War/Peace. Matthew Vandenberg

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СКАЧАТЬ show up any minute. Coz I'm gonna assume they're old, and probably were even old in the 60's so free love to them is nothing but hedonism, and these cunts have a hatred for hedonists, yeah?'

      I crouch on the stage. Her arm's a second from mine, a quarter second, and then time chokes as her fingers brush against my skin. She has shades on but this is all. Under the bright yellow light her body looks gold, and her arm is the smoothest, longest gold nugget I have ever touched. A heavy fringe hangs over one eye shade, a mat of fur which glistens, shimmers, shines. She smiles as she runs her finger from my arm to my waist, and as a liquid inside me runs, and I smile and place a finger to her lips to silence her, and keep her still: the subject of a painting now, the both of us, two models on display. -

      'Stay still. This'll kill the mood, but I'm here to do a comedy routine and that's what I'mma do. Besides, it's only ten. So we're a new generation, yeah? We can be original sometimes but, at other times, we can learn from past generations, act as they did. But it's our choice, not theirs, not our parents', not our fuckin' idols, but ours. We do what the fuck we want, and we learn from our mistakes. Unless your parents were – like – ten when you were born then they're a part of another generation, went to school with a bunch of kids who thought differently, watched different television shows, listened to different music. Sure . . . there was that ten-year-old Chinese chick who gave birth recently, but generally if a chick has a large waist at ten it's coz she's fat.' - I pause. A few people gasp. - 'Oh, c'mon. It's best they find out when they're ten, right? Then they can decrease food intake just a little over a longer period of time in order to shed the kilos. Do the math people. If speed by time is equal to distance and you wanna go the distance without running then you'll need plenty of time, yeah? That's solely for health reasons, of course. I think the idea that weight is inversely proportional to beauty is a complete myth, as anyone with any sense or sexual experience knows. I've been with plenty of fat chicks who are beautiful, and if you haven't then I suggest you give it a shot. It's the face that matters. Got a fucked up face then it don't matter how skinny you are. Of course, I'm a hooker so I sleep with whoever pays me anyway. But I know what turns me on . . . Like everyone here tonight. Damn, you chicks are fine.'

      The crowd cheers, and a few people clap.

      'So, we got all night. All night. And time is everything, really. Underappreciated when you think about it. Practically anything is possible with time. Anything. That's why old people get so fuckin' pissed. They start to realize that time is money, wealth, fame, whatever, just when it's starting to run out for them. And they'll say this to you, and it's pretty good advice – just not when they're in front of you with fuckin' walkin' frames at Central station when you're rushing to catch a train. Anyway: it makes perfect sense when someone tells you that starting young with something is a good idea. Fine, cool. Until the person tells you exactly what to do, says that if you do this or that then you'll be a lot better off than he is by the time you reach his age. Um . . . no, you fuckin' twat! I'd be exactly like you by the time I'm your age because what you told me to do is get a 9 to 5, do my taxes, save up heaps of money, buy a fuckin' house, buy a fuckin' car, be a fuckin' consumer, and all so that when I'm 55 I can ride any CityRail train for as long as I want for just $2.50 a day. Fuck that! Go to Manhattan and you can ride the subway up and down the stretch as long as you like, all through the night. You know who do that? The homeless. So that's it? We work all our lives so that we can become respectable homeless people? That's basically it, right? When we're old we wanna take these fuckin' cruises and shit, these trips around the world. We want complete freedom, no ties, relaxation. Um . . . we want no home duh! And I ain't sayin' this is a bad thing, perhaps it's what we all want. I'm just saying that most old people in Capitalist countries are fuckin' stupid. They can be happy, we can all be happy, if we want to be, any time, anywhere. Instead they mope around, complaining just like I am now. But I'm a fuckin' comedian and I enjoy complaining so that's cool.

