Thursday, 25 August 2011

Not-So-Essential Crowpoop: Sanity

[This story is vague to say the least. It's definitely not like anything I've written on the blog before. It's not funny. It just is. With that being said, perhaps my 4 readers, you shall be able to deal with such change and vote for my story on the poll to decide the contest. The poll shall accompany Bad Ideas' story. Also, like the damn Facebook page.]

Imagine a place. Make it a nice place; a small town preferably. Now, destroy it. Pillage it, plunder it. Annihilate, obliterate and devastate. Leave nothing unscathed. Demolish the ruins. Kill whoever the plague did not claim. Do not discriminate, racism and sexism is wrong. Women, children, elderly, set them on fire and watch them burn. Have you done it? Good. This is where I am. My name is Crow Poop. Does that make you laugh? It should. This is what the world has become. See it through my eyes.

Humanity has imploded. No, you cannot call it humanity anymore, not when humans act like dogs fighting on the streets, frothing at the mouths. And to think, just a year ago, I was happy. She was alive. And now, I have her blood on my hands. Haha. I can’t particularly complain though. Her cooking was terrible. Maybe the plague wasn’t so bad. No, no, shouldn’t laugh.

Contrary to what you may think after reading thus far, the plague isn’t what’s killing us. No. The plague has passed. It claimed a few billion, yes. But no, what’s killing us, is us. When the plague swept through, the leaders of the planet died. Countries dissolved. Nobody could operate on a scale larger than a city. In the end, it was just a bunch of survivors scrambling together to stay alive. And in one year, what has become of globalisation? Huh? Nobody much cares for economic recession anymore.

This town was taken over. They came. They had firearms that we were no match for. They came, and they conquered. They put the elderly to labour, they raped our women. Another reason I’m happy I killed her when I did. Put her out of her misery. She wouldn’t have liked what the world has become. Haha. I’m sorry. It was jus- just a funny way to die. You see, she came charging at me and I- you know what, forget it. It doesn’t matter. She’s dead. She’s rotting somewhere, her flesh now food for rats.

I like rats. Cute little creatures. And they squeak just before they die, if you squeeze them hard enough. And now, in this destroyed wasteland community, rats are fine dining. Skewer one and roast it on a fire. Delicious.

The battle for this town, if you can call it that, lasted all of one hour. Probably would’ve been over quicker if our “brave” defenders didn’t hide and cower like little children. They, the conquerors, didn’t have to do much. They just stood there, their guns at the ready. And almost as if reading their minds, our men with all their superior intellect charged at them, screaming something about freedom or liberty or some similar fictional concept they still thought they had. That is before they were shot to ribbons. Morons. Haha. No, I apologize. Death is not something to joke about. It’s merely the punch-line to the greatest joke of all.

You would think that with civilization nearly dissolved, religion would be irrelevant. You’d think people would stop bothering to go to listen to an old man preach random bullshit every Sunday, that they would stop bothering to bend over 5 times a day. You’d think they’d stop believing that an imaginary man in the sky will grant them favour. Idiots. People still pray to Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha and whoever else they think will come down from the heavens with 72 virgins for them. I feel sorry for them. But then I stop. It’s their own choice if they wish to leave their fates up to blind faith in an imaginary deity. Jackasses.

The sun used to represent hope. Now, it’s just a hot ball of gas, beating down on us. The rulers, the colonial masters, they’re comfortably off. They have working air conditioners, they have proper food and they have women to do whatever their sick imaginations concoct. Outside their palaces are the regular people. They live in stifling conditions, those who were once prosperous now enveloped in poverty. Haha. Serves them right. Made their money of bribes and murder, how does it feel now? Living on the streets; a cardboard box all the shelter from acid rain and ultraviolet rays of the sun. Haha. Did I mention they were idiots?

The streets are scattered with corpses and crying infants. Nobody cares for these children. Neither should they. Little snot-nosed mouth-breathers, never liked the beastly little creatures myself. I stand on the roofs of one of the last tall buildings that still stands. The asylum. It’s supposed to keep me locked up and forgotten, but it doesn’t take much to open the doors. Just a small pin would do the trick.

The living, now resembling the walking dead, will look up. They will hail my silhouette, standing between them and the sun, as their saviour. They will cry out for me to bring them salvation. And I will laugh. And I will defecate on them. And I will shatter whatever sliver of hope they still hold on to. And while they lie on the streets, shit oozing down their faces, tears will escape their eyes. And I will laugh. Haha.

The world is hopeless. Society has fallen. Everybody’s lost their minds. They’re quiet, but their minds run riot. Plain fucking loony. They try to pretend they’re alright, but I know better. I know the mental anguish. But I’m strong. I’ve overcome the trauma. I’m the only sane one left. But what is it to be sane in a world that is insane? Has the idea of sanity now been altered as the norm is now to be crazy? Or is it something, one of the only things, that has remained the same after the world ended? Whatever’s happened, I know one thing. I feel fine.

Tuesday, 16 August 2011

Bad Ideas versus That Guy

I am not sure whether the abbreviated from of 'versus' should be capitalized, semi-capitalized or not at all capitalized. This is another poop post I decided to waste my time on while my Futurama episode loads. We have come across a character we cannot really decide (did you know 'dickhead' is one of the suggestions presented by Google when you spell decide incorrectly?) what to do with, so we are each making our own story surrounding this character. This character is CrowPoop, Crow Poop or even Crow-Poop if you will, but most definitely not Crow_Poop.

Both our schools started, I now fear I may not have the luxury of doing nothing anymore. That Guy is in Malaysia now for some reason. The story is about Crow Poop and will hopefully involve black humor. We decided after little debating that black humor is not Dave Chappelle (black comedian) nor is it racist jokes directed at black people. Did you know there is a fetus Pokemon now? Anyways, this is what we decided black humor is. Black humour is basically making fun of stuff we're supposed to be serious about. Like death, rape, murder, child abuse, Jesus, school rules, running with scissors, etc.

Some girl is helping That Guy with his writing and some girl is supposed to be helping me with my writing. Anyway, we post one of our writing on 20th or 21st and the next piece of writing on 24th-ish, so whose writing do you want to see first?

There, the episodes are done buffering. Oh, and last thing, my story will be detective-y and That Guy’s story will be post-apocalyptic; most probably. But don’t hold me to anything I have said. Did I mention its like a competition?