The Dark Passion Of Cheerleader Dildonics:
Hold Still, This Won't Hurt A Bit:
Televise the revolution.
Or, What To Do When The Groaning Starts
Today I shall be mostly watching sport.
You can learn a lot about a society from the way in which it plays with itself. The Romans had their circus, and that was sure as hell one screwed up shitfest. How glorious it is then, that we have surpassed those primitive fuckheads in almost every way imaginable.
Behold, the new football seasons begins. A rough beast, its hour come round at last. Lumbering forth to be borne in all of its multi-angled glory with optional commentary and auto-rewind. Hook me up baby, and let's see where this afterbirth takes us.
At last count there were over five hundred sports channels available in the full subscription package that has been generously provided to me for the purposes of research, under the threat of physical violence if Royce didn't stump up the cash. Believe it or not, there are actually more sports on tv than there is porn. Although I can't quite make up my mind where Beach Volleyball falls within these terms. Particularly since they introduced the all-nude lotion-rub-in extra points rule.
I've seen matches won which didn't even feature the damned volleyball.
But these piss-weak excuses for sports have no place in this column. No sir. We're here to talk about full-contact red-blooded smash-mouth kick-crotch gouge-eyeball manly pursuits. Real sport. The kind that grabs you by the throat and won't let go until you shoot it in the gut multiple times and blow that fraggers intestines all over the wall in patterns that remind you of clouds you saw as a child. Your gaze blank and pitiless. Hoo-rah.
Things have changed over the years, the professional sports athlete now receives more down and dirty combat training than five-year veterans in the marine corp. When I say these people can gut you with a belt-buckle, I'm really not joking. Last years runners-up were comprised of a team that had been almost exclusively recruited from the Phobos Penal Colony For Dangerously Unbalanced Lunatics. And they were damned good.
They would have won too, if they could have demonstrated just an ounce more team spirit, instead of making the decision to lynch the quarterback and half the coaching staff at the end of the third quarter because they were trailing by 10 points and the drugs had run out.
It's hard to get a team all back on the same page after something like that. And they wound up crashing to a famous and blood-soaked defeat.
That was one hell of a match, believe you me. I get an erection just thinking about it.
The countdown is on. First game of the season. We have been promised something bigger and better by the organising body, whose never-ending quest for higher ratings has lead us to the spectacle that is modern sports. 'Sports Entertainment', never have two words rung with more accuracy. Your basic vanilla flavoured sporting event just doesn't cut the mustard when it comes to bangs for the buck. It's a fast-paced world, and everything is locked in a constant never-ending struggle with the average attention span of the average man in the average street.
Ye gods, now there's a terrible thought.
A ghastly vision of a short and sweet world, readily digestible before the spasmodic twitch that changes the channel over to something else, because of the lurking fear at the back of the mind - what if there is something better on that I'm missing! There never is of course. But try telling that to some dipshit moron who has wired up his remote to his anus, so that every twitch changes the channel.
Personally I have better things to be doing with my anus.
"Hey, Spider. Whatcha doing?" The voice comes from somewhere behind me.
"I am watching sports, my filthy assistant." I reply, "And already I have wasted too much cognitive processing power upon you. Be silent! For I cannot miss a thing. My eyes dare not roam from the screen. My attention is focussed. I'm like the merry fucking Buddha of football. Hear my roar and know that you must shut the hell up."
"Ri-ight." She sounds sceptical. "So if I were to take off all my clothes back here, you totally wouldn't turn round to look?"
"Damn you woman! One apple! Your sex is weak! You fucked it up for the rest of us! But no, you cannot tempt me. For I am watching sports! It is The Grail! Your grail pales into insignificance by comparison!"
"What are you on?"
I hear her walking over to stand at the back of my chair. Will this interruption never cease. What does it take to secure some peace and quiet around here? Must I commit random acts of terrible brutality? I knew I should have installed that mine field.
