This is Only a Test

I've been reading a lot of Brett Easton Ellis lately, starting with American Psycho before moving on to the Rules of Attraction, and eventually ending with Lunar Park. This fact coupled with the unfettered awesomeness that is "Shoot 'em Up," an American gun-fu film starring Clive Owen and Paul Giamatti, inspired the following slightly bizarre, completely unedited stream of consciousness style rambling.

If you have to ask, then you just don't get it.

...I certainly don't.

Clive Owen has just delivered a baby. The mother, a non-descript but ragged looking woman in a tattered yellow dress is writhing in terror on the dirty warehouse floor. Clive Owen presses the barrel of his gun to the umbilical cord and pulls the trigger. “Sorry about the messy delivery, mum.” he quips as the final notes of the early nineties grunge classic “Breed” ring out. “Do I own Nevermind on vinyl?” I wonder absently. Bleach, definitely, but I’m not sure about Nevermind. I make a mental note to pour over my collection of LPs, currently tucked away in a closet.

Sitting on the couch, I take a bite out of my microwave veggie burger. Horseradish, pub horseradish sauce is one of the most essential elements of the microwave veggie burger experience. Paul Giamatti is reciting a limerick, something about mothers and tits, it’s impossible to be certain. Gouda cheese and sun dried tomatoes are equally important. There is a dog baying for my attention as I reach for another handful of the roasted garlic flavored bagel chips. The bun, whole wheat, toasted with a smidge of butter and a sprinkling of granulated garlic. “Fuck you, you fucking fuckers!” yells Clive Owen. More shots ring out. The dog is licking my hand incessantly now. I scratch the dog between the ears as the sound of sporadic gunfire erupts from the speakers once again.

“Do you know why a gun is better than a wife?” Paul Giamatti asks. “You can put a silencer on a gun.” He chuckles, apparently quite pleased with himself. The summer of 1999, that was when I purchased Bleach on vinyl. It was at a Hot Topic store in Springfield, Virginia. “Six bullets, six shots, you’ve blown your load.” Clive Owen is speaking directly to Giamatti now. I remember, because for some reason it was particularly important that I own the album on every possible format, even though I did not actually own a record player at the time.

“What’s the difference between a luxury car and a porcupine?” Clive Owen’s character, Mr. Smith, asks. “The porcupine’s pricks are on the outside.” he finishes, just before smashing the driver side window of a BMW sedan. The flow, aimed at the sweet spot of the glass, right between the bottom and the side, makes a satisfying “glug, glug, glug” as the bottle empties its payload. “You want to buy bullets with food stamps?” the clerk asks. The aroma of the beer is pleasant; floral and citrus notes from the northwestern hops greet my olfactory senses. Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades” is playing now, and Clive Owen is dropping down a stairwell on a bungee cord, a submachine gun in one hand, a newborn baby in the other. Men are falling down the staircase dead as the submachine gun barks. Blood pools beneath the freshly slain on the dingy warehouse floor. I forgot to pick up ketchup on the way home from work. Damn it.