Being a short discourse on pop-culture’s ill-defining of stereotypes. Part TWO

It came to my attention shortly after writing the older sibling to this post, that I actually know a little bit more than I claimed.

I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was very wrong of me.
But I do. I know stuff. And apparently, to know stuff is a good thing. The stuff I know is not quite as robust or well-rounded as I may wish it to be, but I am pretty sure that between strategic exaggeration of the fact, and outright lies, I can probably cover myself adequately in that field. You will leave this piece convinced of the veracity of my writing, and you will spread the word, not unlike a gospel from a messiah.
Or a particularly virulent infection.
I’m not fussed – both work a-okay with me. On with the show!


Werewolves
To prove a point I only just made, I’m going to open this section with a warning: I don’t know much about werewolves.
At all.
What I do know is the following:
- They love Chinese food.
- They always have perfect hair.
- They howl around the kitchen door.
- They like London.
- They like dancing with the Queen.
- They drink Pina Colada’s.
As you can see, this is by no means an extensive or thorough analysis. But let me make the following suggestion:
AWOOOO.

Oh yeah. NOW you see. Outside of the above, the only other things we know about werewolves are the clichéd ‘silver is deadly’, ‘full moon makes them transform’, ‘re-runs of “Friends” irritates them’ kinda stuff. The other things I can say, without a doubt, are that werewolves are in fact one of the main ingredients in humans.

If humans are made of werewolves, and soylent green is people, then it’s a fair statement to say that soylent green is werewolves. Which I think you’ll agree makes a tremendous amount of sense out of the current events.


Clowns

Ah. A subject I know a whole lot more about. The modern interpretation of the idea of “clowns” is a gaudily dressed performer who is a possible master of a range of arts including (but not limited to) juggling, acrobatics and macramé. Derived from the character “Arlequino” and the traditional role of a court jester, it’s a clown’s reason for existing to be silly and amuse many.

Unfortunately, modern society hasn’t allowed clowns that opportunity, and due to this shortage in jobs, they are becoming a twisted version of the once permanently happy entertainers. They are becoming twisted and evil. Just look around you! Any examples of clowns you can think of, are a horribly perverted version of the above described performer. Krusty The Klown, Pennywise, The Joker – all are evil, twisted individuals whose lingering trademark is their pasty white complexion, affixed grin and shock of wild hair. All dress in outrageous manners, cackle maniacally, and scare children. I know personally that I have a problem with clowns, and it’s something I’ve had other people also relate to me – clowns are a hideous source of trauma and sleep-loss.

I put it to you, that pop culture has elevated and promoted this traditional prat-falling physical comic from light entertainment, into the coveted role of the Bogeyman.


Things go bump in the night. And now we know that they also go honk, wear red noses, and leave banana peels to be stepped on.

Q: Is There Someone Who Pops Into Your Head At Random Times? Ronald McDonald
Song For The Day: "Mexican Hitler" by the Doug Anthony All Stars

Fortune Favours The Bald

You know things are really beginning to suck when you’re listening to Roxette, and not only can you identify with the lyrics emotional content (odd European accents notwithstanding), but you also feel that they were an awesome band.
There’s an inordinate amount of broken glass in my world at the moment. It’s making life quite a delicate process to conduct. Egg shells are bad, but at least the most they offer in regards to physical sensation is odd discomfort, akin to walking on floorboards of peeling varnish. Walking on broken glass is just nasty - just when you think you’ve cleared an area, more of the stuff pokes it’s nasty transparent way into both your life, and the fleshy pads of your foot.

NOT. AMUSING.

Well, okay. The hopping and whinging routine is slightly amusing in retrospect, but only the first time. Getting three shards and the associated injuries in one day lessens the chance of me catching up with the event in a few years time and chuckling at it all over a beer.

My original post for today was to be the second part in my updating of a number of stereotypes spawned by that ADD-suffering social concept that we call Pop Culture. I guess it has kids, I don’t know. If it does, then I’m assuming they had a rough childhood, one of the parents being scatterbrained and changing it’s career daily, and the other being absent. Maybe due to work, maybe due to not existing, I don’t really know. All I can say is that those kids are messed up.


So that post is now waiting until another day for it to see the e-light of the internet. It’s okay, I still have it written, but the last week got me incensed and I had to write about it instead.

I had my car broken into midweek. Something about my car must have attracted the crème de la crème of thieves with an automotive leaning, but more on that later. I remember reading those urban legends about cars where the owners put a sign on the windshield reading “NO RADIO” only to return later and find a sign inside reading “JUST CHECKING”. Or cars locked up safely in a garage with all kinds of safety measures only to be found the next day facing the opposite direction, with a note describing that it was just to prove a point. I was always hoping that when the criminal element finally got around to my car, I’d come back to find the gearbox put in backwards, or the number plate re-arranged into a humourous slogan, or rebuilt as a 1960’s Volkswagen. Something I could be impressed by, shake my head at and keep as an anecdote for later.

Instead the perp in question is probably someone who wears Velcro-tabbed shoes, has a name they’ve reduced to a single syllable, and fists of solid iron. Returning to my car after a highly entertaining show, my closing comments to my friend had been jokes along the line of not being able to find the car due to the crazy backstreets. For a moment, I actually thought I HAD lost it, but then I saw the sleek grey shape that has this extraordinary ability to not reflect paint. OOO. Running all crazy-like to my vehicle, I flick out my keys and notice something odd. The locks on my car have a small glowing light behind them, hidden by a small panel that keeps the lock covered until a key is used. What this means is that without using a key, you barely can see the light, so imagine my surprise to return and find a veritable beam of light shining out. Yes, the alarms bells started a-ringing. The lock now is a bit chunky, but still works. (I think it’s sheer luck that the assailant couldn’t figure out what they were doing, as the lock was neither sprung nor ruined – it’s integrity and reputation are intact!) So I unlock and jump into the pilot’s/driver’s seat, start the car and zoom off into the night.


Then I noticed the breeze.

Turning in my seat, I saw what appeared to be a rolled up windscreen sun-protector in the back seat. Odd, I thought – I don’t own one. Reaching out, my hand came into contact with cold hard reality. My fingertips soon established themselves as the first officers at the scene of the crime, and politely informed me that the curled-up object was in fact the passenger-side rear window. We cordorned off the area, and awaited CSI, Columbo or Inspector Gadget. None of them arrived, I was crushed.

Which made me not that dissimilar to the window…


All right, I’m all out of anger now. One final thing to say: Lex Luthor, Daddy Warbucks, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, Dr Evil – They all wear suits, they all have no hair, and they all have lots and lots of money. I think my future is now secure.

Q: What do you see when you turn out the light? I can't tell you but I know it's mine.
Song For The Day: "Hit Me Baby One More Time" by Kind of Pluto (they make it sound good)