Month: July 2012

You Never Say What you Mean, And You Keep Your Mouth Shut

‘Schindler’s List is one of those haunting films, it serves as a constant reminder of the worst massacres one group of people have ever forced upon another group of people,’ Jimmy said. ‘There should be no History books for students, just really good films to watch.’

‘Didn’t you flunk History?’

‘Aye.’

‘So what would you know?’

‘I had to learn a list of the name of every soldier who came back from World War 2 as a leg amputee.’

‘Really?’

‘Yip, called it Shinless List.’

I’ll Go To College, Learn Some Big Words And Speak Real Loud

‘Yeah, it was soul destroying,’ I replied knotting another one of the water balloons for a friendly water fight for a five year olds birthday party.

‘Ah the soul,’ Jimmy said nonchalant, ‘If the soul bears the same relation to the body which the shape of a statue bears to its material basis, then we should expect some general features to be common to both; and we should be able to draw some immediate consequences regarding the relationship between soul and body. To begin, some questions about the unity of soul and body, an issue of concern to substance dualists and materialists alike, receive a ready response. Materialists hold that all mental states are also physical states; substance dualists deny this, because they hold that the soul is a subject of mental states which can exist alone, when separated from the body. In a certain way, the questions which give rise to this dispute simply fall by the wayside. If we do not think there is an interesting or important question concerning whether the Hermes-shape and its material basis are one, we should not suppose there is a special or pressing question about whether the soul and body are one. So Aristotle contends: “It is not necessary to ask whether soul and body are one, just as it is not necessary to ask whether the wax and its shape are one, nor generally whether the matter of each thing and that of which it is the matter are one. For even if one and being are spoken of in several ways, what is properly so spoken of is the actuality. Aristotle does not here eschew questions concerning the unity of soul and body as meaningless; rather, he seems, in a deflationary vein, to suggest that they are readily answered or somehow unimportant. If we do not spend time worrying about whether the wax of a candle and its shape are one, then we should not exercise ourselves over the question of whether the soul and body are one. The effect, then, is to fit soul-body relations into a larger hylomorphic pattern of explanation in terms of which questions of unity do not normally arise.

‘Seriously, man, you need to lighten up a little-‘

‘You are intimidated by my intellectual superiority,’ Jimmy replied as he tried to fill another balloon with a mixture of cow shit and lukewarm water he had put in a blender for fifteen minutes.

‘Dude, you have Edna Kenny tattooed on your buttocks.’

‘And now I am a Youtube sensation.’

‘They took it down.’

‘Sure, but not before six million people saw it. You didn’t even let me finish, you monstrously depraved blogger trying to flog your debauched, cantankerously-caterwauling malodorous heathen scribbles to the Amanda Hocking market, I mean take yesterdays post, would you ever see that on Hocking’s blog? No. You need to be nice, talk about puppies, cartoon characters you like, throw in some childhood nostalgia, you want people to go awww, not ewww. Awww people buy shit, ewww people Unfollow shit.

‘Alright.’

‘Just stop being a prick.’

‘It’s hard when you were born with one strapped to you.’

‘It’s hard, JD this is a kids birthday party.’

‘I didn’t mean, just forget it.’

‘I shall continue then,’ Jimmy declared. ‘It should be emphasized, however, that Aristotle does not here decide the question by insisting that the soul and body are identical, or even that they are one in some weaker sense; indeed, this is something he evidently denies. Instead, just as one might well insist that the wax of a candle and its shape are distinct, on the grounds that the wax could easily exist when the particular shape is no more, or, less obviously, that the particular shape could survive the replenishment of its material basis, so one might equally deny that the soul and body are identical. In a fairly direct way, though, the question of whether soul and body are one loses its force when it is allowed that it contains no implications beyond those we establish for any other hylomorphic compound, including houses and other ordinary artefacts.

‘What’s the difference between you and a straw shoved up a ducks arse?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well one of you quacks and the other…..well I can’t remember the rest of it, but your mother’s a whore, Jimmy.’

The Girl With The Iron-On Tattoo

A little bird told me I should sign myself back in to the psychiatric ward today.

And then we were all killed. But before that I have to tell you about the girl with the iron-on tattoo. I was sitting in the waiting area of the tattoo parlour waiting for Jimmy to get Edna Kenny tattooed on his buttocks, so we could record him taking a dump so it looked like there was shit coming out of the Prime Ministers mouth and put it up on Youtube. It has vile viral written all over it. I was checking out all the cool tattoo designs on the walls and the photographs of all the people who had made the wall of fame, when the girl with iron-on tattoo burst in to the tattoo parlour with an AK-47 strapped to her chest. It was big, like something that was really big. For a moment everyone just stood still staring at the girl with the iron-on tattoo.

The man licking his Cornetto stopped mid-lick and stared at the spiky black haired nymph of a girl standing there in a white t-shirt and ripped jeans. The woman who was standing beside her four children, their grandmother and one of her grandchildren made a small little whistling sound which emanated from her throat. The girl with Iron-on tattoo looked up at the woman. Grunted and then squeezed the trigger, within seconds the entire family was reduced to a bullet riddled pile of flesh and bones.

‘Jesus,’ the man eating the Cornetto said. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘Gimme that,’ the girl with iron-on tattoo said, grabbing the Cornetto and turning the pointy side up before ramming it up his arse.

He screamed. She shot him. He stopped screaming. She shot him again, he continued not screaming.

‘A little bird told me that I should book myself back in the psychiatric ward,’ the girl with the iron-on tattoo said.

‘Oh,’ I said reaching my hand slowly under my white cotton t-shirt for my Smith & Wesson. Fuck, today was laundry-day, I must have sent it to the cleaners with my clothes by mistake again. If the laundry lady loses another eye when she hits the spin button, the cops will force me to do my own laundry. What a shit day. First the girl with the iron-on tattoo and now this. It doesn’t rain, it fucking pours.

‘Oh shit, you mean,’ the girl with the iron-on tattoo said as she pulled the trigger.

A hail of bullets struck my chest, neck and arms. I fell to the ground like a sack of shit. I lay on the ground, my blood flowing on to the floor. The girl with the iron-on tattoo walked over, her white Nikes making the puddles of blood ripple. And then I saw it. The tattoo. It was one of those fake iron-on tattoo’s you see the younger kids with sometimes, you stick them on to your arm, iron them on with your hand until they are wrinkle free and as skin tight as is humanely possible, then just add some water and there you have it, a tattoo for the next four days. Despite the unbearable pain, my impeding death and a hairy anus, I couldn’t help but smile and force one blood gargling laugh as my eyes studied the fire breathing dragon inside the middle of a giant red burn mark.

‘You’re not…supposed…to actually…iron them on…you silly cunt.’

‘Who’s laughing now?’ She retorted but I couldn’t answer because I was laughing so hard I coughed up a lung, which tumbled out of one of the three bullet holes in my throat and neck.

The girl with the iron-on tattoo smiled and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit me in the forehead. And then I heard her walking through the tattoo parlour and up the stairs where people were being tattooed. I heard screams, then gunshots, then silence. A voice said; a little bird told me I should sign myself back in the psychiatric ward today. Then one single gunshot. A dull thump as a body hit the floor.

The sun fell drunkenly in through the half open door of the tattoo parlour and across my blood covered face. As I prepared to close my eyes for the final time, the sound of silence was broken by a soft fluttering sound, I watched as a large multicoloured, stunningly beautiful butterfly swooped and then fluttered majestically in to the tattoo parlour, and before it moved out of sight, I saw that it had a tattoo of a eight hundred and forty four pound slut on one of its wings.