Rotten Bastards

It's a blog. It's a way of life. It's many things in between.

Thursday, 22 February 2007

This isn't. This is.

How to start this.
How about you're asleep. Or trying to sleep. You're in bed. And you think I didn't lock the front door. You remember there was a man on the train. And you're pretty sure he overheard you talking to your friend about your new computer. And now you're sure he followed you home. And he's standing there outside your unlocked door. And he's breaking in. And he's stealing the computer that your mum worked so hard to save for. And he's killing your family. But not you. You'll be alive to know it's all your fault.
You're out of bed now. Not because you're brave. But because you've got to. You can almost see him through the glass door. You reach for the lock. And it's locked. You try it again. It's locked. Again. Locked. Again. Locked.
Back in bed and you think was it really locked? Did I really check? Should I check again? I'll check again.
And there's no sleep for you tonight.
The sun will come up and you'll doze a little because no one broke in and no one breaks into a house in the sunlight.
You'll get ready for school and you'll think did I wash my hands after I gave the cat it's food? And you'll think that if you didn't and you touch something that someone will then put in their mouth you've killed them. They'll die and it's your fault.
So you wash your hands. You wash. Your hands. You wash. And wash. And wash.
And when you walk out the door you think did I wash them well enough? And you will be late but you go back in and you wash them again. And again. And again.
And you'll never be sure that you've really washed them enough. So you just don't touch anything.
And you get to school and you think did I leave the electric blanket on? And you're sure you did and the house is burning down right now. And the teachers tell you to calm down but they don't understand that you're burning your families house down. So you leave and you walk the half an hour home to find. No smoke. There's no smoke. The blanket is off. You even unplugged it from the wall before you left.
So you grab an orange from the fridge and head back to school. You check you locked the door as you leave and repeat the word locked locked locked locked as you walk so you remember and don't have to walk back to check again.
I locked the door. I locked the door. I locked the door. And you try to remember the feeling of the door pulling shut. I locked the door. I locked the door. I locked the door. I didn't close the fridge. I'm sure I didn't close the fridge.
The fridge door is open. And it's working overtime to keep things cold. And the engine is heating up. And it catches fire. And you're burning the house down again.
And you hate yourself. But you turn around. And you walk back home and unlock the door that you locked. And there's no smoke and the fridge door is closed. You push on it. It's closed. It was closed. It was always closed.

Wednesday, 21 February 2007

Paranoia is Orange

I would have been 19 years old.
It would have been about 1:30am in winter.
I would have been driving home alone.
I would have been driving home alone completely stoned out of my tree.

And there, right there 50 metres out in front of me... shining a torch and signalling for me to pull over was a fucking cop.
His orange reflective pig-vest seared itself into my retinas and then a microsecond later into the deepest chasms of my grey matter.

40 metres... FUCK !

30 metres, there's nowhere to exit, it's right out front of my old high school. Fuck don't say high, act straight, they can't test you for this shit just act fucking straight god damn it. We can get away with this.

20 metres, fuck me it's just a street sign... there is no cop. Fucking paranoia. Fucking weed.
Fucking stoned, got about 10 kilometres to get home, I can do this.

Sunday, 11 February 2007

Paranoia: not such a bad thing

(The following piece is by Christopher K. Reprinted with permission. Check him out at -

And then sometimes you're not paranoid enough.

Midnight, downtown Bogota, Colombia, walking home alone, a little sick, a little drunk, a lot tired. Hands in pockets, slouched, looking like prey.

The kid walks up behind me on the left. Hey, hey, hey, he says. I ignore him for awhile, then when I look his way, he asks for the time. Looks like a regular college kid, decently dressed, carrying a satchel - I pick up something weird off him, but I'm too fucked to care.

Midnight, I tell him.

How far are you walking, he says?

Up there, I say. Fuck off. Maybe he's just too scared to walk alone. Not my problem. I look away, across the street, away from him, and that's when he lunges for me.