"I am high on life. Now be quiet."
"'Kay. Whatcha watching?"
"The new football season."
"Cool."
"No! It is not cool! Cool is watching a giant Gila Monster attempting to mate with a slow moving school bus. Cool is when people accidentally glue large objects to their heads with perma-bond but are too drunk to remember why. Cool is good drugs bought cheap. This is football. It transcends cool."
"Oh. Did you bet a lot on the result?"
"More than you can possibly imagine. Now. Silence!"
We go over live to the FreeNudeGirls!-McScrotumburger Stadium, sponsored by Nuka-Cola and Durex, who are proud to present to us the first game of the new football season. I swear, if I have to suffer through one more animated short of a can of carcinogenic-beverage dancing a tango with a quite-possibly-carcinogenic condom, I'm not going to be held responsible for my actions.
The commentators frenzied screaming is reaching fever pitch, a curious sort of serried climax. A pattern that I expect will repeat right up until the final whistle blows, at which point most viewers will probably stretch, yawn, roll over, and go to sleep.
Sports as sex. Jesus, what a laboured and lousy analogy. I would be ashamed if it wasn't for one thing.
The Cheerleaders.
Oh yeah, at least half of you know what I'm talking about now. Braying like perverted mongooses as the parade of tanned lean nubile flesh flounces onto the field, into the spotlight.
I know what you're thinking. Is that really the plural of mongoose? Well I've got news for you bub. Go look it up.
Ah. Sport. Nowhere else do you get this. This beautiful union of flesh, of sex, and of violence. It is no accident. The Running Back scores, the crowd erupts, the cheerleaders spread their legs in supplication to his mighty powers. Hardcore style.
What is this though? Something new and surprising. These cheerleaders have strap-on dildos! Could this get any better? The Network loves us, if I am never certain of anything else in my entire life, this much I know. For they have brought us lesbian cheerleaders to celebrate the new football season!
Here is the secret of sports entertainment, gentle reader. The excitement. Bent over. Gasping for more. How our politicians wish they could control this glorious thing.
And know that it is a bitter and jealous hatred they have for it. Oh yes, if our beloved president-elect The Beast had his way, he'd destroy all that is bright and wonderful in the world, whilst simultaneously wreaking his wicked will upon our wives and children, dancing on our graves, and mis-using apostrophes in all manner of unspeakably evil ways. There is no depth to which he will not sink.
They fear what they do not control. They fear the fire in the belly. The competition in the heart. The moment that makes us believe that maybe we really can be great.
They fear us. And they fear our passions.
Now the cheerleaders clutch at the sheer fabric of their t-shirts. The crowd goes wild. The camera zooms. A ripping forth, proud thrusting, jutting nipples. And oh sweet lord in heaven!
The Beasts face upon each of those perfectly formed breasts!
This is a dark passion thrust upon us. I look twice. It is no hallucination. I have no alternative. Explosive projectile vomiting has suddenly become the only sane and viable option available to me.
I knew the filthy assistant could move fast, but I never appreciated just how fast. She's half-way across the room before I've even started with the dry-heaving. How could things get this badly out of control so quickly? My mind spins. On-screen, the cheerleaders have paired off. I don't want to know where else The Beast might have anointed them with His image.
"Off." I manage to gasp the word, and the screen goes suddenly, mercifully blank. But the image I fear shall be forever burnt across my retina. I have been in some bad craziness in my time, but nothing has ever crept up on me like this. My defences down. I was open. Unprepared. "Assistant!"
"Nuh-uh!" She backs off, "He who spewed it, gets to clean it up."
"No. Dammit! This simple vomit is nothing compared to the obscenity being carried out upon the virgin grass of our national playing fields! The Beast is rutting Channon, do you not hear?"
"You mean those cheerleaders? Well, I wasn't really watching. So."
"YOU WEREN'T WATCHING!"
"That was, totally the wrong thing to say, wasn't it."
