Comedies are joyous a
constant delight
Dramas
annoy us and ruin our night
“Keep
It Gay”
The
Producers
I am writing this
particular regurgitation aboard an A-320 west bound to sunny LA no small
achievement considering the Olympian misahgas I had to endure just to get to
the unenviable position of enjoying a few complimentary peanuts. The day
started ominously. I awoke at 6:30 leaned over to rouse my beloved by gently
stroking her brow with sand paper. By informing her that I would indeed be
requiring her services this morning this saint otherwise known as the dread
Mrs. Schneider responded by emitting an imperious “harrumph” accompanied by a
barely erect middle finger. That the service in question was only for cadging a
ride to the airport and not something that required a gritting of teeth didn’t
seem to matter to the mother of my children. And then it hit me. A sudden
illumination, a satori had revealed itself and it was then that I knew for the
very first time what the essence of being married to a woman actually meant.
They are the only creatures in the world that can suck a cock and yell at you
at the same time. Your wife’s teething on your Johnson and the next thing you
know she’s reaming you about some drawer handle you promised to put back on!
Didn’t anybody ever tell her that it’s not polite to talk with your mouth full!
That’s all I have to say. End of story. Up to the bar boys, I’m buyin’.
Getting to the airport on
time is in direct proportion to the indifference accorded to you by your loved
ones. Since I didn’t have to waste any time with protracted goodbyes I was
early. My kids acknowledge me like I’m the guy in high school you don’t
personally know, but you have seen every day for years. You pass each other in
the hall and give a cursory nod recognizing each other’s existence but without
any emotional investment.
We arrive at the terminal. And because I am the world’s
greatest convenience man who once paid $10 for a Slim Jim I looked for the
nearest skycap. Who designs uniforms for skycaps I wondered? Are there
designers doing skycap couture somewhere? A lot of epaulets and brocade. These
cats looked more like doormen in Emerald City.
The first hurdle is getting
through security with your pride and anus intact. After checking my bags it
turned out I was selected for special treatment based on my name Jeff
Schneider. Three drones accompanied me to a security station and proceeded to
rifle through my bags like they were auditioning for a German fisting film.
After not finding anthrax, explosives or even a cheap glue on goatee I did
receive some slack from the TSA agent after he finished perusing my definitive
collection of vintage Swanks. He gave me the knowing smirk of a man who
appreciates a nice pair then zippered up my overnighter. Next, I was summoned
to another chair and commanded to remove my boots by a shrieking harridan with
the sensitivity training of a crack whore. I opened with the Aristocrat joke
and watched her officiousness melt away as I got to the part about the daughter
blowing the dog. Not only did I receive clearance from this woman, the
postprandial lap dance wasn’t bad either.
When you write a blog that
has to do with immortality the main thing to consider is that it just doesn’t
matter. Immortality is in the eye of the beholder. You’re immortality project
is another man’s dick joke if you get my drift. You know that you can just as
easily wipe your ass with the newsprint this tripe is written on or wrap fish
in it. Be that as it may I created it. It’s my immortality project you just
happen to be living in it at the moment. And when I say that it really doesn’t
matter, what exactly do I mean? If nothing matters, what’s the point? The point
is we are all looking for something to hang our hats on, a coat tree that
doesn’t move every time you look for it.
The nadir of this culture
was born witness by a man who is at home in the worlds of both academia and
ultimate fighting. He is a one-man think tank who traffics in low behavior and
high and can whistle a symphony while ripping a chimp. He is at ease in the
halls of academia or with the subtleties of cockfighting. He can hambone with
the local jug band and receive the rapture while listening to Mahler. In
essence he is a renaissance man of the highest order and it would behoove you
to get the fuck out of the way lest you find yourself scuttling across the floor
flailing away at your bouncing, sad existence. He can’t be fooled as his radar
is tuned to the highest frequencies of bombast. He is Le Provocateur!
So know you got me. I am Le
Provocateur. I can’t fly, become invisible or burst into flames, but I can bust
your balls. My talent is annoying people in an existential way. Le
Provocateur’s mission is to be a caraway seed under the bridge of indifference,
to put a dent into the iron mask of apathy. Every day Le Provocateur walks the
streets prodding and provoking people to take a good look at themselves, to
stare into a mirror and embrace the pustules and impostumes that make living
such a sublime farce. Le Provocateur spends his days wheedling and cajoling the
denizens to reflect and observe what is under the surface of things. Basically
I am a prick, an entertaining one I hope, but the one good thing is…there is
never a cover!
Le Provocateur’s 10
Commandments
1. Always question authority.
2. Never believe what the shaman in power
has to say.
3. Remember the winking Jesus
4. Always strive for the ultimate reason
to be
5. Black and white make gray
6. Man is the only one responsible for his
actions
7. It is only about becoming
8. Have a immortality project you are
proud of
9. There is only one lie that is vital
10. When things get tough the tough go
commercial.
That’s the problem with the
world, not enough goddamn provocateurs to rattle the cages of the Marvs out
there. Where are the muckrakers who used to call the captains and leaders of
industry and the world out on the carpet? They certainly aren’t anywhere to be
found. The Internet has created a glut of half-baked weirdoes each straining at
the tit of recognition. All great modern thinking has been thrown into this
morass where nothing escapes. It is a black hole that will absorb and crush
anything near its orbit rendering all insignificant. 30 years ago great writers
and thinkers had influence. 100 years ago William James would pack them in for
lectures on pragmatism. Now the outrage cannot be heard as the podcasts and
blogs of every culpepper jam the pathways to enlightenment like logs of fecal
matter. We are downing in the murk and don’t know it. This world needs
instigators, prodders and pokers who feel the driving need to give the world a
hot foot.
So remember you little fetzelfutzes, if a
man comes up to you with a faux French accent and a drawn on mustache curled at
the ends and insists that the tattoo or piercing you're wearing is just another
form of conformity don’t be alarmed. For this is a man of great insight. What
he wants you to know is that the only real deal is the topographical make up of
your inner life. What have you got to say about that? He is just a man with your
best interest at heart, Mademoiselle and Monsieur. He is… Le Provocateur.
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