R J Adams -Musings And Meanderings
There’s a new film being released in the UK.[1] It will soon be distributed throughout the rest of the world.
Except, that is, in the United States of America.
Why not in America?
Because 39% 61% of Americans – the most controlling 61%, that is – are utter morons who belong in the Dark Ages.
Find out more HERE.
Filed under: Religion – the biggest con-trick in America
It was probably the sign – at the front, on the inside of the bus – that started me thinking about it. Even at six years of age I couldn’t comprehend why it was needed. Surely, no-one would do such a thing, would they?
Not that I ever did see anyone do it on a bus. Perhaps it was the stiff penalty that deterred people. After all, the notice was right on the front bulkhead, upstairs and down, in big red letters so everyone could see:
I rode the bus a lot during my childhood. Later, when I was a young man, I drove those same buses for a living. Yet, in all that time, I never saw anyone spit inside a bus.
In Britain, or at least my part of it, the very act of spitting was considered low and disgusting. It was the sort of thing old men did, late at night when they fell down the pub steps at closing time and staggered off into the darkness, ejaculating their sputum into the gutters as they went.
It was rare to see anyone spit in daylight. There were notices up in some parts of the city, and local by-laws made it illegal to spit in public. I remember entering Liverpool Central train station on my way home from work one afternoon, when I was about seventeen, and a dirty old tramp coming in my direction put up his hand and blasted the contents of his nose right onto the pavement in front of me. I stared in horror at the green, gooey, mess and almost vomited. It put me right off my dinner.
In general, though, very few Europeans practice this antisocial habit. Apart from the occasional group of low-life, teenage, males desperate to express their manhood, or drunken old men of the aforementioned status, most Europeans choose to save the expulsion of saliva for the privacy of their bathroom washbasin, while cleaning their teeth.
Among the many severe culture shocks I’ve experienced since landing on the North American continent, the prevalence of spitting in public, freely and without apparent shame, is surely one of the most vile. Whether this is a nationwide phenomena, or merely confined to the less sophisticated and culturally bereft Heartlands, is debatable. Nevertheless, it’s impossible to be out and about more than a few hours without suffering the image of individuals “gollying” in the street.
While the most common culprit is a young male, the habit is not restricted to any one class. Students, businessmen, and women, from all walks of life are at it.
The question that arises from all this is: why do they do it? Young men erroneously consider it a display of macho imagery. In fact, the opposite is true. If their saliva is so tainted they daren’t allow it in their intestines, then they must have very weak stomachs, and weak stomached males aren’t in the least macho.
Of course, projecting a macho image is way more important to the American male than his European counterpart. Just look at this nation’s obsession with guns.
The art of public sputum ejaculation is not, however, confined to the male of the species. Not on this continent, at least. Only today I was driving my school bus in a line of traffic and stopped at a red light. The car in front was a convertible with the roof down. Even from the back it was obvious the driver was a most attractive young lady. Blonde hair flowed over shapely shoulders; the dress was close-fitting and expensive. A rear view mirror framed subtly appealing blue eyes beneath exquisite lashes.
Just as any red-blooded male, my eyes were riveted to this vision of sensual delight as she turned her face to the car’s door, displaying a delightful profile. The light turned green. In an act of experienced accomplishment and without moving her head, a stream of translucent saliva sprayed forth from her lips, jetting a full two feet into the air before finally hitting the ground and splattering across the roadway.
The car turned right.
I swallowed the bile rising to my throat, and drove straight on.
Filed under: Disgusting habits
War is sickening. I’m not sure at what point in my life I came to that conclusion, but it was probably around the time I realized that blowing someone else to bits was really no different from someone else blowing me to bits, and I didn’t fancy that one little bit.
War is all about bits. Invariably, the winner is whoever manages to spread the most bits of their opponents over the biggest area. There used to be rules governing how the bits were created, and how to avoid becoming bits by something called ‘honorable surrender’. But that’s all gone now.
Now, how you dissect your opponent into bits is left entirely to your discretion. Anything goes, including the last vestiges of that old-fashioned idea known as ‘honor’.
Take the case of Stephen Farrell.[1] Stephen’s a British journalist working for the New York Times. He regularly wanders into war zones with “PRESS” plastered all over his flak jacket, and then expresses surprise when he’s shot at or kidnapped.
Stephen hasn’t yet realized that bits of a journalist scattered over the battlefield count in the score just as highly as bits of anyone else. Consequently, he gets shot at a lot, and kidnapped frequently.
The first time he was kidnapped was in Fallujah, Iraq. The last time was in Kunduz, Afghanistan, just a few days ago.
Stephen set off with an Afghan journalist/interpreter to ‘investigate’ the recent US strike on two fuel tankers captured by the Taliban. The airstrike killed around ninety villagers, many of them children. Their bits don’t count as they were on the wrong side.
True to type, Stephen was kidnapped by the Taliban, along with his Afghan interpreter. The Taliban are not given to beheading western journalists too often, but they do have an affinity for separating Afghan heads from Afghan bodies, so with hindsight Stephen’s actions could be considered, at best, a trifle selfish.
As it transpired, Sultan Munadi, for that was the Afghan interpreter’s name, need not have concerned himself with losing his head, for instead he was cut down by a hail of British bullets as the UK equivalent of the Seventh Calvary arrived to rescue Stephen.
The operation was hailed a great success. Only one British soldier, the Afghan interpreter, and two innocent Afghan villagers died, and Stephen Farrell was returned safely to the bosom of the New York Times with enough stories to keep its front page blooming for at least a couple of days.
However, count the bits and they tell a different story.
So far as can be ascertained, no Taliban died in the attack. All the bits belonged to four bodies – one British and three Afghan.
Surely, that’s a clear victory for the Taliban?
But, like I said earlier, there’s no rules anymore.
And I doubt Stephen Farrell will be counting the bits as he writes his, no doubt, award-winning copy for the New York Times today.
[1] “Four die in Afghan rescue mission” BBC, September 9th 2009
Filed under: Bits and pieces