OricXe - Column for 2/22


Are anti-smoking activists as violent as anti-animal cruelty activists?. I think this guy was part of PETA in his previous life. He came up to me (I was having a smoke break at the time) and asked, "Are you Mr. Wayne Johnson?" I replied that yes, that was me.

He stuck the biggest goddamn knife you've ever seen was into my stomach, and twisted. He smiled, I groaned. He laughed, I felt myself fainting. He ran away while I lay there like a sick poodle.

Where are the people I wondered? Has anyone seen what happened? Does anyone know him and why did he just try to kill me?

Soon enough there was a crowd. Someone said "Shouldn't we call 911?"
"911? What the fuck? This isn't America."
"Ok then, what's the number for the ambulance?"
"Uhmm, I don't know."

I hate kids, I really do. I hate the little buggers. I hate way they make a mess. I hate their thin voices and I hate their head's improportionality. But oh how I loved that little girl. She told everyone to "Shut the fuck up." While she phoned 112. The real emergency number.

Blood flowed out of my wound. Obviously. Much blood flowed. Life was slowly letting me go. More blood flowed. I tried to speak. Couldn't. The pain was not excruciating, but I was afraid of death. Faintly I heard the Nelly Furtado song "Why do all good things come to an end?" playing somewhere in my mind. Death was near.

Luck is a bitch. I've always been lucky. My wife is beautiful. My kids are beautiful, even if I hate them. I have a beautiful home. I have a good job. Some friends. Many acquaintances. Money. Intelligence. Looks. No unpaid debts. A good relationship with my father. In a word I had everything.

Does it matter that I ran a brothel on the side? No I guess it doesn't. Nothing matters unless you want it to. You make life what you want it to be. My father always said that I'd be something great on day. Two hundred brothels accross the country isn't to bad is it?

Not too bad doesn't equal great. Write it down. You'll see.

Dizziness is something you have want when you binge on beer. Where's the fucking doctor? Isn't there a fucking doctor? There's always a fucking doctor. Or at least someone who knows fucking first aid.

Forgive me. My mind's clouded. Sometimes I marvel at how the human race survives. This guy's giving me CPR. It doesn't matter that there a huge bleeding hole in my stomach. I guess it doesn't matter that I'm making weird sickly noises. I guess it doesn't matter that he's a fucking guy!

Homophobia. Fear of gays. I have that. Arachnophobia. I have that also. I also have some of most shark-like teeth in the history of mankind. Many times I wonder where I got the strength. I guess the guy won't be giving strangers CPR anymore with only half a tongue.

The wee-wee of an ambulance cut through the murmurs. I'm tired. I can't see death anymore. The paramedics put me inside the ambulance. I'm tired. I've killed to much. Done too much. Hacked too much. Sawed too much wood.

I guess I'm gonna make it. I'm going to sleep now.


Everyone likes happy endings. I wrote this so I survived. Obviously. Well, since you're so smart may I ask you a question?

Do you believe in ghosts?

Columns by OricXe