He grabs me from the side, arm tight around the waist, and mumbles something about having a knife. He's hugging me close.

I'm so dumb, my heart rate doesn't even increase. No adrenaline shot. Shit. I'm just sort of irritated, and only mildly.

Are you trying to rob me or rape me, I ask, not entirely facetiously.

The kid keeps staring straight ahead, bugeyed for the cops. I keep walking, slouching, hands in pockets. I know what a real professional mugging is, and this ain't it. Fucking amateur, wasting my time.

He doesn't say anything.

Look, I say, the best thing that can happen here is, you fuck off and go away. Nice try.

I hear footsteps coming up fast from behind. Great, I actually think, maybe someone to come pull this jerk off me. Instead I feel a hand in my outside coat pocket, on the right.

Well, fuck me. Kid's got a partner.

Nothing in my outside pocket but some plastic wrappers. Makes noise if someone tries to get in it. Convenient. I look back and it's a pudgy black guy.

I keep walking and weigh the situation. The kid on the left is freaked out and ready to bolt, but the new guy on the right looks more confident. He probably won't fuck off so easily. Fine. I pull my left hand out of my pocket and raise it up and look to the right. Can I catch this guy in the throat? Grab for an ear?

Reflexes too slow. As soon as I pull out my left hand, there's a bump on my thigh and the kid lets go. Fucked off like I expected, and I'm turning my attention to the guy on the right.

But the guy on the right has stopped a few steps behind me. Wait a minute. He's looking into traffic, waiting for his opportunity to bolt across the street.

Wait. I stop and look to the left. The kid's gone. I turn all the way around, and the kid's already made it across the street and is running for a dark alley. I'm confused. This is the worst mugging ever. The black guy sees his break and runs, and I'm standing there thinking, what the fuck?

And then I feel my pocket. My old shitty cell phone is gone. My pants are baggy with big open pockets. That was the bump on my thigh. The cell phone is hardly a loss, but shame about the numbers I had stored and never wrote down.

I consider chasing them, but what the hell, I wanted a new cell phone anyway, and it was my own fault for being such a sucker in the first place. Let 'em have it.

Paranoia: not such a bad thing to keep around, alone, downtown, late at night.

Saturday, 10 February 2007

You ever get that feeling that you're being watched?

You ever get that feeling that you're being watched?

You ever sit around and worry about how the government is out to steal your uterus and impregnate you cats?

You ever create a false positive scenario in your mind based on faulty assumptions and hearsay?

Do you ever lie in bed. Alone. In an empty house. In the stillness... and wonder.

What was that noise? Was that a footfall on the downstairs floorboards? Is there someone in here? Or some... thing?

Do you ever find yourself with your cock in your hand in a house full of prying eyes and and open ears. Wondering. Will they catch me? Can I finish in time? Do you find yourself suddenly able to hear every sound in the vicinity with a clarity you would never normally experience? The kinda of thing that would put Superman to shame.

Then you, my friend, may be paranoid. Or you could be just another human being with an over-active imagination.

Thursday, 8 February 2007

paranoia is....

watching someone's face turn into an explosion of glass and blood as his partner hits the ground face sprouting boots, blood and screams before you stumble out into a pissdrenched stinking alleyway hoping to god you don't find one of the crackheads who have taken residence in the hole in the derelict pizza place or one of the drunks who come to piss before the kebabhouse.
it's too cold, too late and you're too high. you just want to get home.

Thursday, 1 February 2007

i'm me. not you, but me.

sometimes in a crowd i feel like the people around are talking about me. i guess i'm self-absorbed in that way. like my life and mere existence is a reason for people to gossip. i ain't no paris hilton and i don't have no damn disease.

isn't it egotistical to be paranoid? thinking that someone or something is after you? much like writing something that only a few people are going to see, yet you think your voice makes a difference.

let's face it, even big brother isn't interested in my boring life. the only 1984 involved in my life is that shitty Van Halen album.

"paranoia pays for your freedom" - casey chaos