      'But you know what old people complain about most? Change. Ironic considering they all want to win the fuckin' lotto, or win at the stupid pokies. Suddenly their lives will be changed, totally. Then they'll probably be cryin', and they'll chuck all the money into the pokies anyway coz they don't know what the fuck they want. Do this – right – go to the Gosford Leagues, or the Leagues in your area, and sit next to an old person at the machines. Just put in a single dollar and play one cent games, but every now and then look at the old person, a cheeky grin on your face. But don't be obvious. Chances are he or she will be putting in dollar after dollar as though placing stupid old people pills into his or her mouth, and the person will always be angry. “Why isn't it paying out?” The person will start grunting, huffing, like a fuckin' rat who's pressin' the leaver in a Skinner Box and not getting any food pellets. Funny thing is, this dickhead thinks he or she is smart. This is the person who will tell you he or she has life experiences which you don't have yet, that he or she is older and thus wiser. Duh! - That fuckin' statement in itself is testament to your fuckin' idiocy. Age is directly proportional to mental capacity, is it? Ok, who's smarter? I walk into Gosford Leagues: we got people on the dance floor, or sitting at tables laughing, drinking, joking, thinking up intelligent new pick-up lines, maybe even snorting a few to alter mental states, and having a good time like scientists busy in the lab on the verge of a breakthrough and . . . oh . . . walk into the pokies room and we got people pressing the fuckin same button, again and again, like Homer's little bird, chucking their cash into brightly colored drains which make funny noises, grunting like cavemen, bashing fists against these inanimate objects, until their fingers bleed, crying, wheezing, their club cards attached to their wrists with string so they don't lose them, free coffee by the bar so they can get their own stupid caffeine fix and stay awake to stare at fuckin' images of apples, cherries, and oranges which they can't even touch or eat, all through the fuckin' night. At least 'til closing time. So, rats in a cage, or teenagers? Rats in a cage or teenagers? 9 to 5 bullshit all your life so that you can become a rat too, or rebellion and freedom? You tell me.

      'But I guess some of them actually like spending time in the club. It's peaceful – aside from the whine of the machines -, and they're with their mates. Take 'em out of this environment and they get madder, angrier. So I'm at Central Station the other day, Greg's there on a seat by the newsagency, reading The Sydney Morning Herald, an eyebrow raised as he listens to Alan Jones or his contemporary on the radio, chattin' to Bob and he's like: “They're doing it again, these juvenile brats. Dogs, bloody animals, that's what they are. Bloody, stinkin' delinquents! Terrible, atrocious, this generation . . .” So I hear this and I'm thinking: “Maybe he's exaggerating a little . Maybe. But I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe a group of youth were slamming someone's head into the gutter like sissy skinheads, or distributing heroin to little kids. It's wrong for him to generalize of course, and assume the entire generation is like this, but I do the same when it comes to old folk so, whatever.” But then he continues: “These boys, teenagers, no bloody respect for their elders, they walk into the men's room and one of them . . . a ripe brat . . . he has a balloon in his hand. A large balloon. Know what he does? He pops it.' And at this point I'm thinking: “Ohhh, balloon full of heroin, ay? Yeah. Pretty bad.” But the guy stops talking. Then it dawns on me: that was the offense, the balloon popping. Then I look down at the shriveled up balloon in my hand and up at the two men glaring at me, and wonder why the hell I had to walk into this specific newsagent after leaving the rest room. Shit!'

      A few people chuckle.

      'So I'm fleeing the scene, and I hear Greg telling the newsagent he wants a scratchie, and tellin' his mate that he feels lucky, wants to make an easy 50 grand, which you are – of course – allowed to do when you're old but not if you haven't worked a million fuckin' hours in an office first. So he wants a scratchie or – more specifically – 50 grand. It's been his life long dream to make 50, which makes me wonder why the fuck he didn't just work one odd year and then call it quits, so that he could go home, sit on his arse, and get up only to chase innocent flies around the house or argue with his wife over whether the windows are a little more than ajar because intruders may find a way in if they are. But anyway, he wants the 50, but for what? He hates change. What the fuck will he do with the 50? Give it to the homeless perhaps? Or sponsor a child? Great ideas but no: the prick will probably just upgrade his mode of transport. Now, СКАЧАТЬ