Quick little ditties on the clickityclickclicky
a SUIT column by Chris Jungle

Too much silliness has occurred to devote my thoughts to a single subject, so let's tackle everything in a brief, simplistic, and juvenile manner, shall we?

A message to India and Pakistan--Remember, only one country won the Cold War. The winner has been riding a bull market while the other has just institutionalized 150 percent inflation. It is very much a win or lose scenario. Nuclear stockpiling has very little to do with national security and much more to do with who has the most candy in the cupboards. Proliferation is good for beating a nation's chest collectively and getting invitations to security council meetings, but it's all a ridiculous game until someone actually considers using these weapons of mass destruction.

A message to married couples--Don't own a gun. I know all about home security, the second amendment, and NRA, but none of that matters. Married people will argue and fight. My parents had the knack of screaming at the top of their lungs at each other when things were going badly. They said mean things, hateful things, things that can never be taken back no matter what brain disease inflicts them. But they never owned a gun, they never hit each other, and they allowed for time and reason to help them with their problems. Phil Hartman and his wife are dead. I don't know if they were on some heavy pharmaceuticals, if one of them had an affair, or they just plain mad at each other. They did have a gun, and now they are both dead.

A message to the Supreme Court--No one likes a tattler. The Ken Starr-Bill Clinton thing has been going on so long, I can't even remember what our president did. It had something to do with sex with young women, didn't it? I don't like the idea of forcing the White House staff to tattle on what the President did or didn't do. I knew guys who cheated on their girlfriends, and inevitably the girls would ask me if their beaus were faithful. I never said yes, but I never said no either. No one should have to tattle on their friends for sexual reasons. Or perjure themselves about sex. Or obstruct justice about sex.

A message to high school students--You're going to lose all the perks if you keep this up. Every time a kid gets into a fight over what another student is wearing, uniforms will get brought in. Every time a kid shows up to school with a gun, guards and metal detectors will be considered. High school is a place to flirt with each other, create little soap operas of no consequence, and whine because you are not appreciated as much as you think you should be. There is a line every student knows they shouldn't cross, and if they do, the school system will keep making school lamer for you.

A message to the poor--You won't win the lottery. It's okay to put down five bucks and dream about what kind of trouble you could get into with your millions. Don't throw down twenty, forty, or hundred dollars thinking, "This time--for sure--I'll have the right numbers." A hundred bucks can buy a little happiness for a little while if spent correctly. A hundred bucks spent on the lottery is betting on impossible odds ninety-five too many times.

A message to readers--Books can mess with you more than TV and movies. It just takes a little more effort on a reader's part. I read A Clockwork Orange for the first time last week. I'd seen the movie several times, but in my mature skin, I figured it was time to read the book by Anthony Burgess, and things haven't been the same since--by the way, I bought the novel at a used bookstore so the government couldn't trace my reading purchases. For the past few days, I've been sipping cold, spicy chai viddying the dribble dribble coming from the tee vee. Every now and then, I go out zooming passed these chellovecks and starry devotchkas dressed in the height of nadsat fashion as they teeheehee and hawhawhaw with each other smecking away and govereeting about this and that and this. I tended to keep to myself trying to avoid rabbiting and rather sat sat sat a good spell listening to the poppoppops go off in my gulliver. And I have to admit it, it felt real horrorshow, O my Brothers, real horrorshow to have another world to pretendlike be when the ultra-violence takes over the real reality.

Chris Jungle blames that last little ramble on the moloko-plus he's been throwing into his rot lately.

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