by Mitch Frye
by Mitch Frye
"Surely," you say, "that old cad, Mitch, got all of his jolly rocks off
in his last TFJ article. He'll not strike again."
Wrong, motherfucker. Dead wrong.
When I was but a mere babe, the first word my infant maw ever released against the ill-prepared world was
"chocolate." That's right. I threw away such monosyllabic garbage
as "mah" and "pah" for something appropriate for beginning my march down the path of truth. Nay, the yellow-brick road of desire. The freeway of want.
Even as a wee little half-wit, my handicapped brain knew precisely what it was reaching for. It
said, "Fuck love- I want chocolate."
Yet as I have grown older, my vison has darkened and become increasingly negative. No longer do
I know what I want. Instead, I am simply very aware of what I don't want. And one thing I don't want is this:
to let you seniors slip out from under my fire-blackened claws without enduring one last slice.
So here, Government School Cunt of Two-Thousand, I stand on the mountain above you. Already have I been
a prophet bearing the Optional Commandments. Now, we're no
longer chilling Old Testament-style; it's time for us to jump right into the didactic
hallucinations of the endtimes.
Correct, my little black sheep flock... your shepherd has been privy to a few choice visions given
to him by the Powers That Be. One evening, as I sat watching my skeletal herd graze on dead grass,
I heard a mighty crack. My field of sight was cleft in two, and the twin halves keeled over on their sides. I was left only with darkness for
my eyes to gaze upon. And then, a white ladder appeared before me, and the only direction left to go was up. As I climbed those holy rungs,
I saw God's own accounts of the future.
Rung 1:
I looked out onto a field of battle. Nazis fought drunks until both wept to a standstill.
Each party recognized their own time as the endtimes and saw the futility of the fighting.
Holding hands, bottles, and books, they cried pathetically over the past and kept their heads down, shunning
the light.
Rung 2:
I saw the Holy Trinity leaving the very planet that they had created. No more water-to-wine in
the back room. No more organized religion. No more teaching the disciples.
Rung 3:
A trumpet blew. The Trinity took its sixty chosen few (not knowing that they had inadvertantly
chosen a few heathens) off with them into the Great Out-There. The remainder of the world's
population was left to make do with what was left.
Rung 4:
The leftover people faced ten years of hardship. Left in a sad place with a sadly increasing population
of increasingly disgraceful stupidity, they suffered.
Rung 5:
The leftover people faced ten years of happiness (for no other reason than blatant ignorance).
Rung 6:
The Anti-Christ revealed himself. No one was surprised to find out who it was, as it really couldn't have been anyone else. Choosing an army
of like-minded demons, he seized a perfectly happy building and made it into an extra-large evil fortress.
Rung 7:
Life continued to suck forever and ever thereafter.
When my normal sight returned, I rushed to the nearest FCA meeting and made sure everything would
be published in the next edition of Webster's Bible.
Children, children, children... these are dark times that you live in, but the times they are
a-ending. My advice? Let God into your tightest orifice and hold on. Well, that's what
terminally ill patients do, and I suppose that graduation is as close to dying as you're gonna
get without getting an MTV special or tacky black Goth clothes. Wait, you'll get the tacky black clothes part via the robes.
So, I guess that you'll be about half dead. You've got one foot in the grave, you fuckers, and
it won't be long until that other one gets tired. Enjoy what's left of your life.
I'm going to leave you with a quote from a Neutral Milk Hotel song:
"And one day, we will die
And our ashes will fly
From the aeroplane over the sea.
But for now, we are young;
Let us play in the sun
And count every beautiful thing we can see."