, call people who are
goin' to burn in Hell.

Peasant - ...eh? I'm a good man. I provide for my quaint medieval family
in this fascist, monarchistic country. I grow wheat. How can I be goin'
to Hell?

Preacher - Well, my son. You're not doin' the Lord's Work. Yeh gotta be
doin' the Lord's Work to get into Heaven.

Peasant - Well, I'll be a monkey, you're right! I'm going to Hell. What
is the Lord's Work?

Preacher - Read the Bible and find out, quaint medieval peasant.

And that's just what he did. The peasant went home and read the Bible
from cover to cover and learned that God was one bad Mo Fo and he feared
Him and always kept the Bible close to his heart.

The peasant also did the Lord's Work. He gave to charity, welcomed
strangers with open arms, quoted scripture during suitable occasions and
helped steer others toward the Truth and the Light and life was good and
he was happy. He was scared to shit of God but he was reasonably happy.

Then one day...

ENTER - Quaint Country Road

The peasant was walking to church one day when he saw a dark man sitting
on a carpet bowing.

Peasant - Did God paint you?

Savage Foreigner - Did God paint me! (chuckle) For certain. Allah loves
wondrous color.

Peasant - Who the H - E - double hockey sticks is Allah?

Savage Foreigner - He's God. Dig?

Then the Savage Foreigner started sacrificing a chicken. (or whatever)

The peasant was confused. "THIS was not in the Bible. What would the
Lord's Work be in this case?" He thought to himself.

The peasant pulled out his Bible and paged through it. Heretics weren't
mentioned in the handy index but there were numerous stories of God
smiting people who didn't like Him and making people who dissed Him
suffer terribly with plagues and such. Well, this was obviously the
Lord's Work since this is pretty much what He did with his day, but what
about that pesky "Thou shalt not kill" thingy.

True, it did decree that he can't kill, but it's also only ranked sixth
on a list of ten and "Thou shalt have no other Gods" did make the number
one slot.

And it's also true that it's the only commandment that God Himself broke
on a regular basis.

After careful consideration of these facts, the peasant preceded to beat
the black out of the Savage Foreigner with his Bible.

The End

You probably didn't learn a damn thing from this little tale so I won't
quiz you on the bullet points. I'll just say that God or not, killing
people is generally bad news and it never works out quite the way one
would hope. And although I don't rule it out in the future, as of the
writing of this column, I have yet to shiv anyone in the neck or take a
life in any other way.

Unless stepping on ants counts.... nah... probably not.

Hell - 3 / Salvation - 3


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