Chivas on Ice
Chivas on ice, please
Sitting in a fancy euro-chic bar in a makeshift rumble construction of a city. The ruins of a civilization and a lifestyle long dead, now fueling the construction of another…An other, another other, but both an other. One living through its death, the other on the throes of death. What you build is only as strong as what you build with. When you build from within a debilitated civilization, you create a second rate society. But second rate is a misnomer, who is to separate it from the first? This shit hole may very well be the greatest thing wrought from the blistered hands of semiotic apes.
Chivas on ice, sir
On ice, I guess that’s what I asked for. Chivas on ice. Makes it sound as if I’m paying for the goddamn ice-cream with which you get a free touch of chocolate syrup. Chivas with ice. More accurate but so uncouth. The ‘on’ makes it regal. The ‘with’ degrades it to a second rate drink that needs the ice to be make it drinkable. Prepositions. When was the last time I thought about those. Use them everyday in every sentence, fuck, in every thought. How fucking bored am I sitting here pondering the intricacies within the verbal morass of asking for a drink distinguished over the choice of a preposition. The peon over there doesn’t care a rats ass worth over the words I use as long as I got a flimsy piece of paper printed by this countries pitiable excuse for a government. Suppose he is sophisticated enough to care for the nature of the paper. At least he better be. Money. Governor of our souls, creditor to our progeny, tribute to our socio-economic grandfathers, enslaver of our minds. Money. Nice thing to have. Horrible to be without. Creator of civilized and progressive apes. Apes with brains, but animals none the less. Apes born into debt and apes that will forever default.
Having a good time sir?
Leave me be you worthless serf. Can’t have a drink these days without having some sycophantic whore trying to make you feel obligated to pay them for giving you a good time. Ha! People! Such a pathetic assimilation of needs. Humanity is nothing but a refined way of saying prostitution. You’ll get your pay, as long as you leave me be, slut. Ya, leave me be… Go serve the fat man who looks like he’s responsible for half the starving children in the world. Eating more than you need. Reminds me of that fat kid in Charlie and the chocolate factory. Obesity. I hate fat people. Such a waste of space. Look at him. Fat overflowing. A collection of lard that benefits no one. Drinking beer too, least he a got a light beer. What? Is he thinking he can lose weight shifting to light beer from lagers? I hope he dies of choking on some pop corn or something watching Jerry Springer. He’d die watching his kind and realize how oblivious they are of him even when he needs two seats on an airplane.
The fuck you care?
Would you like me to turn on the tele? Hear there’s a good game on today.
Better be a fucking good game and better be referring to fucking football. Presumptuous prick thinks that I dare not sit alone with my drink. Does it look like I need something to forget myself? Pathetic. To become a zombie out of fear for what might pop up in a free roaming mind.
Motherfucker, persistent whore. But this game could be interesting.
Ya? Whose playin?
Arsenal and Chelsea
Fucker. A good game. Suppose I can turn off for a while.
Click it on will ya?
And yet again I succumb to the will of the giant machination that is society and all its sugarcoated poisonous temptations.
Sure thing. I’m hoping the gunners pull through tonight. Holler at me if ya need anything.
Thanks. For nothing bitch.
10:30 already? Time is inconsequential when you misplace the noose tightening around your neck. Shit, since the prick turned on the tele, I’ve been completely possessed by that tin cube. Joining ranks with the masses indeed. You became closer to humanity today by enrolling in zombie nation. Wonder how many people around the world at this moment are watching the tele completely oblivious of life, but acutely aware of the sham flickering in front of them that they take as life. A farce it is, living and dreaming a fickle life in a flickering screen. As if life were the observation of activity and not the involvement within the activity. As miserably lonely and wretched I am, least I am living my life and not dreaming of another’s. Least I am unsatisfied and discontent with my inability to reach my dreams versus the miserable sods that trod around unhappy because they can’t live the dreams they procure from the tube. Not even aware that they too can dream. Pathetic.. Far as I am concerned there is no difference between a roach and these mirthless apes that are the ants of our earthly anthill. What good is their intelligence if they still live like animals, relying on the thoughts of others never bothering to think for themselves. They deserve to be deceived, enslaved, killed, and butchered for that is all they live for. For that is the sole purpose they have chosen to fulfill.
