Graveyard Studios: A World of Hate
By Kevin N. Whiting
August 1, 2002The time is 9:52 in the am. I’ve just driven my girlfriend to work. In the space of 30 minutes and 15 miles on a normal Friday morning I have come to some understanding of how much I hate this world.
I’m not talking about a bad day or just...casual hate. No, no, no, I’m not talking about hating the world in principle or just the world and not it’ s inhabitants. Nope, I don’t just hate a few people who get on my nerves - I hate EVERY FUCKER. Pure, primordial hatred. They’re all dicks to me. My new collective name for society is ‘The Corpses’.
I watch in horror as these ‘people’ drift along in their metal coffins on the roads, shop for non-significant items in the streets. Not one of them has any idea of the bigger picture or what any of it is all about. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t discovered the secret to life but I KNOW it’s not this; crawling along aimlessly with your own, and others, puke dribbling down the front of your nice little outfit. Some of them get REAL lucky, they actually obtain some worth in the world...they get to drive a nice car and have a good wife...well whoopey-fuckin’-doo. As I said to my girlfriend in the car "Look, that corpse is real precious, he’s got a fucking corvette - he must be an IMPORTANT dead person".
My paranoia is no longer merely paranoia. It’s founded fact. Every institution is out to get me and make love to my anal hole as hard as it can. In one week I have, genuinely, lost count of the times I’ve been fucked over; this is not just a bad week to me, I do actually hate the fucking world. I can’t even say that the world is a better place for being adorned with artists and free-n-easy souls because they too are all insanely tedious and uninspiring.
I was nearly home this morning when, coming up to some traffic lights, I was hit by the notion that life and the world is one big movie studio. Not like ‘Truman’ more like a monstrous graveyard, full of stinking, writhing corpses. As my Mother says when she sees someone a tad worse for wear "They’re dead but they wont lie down" - they might as well lie down for all the fucking good they’re doing here. The day is one that’s trying to break through. It’s slightly hazy and overcast and as I slowed for the traffic lights, doing around 95mph or so, I noticed a gap in the clouds that allowed an unnatural ray of light to beam down upon me. It looked so unnatural that I thought it was a film studio light shining down on me. Shining down into the Graveyard Studios.
More than any other corpse, I despise the one that thinks it is important - that it holds some grasp over the world. These are usually the corpses that hold menial jobs like bank clerics and desk jobs. I hear them every day when I go to knock back my 5 pints of lager for lunch. They speak in a language that I don’t understand but the old words about being scared of what you don’t understand don’t apply here. I don’t understand it through choice - I choose not to subject myself with that evil and malingering garbage. It always amazes me how a person can go so horribly wrong that they can actually allow themselves to handle this. They sit next to me in their ‘business lunches’ and talk about contracts and staff and, the worst term in history, Customer Care. They LOVE to adorn themselves with these terms because they don’t have the capacity to strive to a better level. They like being dead.
I have, many times, leaned over and asked them to ‘Please stop boring me’ and they look on with disgust on their raggedy faces. One day, I swear, I will lean over to a ‘business lunch’ in full swing and look to the fattest, senior corpse and stab a huge great fucking fork through his hand and nail it to the table. "Get a fucking grip on yourself man, look at you", but they never wake up, it’s impossible to resurrect a corpse once they have switched off. And that’s exactly what they do, they switch the life support machine off.
Last week I rang my car insurance company because they had fucked up big style on my policy. I had to endure corpse after corpse after corpse until the final corpse broke down and, like a statue made from ash, crumbled in my hands. She whimpered "I don’t want to speak to you Mr. Whiting", I couldn’t help myself, "What the FFFUUUCCCCCKKKK do you mean you ‘don’t want to speak to me’? I’m a paying fucking customer, bitch. You have screwed something up that I pay a LOT of pennies for and now you ‘DON’T WANT TO TALK TO ME’? People like you should be damn well executed for your own security". I think she secretly liked that. She could go home and tell her little husband what ‘ happened at the office today’.
"Hey guess what (Insert bland name)? A real person rang the office today. Being a corpse, as you know from jumping my dead bones for twelve years, I didn’t know how to handle it and so I followed the rules in the corpses handbook about dealing with ‘The Rare Threat of a REAL, LIVING Human Being’. I put on my scared deer look and told him ‘I don’t want to speak to you Mr. Whiting’, that’ll teach him, don’t you think?"
It’ll be the highlight of her career. She’ll tell it for the rest of her natural death. They’ll all sit around a graveyard fire, not too close though, and tell ‘Living stories’. They’ll all have the BeJesus spooked out of them and act uneasy in case they might see a ‘Living’ during the night. I also hate Fred Astaire. He’s doing that shit he did all over my TV - what the fuck IS it anyway, flailing your limbs about to shitty music?
So, to cap it all off, as you have probably guessed, I don’t particularly like the world I live in. I adore it when I hear people’s philosophy on life ‘ Live life to the max, you never know what’s around the next corner’ hmm...and how did you get to that infinite wisdom? By sitting in your fucking office, cowering behind a desk, not knowing what’s around the corner because all you do is stand there, scared shitless of what’s around that ‘ Corner’ you’re always talking about?
I’m not a bad person - I just don’t like 99 percent of life due to it’s nature. If you’ve read this and thought ‘what a cock’ or some such other aphorism then good, at least I got you using that mind of yours for something other than changing diapers and washing the car. Now, you must excuse me, I must go and ‘Live life to the max’. My condolences.