When Napoleon died in Exile, the doctors cut off his dick. They put his dick in an ornate jar and gave it to his priest; don't ask me why. Over the years, Napoleon's dick was sold and sold again to the highest bidder. To this day, at least three people claim to own Napoleon's dick. But you see, it's not important who owns the real dick. The big question is, well... who the fuck do those other two dicks belong to?
So, what separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom? What makes us so different? We're the only species who put our own kind in cages.
Remember when your high school history teacher said that the course of human events changes 'cause of the deeds of great men. Well, the bitch was lying. Fuck Caesar, fuck Lincoln, fuck Mahatma Gandhi. The world keeps moving cause of you and me, the anonymous. Revolutions get going cause there ain't enough bread. Wars happen over a game of checkers.
Do we care for people when they're sick because we actually care about them? Or do we care for them because when our time comes, we want someone to care for us? Or does it matter? At least you got your health. Don't you hate it when people say that? I mean, you lose your job, you lose your wife, you're in prison, and some punkass dude gonna say, "At least you got your health." Like that's supposed to make me feel better. So what if I'm broke? So what if some drug dealer wants to cap my ass? At least I ain't got a tumor. I swear, the next person that says ALYGYH to me, I'm gonna make sure they ain't got their health much longer.
Now, you'd think a doctor or two would be on the top of the list of the greatest person of the millennium. I mean, doctors do research, discover diseases. But no one's gonna see Dr. Epstein-Barr, Dr. Norman-Barre, Dr. Down, and Dr. Alzheimer on any list. 'Cause for all their hard work, hearing their names fills us with dread. Their names make us sick.
Yeah, who cares who lives or dies in prison? We read the names in the morning paper and they mean nothing to us. They're faceless. Truth is, we don't wanna put a face on 'em. We don't want to know who they really are. Because then it might hit too close to home, and home is what it's all about, right? Making a home no matter where you are, no matter who you are. At the end of the day, everybody wants somewhere to rest, somewhere to lay their bones, even if it's in a land called Oz. Yeah, like Dorothy says when she wakes up in her own bed back at Aunt Em's, "There's no place like home." There's no fucking place like home.
People are defined by three things. Their heads- how they think. Their hearts- what they feel. Their dicks- who they fuck. At the end of the day, each of us has to answer one question. One, not so simple question. Who am I?
The Vikings, their brutality aside, had their moments of brilliance. At one point, they were such great shipbuilders, that Leif Ericson and his crew sailed all the way to America. Some people say that he probably went as down south as the New York harbor. Here's where the brilliance comes in- they took a look and went back.
The worst stab wound is the one to the heart. Sure, most people survive it, but the heart is never quite the same. There's always a scar, which I guess, is meant to remind you that even for a little while, someone made your heart beat faster, and that's a scar you can live with, proudly. All the days of your life
You swat at a fly, step on an ant, squash a cockroach, you don't think much of it. In fact, killing a bug gives you a sense of accomplishment. Fucking ant was ruining your picnic, cockroach was crawling through your kitchen cabinets. You put an end to their disgusting, miserable little lives and make a better world for everyone. Only, for every one you kill, more appear. Bigger, uglier, meaner than before.
Clemency. That's a fancy word for mercy. You see, the Governor can commute a death sentence. He has the power to just pick up the phone and say no. But to me, the only time the Governor shows clemency, is when he don't make that call. 'Cause life in prison without parole is a shitload worse than death. Death is parole. Death is the real mercy.
I'm like the lord of the fucking dance. I got moves.
There was nothing I hated more than to see a filthy old drunkie, a-howling away at the filthy songs of his fathers and going blurp blurp in between as if it were a filthy old orchestra in his stinking rotten guts. I could never stand to see anyone like that, especially when they were old like this one was.
Suddenly, I viddied what I had to do, and what I had wanted to do, and that was to do myself in; to snuff it, to blast off for ever out of this wicked, cruel world. One moment of pain perhaps and, then, sleep for ever, and ever and ever.
-Phantom Of The Opera
-The Sex Pistols
-Red Hot Chili Peppers
-System Of A Down
Other Things I Like
-A Clockwork Orange
-Full Metal Jacket
-Dr Strangelove Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb
-A Brave New World
-Spicks And Specks