Such swirling, such movement, the slimy flow of alcohol over water. Molecules grinding against one another creating friction, producing heat, energy flowing and making the flow. Moving against each other, moving with each other. Two viscous liquids attempting to unite. Trying so hard to fuse together. Trying so hard to become one. To return to what they once were, one substance content within its integrity. Such a wonder. Nature is so beautiful in even its most inconsequential acts. And the condensation around it as if the ice were calling its brethrens for support, but they remain separated by an invisible barrier. Beholding their kind slowly melting away, desperately trying to break through but to no avail. Watching in silent horror as the alcohol slowly devours its families, its cities, its nations. Ice cubes melting into the alcohol. Water - a nation of ice mobilized for battle and sallying forth. Consumed within the alcohol nation till they are one. Till no one can tell whether the alcohol came first or whether it was the water. Its brethren watching on in horror as the water inside looses itself into something new that tastes like diluted whiskey. Much like these sods around me watching the tele as the life they once knew gets diluted into a pathetic superficial, pale, and zombified trudging on. Till the entire nation of apes comes together in one big soap opera. Still, we are one in our sluttiness, we are all whores, marketing, advertising, bargaining and finally selling ourselves off to each other. But every hooker has its pimp, who would want the job of being the pimp for the whores of humanity?
Lousy ass match too, wish these buggers would actually play some football instead of tapball. I don’t see the point of paying these shits the millions of dollars they earn for them to just pass around the ball. The only thing that makes this game fun is goals, and these teams seem to think its all about passin the ball around. What is this, training camp? Both teams should be attacking, the point is not winning assholes the point is entertaining the masses so they pay for your million dollar salary. These players get too much credit, they’re no different from pro wrestlers, politicians, clowns or hookers. They’re job is to entertain. You think you get most of your money from winning? Pathetic dream, sucker. You get it from entertaining. So you better fucking whore out. Look at Beckham, a sultruous whore. A media mogul when it comes to getting attention. A mediocre player but a slut who knows how to whore out. Why do you think he gets paid so much? Suppose winning comes into play when you want to grab attention, but look at the red sox, over a half a century of losses and it got them more attention than after they won. It ain’t just winning its about how good a prostitute your team is and whether you’re worth the bang for the buck.
Nice, starting to feel a bit better now.
Coming right up
Damn, looks like they’re losing.
Back again? Suppose I could do with another drink by now too.
Ya. The gunners aren’t quite the team they once were. Get another round here?
Idle chatter. I feel more inclined to talk now though. The whiskey always helps open a stiff mouth. Must be why the Scottish have such a slur. Generations of talking while drunk would help make you slur an accent. Problem is, what becomes the slur then?
Yup. The Blues though… another story there… since that Russian guy made them his pet. Been spending millions on getting the best players like they were mercenaries. A shame really, doesn’t even produce the quality games that you’d expect.
Wonder if this guy is more fortunate for seeing the world as an ant. He lives and breathes and the things that upset him are the way his team performs and what Jack said to Jill in some t.v. show.
Lot of money to be made in football, the world is watching. Once you got some money, nothing else to do but play with it right? I mean fuck, who cares if you’re polluting the environment, ripping a nation, and blatantly using nepotism right?15% reduction in the price of vodka keeps everyone happy. This game is nothing but gambling my friend. No talent involved, no passion…people no longer play for fun, they play to get paid.
Agreed…money…but…I doubt you can be a pro-footballer without having a passion for the game.
So it would seem, but think of it this way… you have a passion for the game as a kid when you can truly be passionate…play the game everyday, become one of the best, join the pro leagues, and start earning shit tons of cash. But the older you get the more you get used to the game, the more you realize the ephemerality of your fame, I mean shucks how many people remember even the great Pele anymore? Lets not even talk about whoever was goalkeeping for Brazil while he played. Then as you grow older you slowly realize you can’t play for ever. Now it ain’t just for the passion of the game, it's for a passionate belief in a comfortable retired life. Don’t really hear of that many footballers earning millions after they retire, now do you?
Suppose not, but you gotta realize how big an industry this is! They can probably get a zillion different jobs from the press to ground staff. Nay, can’t agree with ya on there being nothing a footballer can do after leavin' the pitch.
Yes, yes… certainly can get jobs, not the figures they earn as professional players…but then again, you spent the first 40 years of your life to become a fucking walking hotdog stand?
Think you’re too harsh on 'em mate…
Hmm… I suppose if people can remain passionate enough to kill each other they certainly can remain passionate enough to like kickin a ball around and be close to where it happens. But you can’t deny that the money not only keeps the passion alive but directs it.
Haha… sure mate, but where does money not control? Everyone’s gotta make a living… players get swapped around…they gain more experience… earn some more money… see new places…It’s a win-win situation.
