PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 16: Random Hostility, Book One
Written January 2002

Okay, here's the situation...

As any avid Pisshead would know, the vast majority of my bitch sessions are homages to specific targets. My venom is laser-guided onto a central area deserving of my cruel wit. As such, a lot of little things go unscathed in the column. By "little things", I mean things which I could rant about, but not fill an entire column with. However, always a top-notch thinker, I have devised a plan which will take care of all of these seemingly miniscule annoyances, lunging them headfirst into the flaming pit that is your beloved Pissing Vinegar column. I present to you, faithful reader, the inaugaural Random Hostility...

1. THE FLU. I see this particular ailment much like the modern pop music scene. No matter what safeguards we establish... no matter how many good things we surround ourselves with... no matter how many drugs we give it... we cannot escape its sickness. Yes, I am afflicted with this uncurable little bastard as I type this. And yes, just like Britney and N-Sync, I can only pray that one day we find the fucking cure, the antidote with which we can eradicate our delicate, noble earth of its repugnant existence. And where the fuck are the doctors earning their six-figure salaries when it comes to this shit? All the research, all the money, all the time that's gone into the idea that one day we'll be able to make ourselves better, healthier citizens... and all they've come up with is a bigger, stronger, faster lab rat. Look, Jekyll, I don't give a rat's genetically-enhanced third ass if Algernon can find the cheese in a fraction of the time, I just wanna wake up in the morning without a pounding head, three pounds of phlegm in my lungs and a bucket full of puke at my bedside. Diagnosis: Get the fuck off your cloud, Dr. Christ. Pick up a pen and pad and do some fucking work like the rest of us.

2. CREED. While we're talking about God complexes, what in the blue hell is going on in the music industry when a band so incredibly convinced of its own celestial stature that they actually feel the need to sing their own praises at any given opportunity actually reel a blind, deaf and dumb public into buying their albums by the wholesale club pack? (Longest sentence ever? I'll get back to you) I mean, Sweet Daddy Siki, if you're gonna insinuate your real name isn't Scott Stapp but in fact Jesus Christ, at least do something to insinuate the ability to back it up. Hey, why not make Christopher Reeves walk again? Another Superman sequel would be killer, dude. Why not bring Owen Hart back from the dead? Or better yet, how about a little songwriting ability? I mean, sure, John Lennon once claimed the Beatles were bigger than Jesus Christ, but at least: a) He never claimed the Beatles WERE Jesus Christ, and b) The Beatles actually had an original sound for their time. You know what, Stapp? You're not Jesus. You're Hootie. See you in five years, and for future reference, hold the onions.

3. BAD DRIVERS. Everybody's unanimous on this one, I'm sure. That is, unless you ARE a bad driver, in which case you'd never admit to it anyway, for fear of having Mike Tyson AND O.J. jump out of their SUV's and pummel you into tiny, indistinguishable morsels on Highway 66, leaving chunks just barely big enough to slide down the vulture's throats, because Scott St... er, God knows that vultures are a vital link in the old food chain (maybe THAT was the longest sentence ever). Whatever the case, bad drivers are surely the most dangerous motherfuckers on the planet. They're like landmines in a sandbox, just waiting for the next Little Jimmy to cross his Tonka truck in their path. Hey, I'm not just talking about old people. Some of the antiques are still pretty sharp behind the wheel. The kind of asshole I'm referring to defies all age and gender boundaries. I'm talking to you, Mr. I Just Cut You Off But I Don't Even Have The Decency To Drive The Speed Limit. And you, Ms. I Know I'm Spraying That Shit-Coloured Water Onto Your Windshield, But I'll Be Damned If I'm Going To Let You Pass Me, Because I Sure As Hell Don't Want It On My Windshield. And, yes, I'm also talking to you, Mr. I Know I've Been Keeping You All Stuck In Traffic For The Last Ten Minutes, But I Really Want To Make This Left Turn. Well, to all of you (and a host of others), allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr. Get The Fuck Off My Road Because I'm Driving This Car To Get From Point A To Point B, And There's No Telling Which One Of You Is Going To Hold Me Back On A Bad Day And End Up Tasting A Curb. Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Oh, there's more, kids, there's more. But alas, my blood pressure only goes so high before alarm bells start going off in bell towers all over our great land, and I'm cutting it pretty close at the moment. Rest assured, though, one of these fine days I will feel the craving for misbehaving again. Until that time, a small litany of sorts, which you may feel free to recite, alongside your normal prayers at bedtime...

Fuck you, Osama bin Laden. May you choke on a Norweigan lapdancer's pubic hair.
Fuck you, Bill Gates. All those billions, and you're still too Goddamn cheap to buy yourself a decent haircut.
Fuck you, Adam Sandler. I'm taking you to Snoop Dogg's dealer, 'cause you were tons funnier when you were on the ganja.
Fuck you, Whitney Houston. Stop teasing me and fucking OD already.
Fuck you, Tom Green. You were the only thing standing between me and Drew Barrymore. Well, now she's ruined. Thanks a lot, One Nut.
And last, but certainly not least...
Fuck you, Willie. I had a pure, untouched soul before I read this.

Here endeth the ePISSle.