So I am driving into work yesterday and I am listening to the radio playing Christmas music. Now, I love christmas music. I love Christmas. I'm not a particularly religious fellow, but my panties get wet at the thought of all the presents and goodies and stuff people bring me. Yea, i'm a selfish bastard, and thank you for ruining my cheerful mood.
Next thing I know, they interrupt my music to TALK about something. Now, I understand if you want to squeeze in a quick traffic report or an update on when the 14 feet of snow is coming in, I get that. I'd even be moderately interested to know if there's a 17 mile long traffic jam on the road I am driving on, BEFORE I am stuck in it. But those bastards, those VICIOUS HEARTLESS BASTARDS interrupted my falalalalaaaaas to talk about something called a paintbox program.
At least, I think that was the name. I don't know if you know what that is any more than I do, but as I understand it, it's to raise money for cancer research. Some of you are thinking "Well, they interrupted the Insane One's Christmas music for a good cause, he should be okay with that." WELL I'M NOT. And before you get all uppity and start telling me about how your grandmother died of cancer in front of you suddenly when you were 2, let me explain. The paintbox program raises money by selling artwork done by kids with cancer. I believe their frequently quoted phrase was something about "The healing power of art raising money for cancer research." Isn't that the most demonic thing you've ever heard? What? What do you mean, it doesn't sound demonic at all? And they say I am insane. Sigh. Okay, let me spell it out for you.
Let's say you're a kid. Instead of picking your nose in math class, bored out of your skull and waiting for the interminable droning of the 150 year old man at the front of the class to cease so you can flee the prison of your "learning," go outside and run and play with your friends, you have an INCURABLE FATAL ILLNESS. You're stuck in the most miserable place imaginable, with alcohol-smelling halls, dead people laying in half the rooms waiting for nurses to discover them, and the quiet creepy sound of machines keeping the other half of the people alive. You're nauseated and vomiting from the chemo-radiation-gene therapy they have you on to prevent your eyeballs from being forced out of their sockets by the alien tumor-baby gestating inside your skull. You're wearing a gown that's open in the back because all your clothes were made to fit someone who hasn't lost 50 pounds in the last 10 weeks, and what food they bring you would make you vomit if you were healthy and starving. They won't give you marijuana because you're under age and you're scared to leave your bed because you keep seeing DEATH walk down the hall in black robes with a very sharp looking scythe, reading names off a scroll, whispering "Benny... Benny... Where's Benny's room, damn this hospital, I am so lost..." AND YOUR NAME IS BENNY.
And then, this angel of mercy comes into your room. She's sweet, she's pretty, if you were a few years older you'd ask her to marry you. What's this she's bringing you? A nice juicy cheeseburger? Good painkillers? A Playstation 3 with all the best games so you can forget about your onrushing death for a few moments? No, it's a fucking paintbrush. The heartless whore of babylon just told you to go paint something to make yourself feel better, something that would be sold to raise money. "Money for my hospital bills?" you ask in a tear-strained voice, knowing your family just mortgaged their house and some of your brothers and sisters to pay for your hospital care. "No." says the She-Demon Without A Soul, "Money for the researchers so they can come up with more vomit-inducing drugs to pump you full of." and she laughs, her black eyes flaming as she saunters out of the room, high-fiving Death on the way by.
Now, I'm no expert on this stuff, and maybe I'm completely wrong (it's happened at least once before, I think), but don't they have laws against this kind of thing? Don't we have some expansive uncovering of a bunch of kids over in Siam every few years or so, stitching together sneakers in a dimly lit, shit-stained warehouse for like a penny a day? Isn't there like a national outcry or something over it? I wouldn't know, I mean, I don't give a rat's ass HOW Nike keeps my sneakers cheap, but you'd think someone would go "Hmmmmm, maybe the idea of making dying kids paint stick figures for us while we irradiate them with vomit-inducing chemicals and then sell their proceeds for a profit is a BAD idea." But, no. No. You'd be WRONG.
What got me most I guess, is that the radio announcer, who is in my opinion the most illiterate jackass this side of Simon Cowell, kept saying how these paintings may have been painted ten years ago and how the kids must be so happy their artwork is finally giving back. First off, you witless dingleberry, those kids are probably DEAD NOW. Second off (shut your whore mouth, I said second off, I did), what kind of heartless fucktard would give air time to the satanic bitch who is duct-taping a paintbrush to the shaking hand of a crying, dying 6 year old and screaming at them to PAINT YOU LITTLE MAGGOT, PAINT LIKE DEATH IS COMING FOR YOU AND THE ONLY WAY TO STAY THE RAZOR EDGE OF HIS BLADE IS TO DRAW BLOODY STICK FIGURES!!!! And third off (don't even start your shit), why do they make this a CHRISTMAS TIME THING????
Yea, I know, I may have got a little excited, and maybe I need to change my underwear, but dammit, I CARE. Merry Fucking Christmas.
DISCLAIMER: The alleged soulless she-bitch who may or may not have been on the radio talking about this program, may or may not actually be responsible for it. She may instead simply be an anal-stuffed sock puppet for the sadistic pricks who came up with the idea for the program. Either way, this post is simply my insanely opinionated response to the thought of some poor kid slaving away over hot canvas in a poorly fitting gown while vomiting, and should in no way be taken seriously. BECAUSE I AM NEVER SERIOUS. SERIOUSLY. Happy New Year.
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