Greetings and salutations my devoted readers, and may I be the first to wish you a frightening Hallowe’en (or Samhain for my brothers and sisters in Eire). I’m aware it’s a day early, but frankly I have better things to do tomorrow than look for things to entertain you. No offense, but Hallowe’en might be my favourite holiday of the year, so you’ll have to forgive my priorities.
That said, I received a text message yesterday from the indomitable Jim Fairthorne, who after his birthday once again vanished from my day-to-day periphery, sent on some mission or other by the Fixer. This is how it read:
“Hail and well met, you dirty old usurper. How’s my blog? So I’m in transit to Bora Bora and I’m reading the news, and I find this story. Being as it’s Hallowe’en tomorrow and you probably dressed up like something stupid in honour of your infantile tradition, I figured I’d send you something truly scary to write about. And believe me, this is scary. I’ll see you in a few weeks assuming the assassinat – the mission goes as planned. Leave my God damned booze alone, you miserable fuck.”
The text included a link to this article, and by golly, he was right.
For those of you (and this is most of you) too lazy to click the link and read the article, 22 year old British Columbia resident Anthony Clark was subject to that most heinous of crimes against masculinity: he was approached by a young woman on the street who, without warning, lashed out and kicked him in the crotch so hard one of his testicles was forced into his abdominal cavity where it later ruptured.
To my gentlemen readers: let’s all take a collective pause to still the churning in our stomachs, wipe the sweat from our brows, and thank whatever deities we pray to that we don’t live in B.C.
To my female readers: guaranteed, some of you are either giggling at the image of a man being struck in the junk (and on the surface I don’t blame you); others may be raising triumphant fists clutching burning undergarments and proclaiming “you go girl”. To those readers I say: get the fuck off my blog. Men may not ever understand the pain of childbirth, but women will never, ever understand the pain of being racked in the nuts. It’s indescribable, even for a man of my rhetorical persuasions. And not because I couldn’t describe it: because even the act of describing it makes me want to vomit.
Okay, you might be saying, that’s a horrifying assault. But what’s so scary about it?
Well, I’ll tell you. This isn’t the first time it’s happened.
And I don’t mean “this isn’t the first time a man has gotten a shot to the jewels” either. This mystery woman is being described by B.C. police as, and I quote, a “serial groin-kicker”. And…they still haven’t caught her.
Now picture this: you’re walking down a secluded street, enjoying the crisp evening air as the last vestiges of summer depart in a swirl of fallen leaves and graying skies. You can smell the first hints of snow in the breeze, and your thoughts turn idly to what you’ll get your mom for Christmas this year. Suddenly a woman appears: Caucasian, five-foot-five to five-foot seven, around 130 pounds with brown hair. She catches your eye briefly, then looks away shyly. You grin as you try to catch her gaze again, wondering “is she flirting with me?”
Suddenly her eyes lock on yours and light up with hideous predatory hellfire. Her small booted foot darts out with a grace and speed that would make Bruce Lee blush, and as her blow connects, your whole world collapses around you.
All the breath leaves your lungs as you crumple slowly, almost comically, to the ground, hands involuntarily seeking your wounded pride. You see stars in the corners of your vision and the falafel you had for lunch rushes up your throat and splatters itself all over the cool pavement, throwing up waves of steam into the gathering night.
Your vision tunnels and wavers as you begin to lose consciousness – your mind unable to process the overwhelming onslaught of agony that grips your entire body.
As the last traces of thought flee your mind, you see your assailant bundle her coat around her slight frame, turn away without a backward glance, and walk purposefully into the night.
Free to do it again.
Now if that shit ain’t scary, how’s this: turns out Mr. Clark is going to require a prosthetic testicle. You know, to even things out. And while the doctors say he’ll be able to procreate, he’ll still be packing a fake clip in his fleshy pistol. Guys, you love your balls – would you accept anything as a sac-substitute?
I didn’t think so. Scary for the win.
And now, some breaking news courtesy of my pseudo-contributor The Mule.
“Dude, I found something for your blog today. You need to write about this. Eat shit and die.”
And a hearty “eat shit and die” to you too, Mule. But thanks for the article.
I don’t know how well this fits into the theme of “scary”, but it’s certainly macabre, and on some level it scares me.
According to Yahoo news, Wal Mart is now selling caskets.
Yeah, you know – the boxes we put dead bodies in to help ourselves forget our loved ones are feeding worms – now discounted at your local Wal Mart!
Is there no depth this company won’t sink to? There’s something fundamentally disturbing about a ghastly organization like Wal Mart selling coffins – I mean, Roll Back specials on granny disposal receptacles? Really?
Apparently they’re undercutting the prices offered by funeral homes to the tune of several thousand dollars. In a way that makes me happy: I have a friend who’s a funeral director and we’ve had many conversations about whether or not funeral services are taking advantage of people’s grief to overcharge them for – and I cannot stress this enough – a box they’re going to bury. If Wal Mart wants to make an affordable alternative to the overpriced pine boxes the funeral homes are selling, it’s almost a public service. I’m just curious where they’d place the display in the store. Storage? Maybe. How about Lawn and Gardening? You could put them in the Compost aisle.
Okay, I don’t know what’s more disturbing: the article, or me.
Then again, Wal Mart does offer a coffin model called “Executive Privilege”. And to me that’s just tasteless. Why should executives get to be dead in classier environs than the working man? That’s economic discrimination. The line between the rich and the poor just keeps getting wider, on and off the mortal coil, I guess.
I’m kidding of course; the Executive Privilege, as well as “Remembering Mom” and “Remembering Dad” models (thanks for rubbing salt in the wound Wal Mart), are only sold online. I wonder if you can get them delivered directly to the funeral home, or if you have to load the body yourself. You’re getting a deal, after all – there’s got to be a catch.
You think I’m joking – just wait until IKEA starts selling them. You’ll have to put them together with an Allen key and then self-stuff Uncle Rob into his final resting place.
And woe betide those who purchase a model too small for their deceased.
No, I’m sure for a nominal fee an employee could come by with a hacksaw and make it work.
Funeral Director R. Brian Burkhardt makes the point that no matter how inexpensive the Wal Mart Casket might be, the one thing funeral homes can still offer that Wal Mart can’t is grief counseling. But I don’t know if I agree. Sometimes when I’m depressed, I go to Wal Mart for a while, just to walk around – look at the sub-humans who shop there, and giggle class-consciously at the broke-down wretches forced to serve them. No matter how bad a day I’m having, at least I’m not those people.
Like I said: not scary in a traditional sense, but certainly macabre. Upon reflection, my ruminations on this story were probably more macabre than the story itself, but if you didn’t expect that from State of Affairs, you’re beyond help.
And now, the Fixer has graciously provided me with beer (which I genuinely hope is from Jim’s private stash, that Gypsy bastard). So I will take my leave.
Once again my friends, have a spooky Hallowe’en. Wear a jock strap and die cheaply.