YTAH's Weblog


‘Bury the hatchet? Sure, I’ll bury the hatchet. THIS hatchet.’

Posted in rants by YTAH on July 21, 2008
Tags: , ,

Hatchet – Old school horrorHatchet job? I’m applying.
It’s been said in the popular media that I find it possible to harbour grudges. Okay, so I was the one who said so, and I said so on africans, so not that popular. Be that as it may, I would like to take this opportunity to clarify: I do not harbour grudges; I cherish them. The longer they last, the more staying-power they have, the better. I love grudges. They are my treasures, my legacy, my … children – which is why I cherish them as you would cherish your no-doubt delightful offspring’s first painting, or their first traffic fine, or their first unwanted teen pregnancy. Which is partly why I’m flummoxed by these adverts for sites and services that allow you to contact people you used to go to school with.You know the ads I mean – they explain how they’ll let you search a network of users to find anyone who attended the same school you did, either in the years you were there or just, well, you know, ever. Presumably the sales-pitch is that, gosh, golly, gee-whiz, wouldn’t it be such awful fun to see all the old chums again? I mean, all those wonderful, amazing, and generally keen people who made your childhood such a rollercoaster of non-stop fun and excitement – wouldn’t you love to find out, ‘Where are they now?’

Now I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to meet my ‘old school chums’. That’s because I never had any. If I went to a high school reunion, it would be like the one in Grosse Pointe Blank – not a happy event, and it would probably involve some blood-letting, last-minute plot twists, and lacklustre denouements to love triangles free from any noteworthy chemistry or romantic tension – definitely a ‘no sequel’ affair, diminishing returns all the fucking way. To quote one of the reviewers who exerted their critical mass™ on the aforementioned film:

Even if you recall your teen years with a blissful sense of nostalgia, does it make sense to come back ten, twenty, or thirty years later to spend one evening with a bunch of people that you haven’t thought about in decades? Chances are, you’ve stayed in contact with anyone worth keeping in touch with, and the only reason for going to a reunion is to flash your newfound fame and wealth in front of everyone, all of whom are trying to do exactly the same thing.

Troll picking its nosePortrait of the Author As a Young(er) Man.
Well, I harbour as much longing now for my teens and my childhood companions as I harboured enthusiasm for them back then. And I didn’t keep in touch with anybody at my school, so that tells you something. I hated those fucking cunts then, and my God I still really, really do. And not in that ‘aw shucks’, nostalgia-enhanced kinda way, I mean the Gattling-gun-and-flamethrower kind of a way. Also, I’m writing for this site, which pays me nothing, therefore I have no fame and fortune to flaunt in front of others as a show of my (nevertheless obvious) superiority. So you can understand why I wish people would stop asking me whether I would like to get in contact with people who attended school with me – the same ones I never wanted to speak to in the first place, seeing as how they were incapable of conducting a conversation that didn’t involve grunts.

Moreover, the idea that after school their lives simply ‘carried on’ is too ghastly to contemplate. There are only 2 scenarios in which I can comfortably imagine an afterlife for them. In one, we cross paths on the day that I am armed with a .357, a samurai sword, and an intimate knowledge of the martial arts; in the other, they simply ceased to exist the moment they walked out those old school halls. So to confront the idea that they have maybe grown older, wiser, and less Neanderthal-like, is to confront the very abyss; it unsettles the comfortable equilibrium of my superiority. Who knows what they may have been up to in the last fifteen years? I’m not sure what scares me more: the idea that perhaps they never figured out how to perform the most basic biological functions, or that they never figured out how to stop. And, frankly, the idea of any of my former classmates ‘getting it on’ and/or procreating is enough to make me disembowel a baby panda. Who knows how many smaller, dumber, more vociferous imbeciles they’ve unleashed upon the world? Dear god, man, think about the drain on our resources. Think about the inflation rate. Think about the ever-expanding queues. And then think about their parents, and the values that all those little tykes are going to imbibe from their mother’s tit. (Their mother’s tit being, of course, their paternal parent.)

I can only imagine my high-school reunion. There’s Freddie, who used to be the school intellectual, and who had these entertaining theories about how green crayons taste better than red ones. How has he been feeding himself all these years? No, I don’t mean “What does he do for a living?”, I mean, physically – has he figured out how his mouth-hole works yet, or did he starve to death trying to give himself an ass-hickey? And the class clown, Terry – whatever became of him? Is he still playing all those hilarious practical jokes at his place of work? (Unlikely; flushing the heads of your superiors probably wouldn’t get you too many promotions.) The list of old acquaintances (lamentably) not forgot goes on: the first person to sexually reject you. The first person to point out your most humiliating flaws in public. Janet, the town slut. (Okay, so teachers aren’t technically old schoolmates, but you know what I mean.)

Advert – find your schoolmates and kill themMost of all, of course, you’ll remember ‘Jockstrap’ McGill, the leader of the school’s fantastic first rugby team, who managed to have a successful sporting career despite the fact that he was completely cross-eyed and dumber than a hollowed-out washing machine. I’m sure you recall how he convinced himself that you were giving him the eye whenever you looked at the teacher, and how he demonstrated his appreciation for your attention. Have you ever wondered whether he now has a wife, children, perhaps a nice house in the suburbs, with a nice, soundproofed basement that he’s kitted out as an entertainment centre? Well now you can track him down, and tie him up in that padded easy chair, and gag his mouth using the still-beating heart of his infant progeny, and return those hilarious favours – for a month, maybe more! Because I have finally discovered the real purpose of all these “contact your schoolmates” sites: you find out if they’re still alive, you figure out where they live, and then you fucking kill them. Simple, really. I wonder why no-one’s thought of it before.

So I’m going to be starting up a site of my own soon, and then you’ll really be able to “get in touch” with your old “chums”. Just think of the special offers. For every new member you introduce to the service, you get a free machete! And for every time you use our special Funeral Services Package, you’ll get this amazing Inquisitors Play Set, with fun(TM) bondage gear for the whole family! (Full kit available in salmon and black.) But that’s not all – order now, and you’ll get a Total Guantanamo Theme-Party Party-Pack, with a whole array of groovy house and kitchen hardware plus this Bob Flanagan instructional video – absolutely free! That’s right, if you order now, you’ll get this CIA-approved collection of chainsaws, shovels, rope, stainless steel ball bearings, hatchet, hosepipe, and a full set of kitchen knives.

My first customer, of course, will be myself. By the time I’m done with my former school pals, they – like Stevie Wonder and the penguin in that shitty animated movie – will “wish those days could come back once more”, when their only worry would be what they’d get for Christmas. Because it’s so hard to concentrate when someone’s applying a blowtorch to your balls.

In the meantime, McGill, please hold still, so I can bury the hatchet. In your skull.

[Originally posted on www.africans.co.za on Tuesday, June 03, 2008.]

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