"HOW COULD YOU NOT HAVE BEEN WATCHING!"
"Spider, they were cheerleaders with dildos. I'm not a guy, I have no penis. You do the math."
"The Beast has chosen to declare war upon that which I hold most dear."
"Cheerleaders?"
"No!"
"It's not dildos is it?"
"For fucks sake no! I mean football!" A terrible calm comes over me, I know what I must do. "Fetch me the telephone. We no longer have time for a subtle campaign of terrorism. This is war. He will rue the day he sought to turn my glorious game into his political meat-grinding machine. The telephone Channon, that I might have my vengeance."
This sick craziness must end. A line drawn in the cluttered detritus of broken promises and congealed mass of spilt semen that represents The Beasts political career, the filth he wallows in can not be allowed to spread. I shall fuck with him, I shall fuck with him bad. I shall not stop fucking with him, not until he is dead and buried. And even then, I might be encouraged to take up necrophilia, so that I can fuck with him some more. I punch the keypad. It rings for a long time before being answered.
"Fitch." I spit the name.
"Jesus! Spider! How in the hell did you get this number?"
"The same way I know where you live, when you go to work, how much milk and cocaine you take in your cereal, what your favourite sexual perversion is, and what colour underwear you have on RIGHT NOW! Now listen to me. Behold my righteous fury you sick freak! This is what I want you to do..."
He listens, I can almost taste his terror. He remembers the last time we met. Out by an off-season training camp, I was doing a story on the use of illegal prototype combat drugs in sports. What a surprise, the army decided it was a better idea to kill civilians rather than soldiers. And oh, how many careers would have been destroyed if I hadn't decided that this particular currency was better invested for some future need.
The upshot of this is I have enough dirt on the man not to ruin his career, after all, who really cares what he did more than six days ago. But rather, a few loose words here and there, and I can ensure that other interested and concerned third parties arrange for him to have an unfortunate accident involving fast-moving high-explosive lead-tipped projectiles. If those third parties were to find out he talked to me about the combat drugs. Oh, what a web we weave.
I have him in tears within three minutes. A family man too. It's tragic, it really is. By the fourth minute he has agreed to my plan.
The second phonecall is almost an exact copy of the first, the only thing that changes is the precise nature of the threat. Which, come to think of it, is a pretty good way of describing day to day life too.
And then the only thing that remains for me to do is to compose a carefully worded message, copied and sent out to all of the major newsfeeds, informing them that Something is going to happen. Something Big. Something at the game. Because Spider fucking says so.
The word flashes out. And soon the first football game of the season is achieving record viewing figures. If it didn't have a buzz before, it sure as hell does now. I can picture The Beast, lounging back in his overstuffed armchair, hookers tongue wrapped about his shaft, the sight of glorious football filling his eyes, rendered unto his own graven image. His aides bringing him news of how many people are being reached by His message. His sponsorship. He'll probably make the hooker put on a Beast mask before screwing her later. And he has no idea. None at all. Of the train-wreck that's about to engulf his fat loathsome carcass.
How I wish I could see his face for real.
Instead I switch the television back on. It's the next best thing.
"Is this gonna be violent?" The assistant asks. She listened in on the calls. I look up at her, her cheeks are flushed with excitement.
"Oh yes." I grin, and steeple my fingers together. "Oh, very much, yes. Biblical almost."
The game is underway. It's fourth down, and inches. Like gladiators, armour glistens, breath steaming on the air. The Beasts leering visage etched upon every helmet. Straining muscle, bunched shoulders, hypermasculinity, and on the side-lines the hardcore fucking. The crowds blood-lust is up, you can hear it. Hell, you can almost taste it, even over the airwaves, as 'Vote Beast' scrolls across the image every ten seconds.
Snap the ball.
And fumble...
And fumble...
Ping-pong stylings.