Ya…When you consider the amount of money a club makes from selling a players jersey…instantly paying of the player’s salary, the clubs obviously want players that are in the spotlight, players who are the star children of the media. Now its just Hollywood 101. Completely dilutes the fucking game from being a team sport to a celebrity sport.
But you gotta admit that some of these players are just amazing! they have these moments… these sparks of pure genius… take Ronaldo or Zidane…they do things that go beyond team play. They do things that makes them stand out and they stand out for a reason…
I dunno if I would go far as attach the word genius but I agree that some players are exceptionally talented and gifted. But consider the job function of a football player, there are basically two objectives to be met: win and entertain. Even when you can’t win, entertain. Without entertaining the crowds, football loses everything.
I think they’re pretty entertained. You saying they ain’t entertaining or not entertaining enough? Either way, don’t see what you’re getting at. The entertainment is in the attempt to win.
Nevermind me, I’m not sure of half the things I say and with a few of these in me I’m talking more out of the love of hearin myself. Suppose that discussion was quite moot.
Changes nothing in the football world… but believe it helps us to talk things through. Dunno what we would learn but I’m a firm believer in talking till your tongue rots out. Think if more people talked about the niggles and nags they had, not even to mention their major problems we’d have a more peaceful world. Neways…I’ll catch ya later looks like things are beginning to pick up…
Pour me a pint o Guinness before you leave will ya… and it was nice talking to ya…
Nice guy. More intelligent than he looks. Seems to have a decent head directed by a mediocre education on his shoulders. Wonder what he thought of me… probably some guy trying to get shit off his mind… what else.. who would sit alone at a bar and hold a conversation on the values of football and football players… some one who wants to talk about his problems but can’t make himself bring it out into the open…
How did the Irish learn to make such good beer? Their culinary skills are tolerable at best, but suppose that has little to do with brewing. Don’t think the Irish have a history apart from their liquor. Irish history is like the history of liquor, gets more fun with time and the words slur all the more. Yeats is akin to drunken eloquence while Joyce is like a moment of epiphany in a drunken mind. Now that is genius, so much for the genius of Henry…the gunners still lost. Nay, can’t really call that genius, more like a blend of skill and fortune. And Joyce? Skill and fortune too? Hmm… dunno… something I should ask Al Mujib the new wielder of Fragarach over there… This drinking is starting to affect my thinking I think… that was what I thought was it not? Ha… more people showing up. Looks like I’m not the only guy at the bar now. But I was here first. I claim precedence over all others. So the fat guy left! Good! It was annoying having him within my sight of vision. Fat people I tell ya, such a waste! Woowee, who's the smut with that mutt?
Never understand how these retards end up with these hot bitches? How do they even end up with a bitch to begin with? Sheesh! Flash some greens, show some teeth, and quote three lines from a random ass poem and they think you’re Casanova himself. Its sad being a man having to sucker up to women in order to get laid, its worse being the slut that has to dish out herself in order to get the suckering. Loneliness is a bitter pill. So callous and uncaring I can be, without even a hiccup. Its too easy to be human, too easy to let my emotions whore out my intelligence, too easy to enjoy the habitual caprices of society, too easy to forget your decadence. But goddamn does she have a nice rack, perky and almost perfect size too… wonder what her nipples look like… chances are they’re either too big or too hairy, god never gives you everything, only the plastic surgeons do that. The minions of Aphrodite... sometimes it amazes me the way I think, the things I think. Is it because of the alcohol or do I actually think like this all the time? And why be aware of it now? Oh shit, so the English won by two runs, now that must have been a jaw crusher!
I wish those two would stop sucking face. Disillusioned suckers. They must think they are in love, such naivety. I admire their courage. Not in making out in public but for allowing themselves to be deluded so. For accepting a lie that is too good to be true. For buying into a hope that should always have been locked up. For believing in belief itself as if there really were something rock solid they were building on. It would be nice to be able to have such passion. Least it would make me feel a bit alive. Now all I can do is drink and talk and think and hopelessly hope that I live! that this is life! Such a feeling it used to be, such vibrance, such delight at the world, such wonder at this presence. But all too stale now, all too old, habituated. The realization of the grand illusion. Wonder if that’s why maya means illusion and love.
Enough! Can’t take this wastage of time anymore. Why did I come here to begin with? To drink away my melancholy? To sit and mope and hope that I could drink my thoughts away? Hardly worked.
Headin out mate?
Bugger, I’m pretty drunk but not that drunk. Careful now, one step after another, gotta give a semblance at least of being über chill. Semblances, semblances, semblances… that’s all life boils down to…. Sigh…
You take care now.
Ya, take it easy.