What unfolds now, before record television audiences, is what I feel quite confident in calling - The Ugliest Game Of Football Ever. Not a pass completed. Not a tackle goes in. The only time any of the players break into a run is to escape the ball as it bounces randomly towards them. It is a thing of such sublime horror, that even I, it's orchestrator, it's midwife, creator and lover, find myself covering my eyes, such is the level of fear and loathing.
Arguably the high point comes when the opposing quarter-backs embrace on the 40 yard line and dance a tango. Suppressed locker-room homosexuality no more, my darlings.
The two coaches, the recipients of my phonecalls, watch from the sidelines, directing this travesty. This obscenity. This Beast-sponsored Mongolian clusterfuck. And between you and me, I think they enjoyed it just a little too much.
One of the referees has a nervous breakdown as two of the running backs stop to play patty-cake.
There is screaming, at first. But then the crowd go deathly silent, as the minutes lengthen. Surely it is some sort of joke, they think. But as those precious minutes tick off the clock, they start to realise that this is just the way things are now, and they're going to stay this way. The anger begins to mount. They start to throw objects onto the pitch. The players cluster together for protection. The tight-end leaps into the arms of his opposing number.
The cheerleaders turn tail and run for it first. Can't blame them. The officials, the coaching staff, the camera crews and the players start to head off after them. The digitised words scroll across the screen 'This presentation is brought to you by The Beast. Vote Beast for a better tomorrow. Vote Beast because he likes lesbians too.'
It can only be a matter of time now. The police, nervously out-numbered, are making frantic calls for back-up. But oh no. Too late.
Riot-time.
How deliciously inevitable.
"Now this, my filthy assistant, this is affirmative action!" I lean back and clap my hands in satisfaction.
"Looks like a riot to me."
"No, look closer. See how their anger is directed towards the sponsorship? See how the Beasts face is being torn asunder? Who do they blame for this travesty we have witnessed today?"
"The Beast." Channon replies with a smile.
"Oh yes indeed. Here is a lesson the Emperors of old learnt. Thou shalt not fuck with the circus. We might not care about pollution or state sponsored murder or the exploitation of the weak and vulnerable, but by fuck we care about our sports. And if anybody screws with them, by gods holy anus, there will be consequences. Big. Fuck-off. Consequences."
Across the city, targeted acts of violence against The Beasts party-in-power are taking place. Signs disfigured, offices firebombed, crowds gather and chant the most vicious of taunts. All those potential voters, who'd have thought so many of them knew how to tie a noose. And such creative artistic skills, these dummies they're burning look just like The Beast. And for once, the filth just stand by on the sidelines, because after all, they enjoy their Monday night football just as much as the next man. I even see some of them smiling. Ah, the secret joy of political activism. If only they could make voting this much fun.
"You're one mean ass bastard Spider." Channon shakes her head as she delivers the compliment. It's the nicest thing anybody has said to me all day. Well, except for the Seal-Eye delivery boy.
Damn, that was one bad scene.
"Indeed I am. The lion-bodied man. And now Channon, all that remains for us to do is plant a rumour that The Smiler was planning to sponsor the hockey, and we can at last rest, for all will be right with the world."
"Cool." Channon grins. "I'm just going to throw stuff from the window, everybody else is doing it. It looks like fun."
Sometimes, my dear readers, you have to be prepared to destroy the things you love. This goes beyond being cruel to be kind. There is nothing kind about burning to the ground and ploughing in salt. Sacrifice. A pyre. A man on a cross. A woman in front of a tank. You've got to show those fuckers that they can't just get their own way all of the time. That contrary to all available evidence, sometimes they can actually push us too far. And why fuck them gently when we can fuck them hard?
And believe you me, it does scare them. The ruling classes. Those that live in such highly ordered lives cannot begin to grasp the chaos that rules ours.
But it's not a game.
Never a game.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go and intimidate my bookie until he agrees to return my money. My name is Spider Jerusalem, and sometimes it really genuinely feels as if I have a ten inch cock.