Vampires: Dicks

July 21, 2009

So, I finally got around to reading Stephen King’s ‘Salems Lot. A vampire story for those not in the know, written back in the 70s or 80s or some decade that came in between. And it struck a chord in me. A cord even. Much was struck. I’ll leave aside the details that encompass how bloody good it was, and I will not dwell on it being one of the few books that made me consider putting on another light.

What I will dwell, stay, accommodate myself on is this one, overwhelming fact: Vampires are total dicks. End of story.

I lied there. It’s not like me to end a story after two short paragraphs. Before I continue, a reiteration: Vampires are total dicks. Don’t worship them, don’t fall in love with them, don’t go prancing on trees with their cold, bitter, unbeating (?) hearts. They’re total, total, complete, total, dicks. I can’t repeat that point enough.
THEY DRINK YOUR BLOOD! Dicks. It’s third on my list of total dickdom. I don’t care how damn mysterious they are. They’re dicks. They will steal your babies, hunt your children for sport, pillage your town and turn your cows inside out.

Dick thing to do

And not for some ritual or bullshit like that. Just for the hell of it. Repeat, Vampires, are total dicks. They impale people, they cannibalize, they turn into fucking bats! BATS! Oh yes, handsome and dreamy, and shit, but people gloss over the whole bat/wolf thing. Do you want to play second fiddle to whatever midnight chicken-hunting, child-slaying escapade this vampire mate of yours has to do?

Cos that’s the thing, vampires are basically creatures that live on instinct. Like spiders. John Goodman resistant spiders. Ouh, they may have plans, may even keep the occasional few. They might come back to school later to hold your hand by the swings, but if that blood sucking bastard spies a toddler on the way, it will grab that baby and feed. FEED. Not eat, munch, grab a quick snack. Feed. Like lions, hyenas, woodworm.
Or maybe just kill it. For the fun. For the HELL OF IT.
Because Vampires are dicks. Immortal dicks. You think they live forever because they can love? No, cos they’re dicks. They know what they want, and they take it, and no amount of teenage angst obsession will change that. Ripe for concubining, that’s how they see us.

Vlad the Impaler was the inspiration for Dracula. I can think of few situations where impaling on a name-ending basis could ever be a good thing. The number given for the amount of people he executed ranges from 40,000 to 100,000. A big range, yes, but in my long history of debating, once the number of people you’ve impaled exceeds zero, overestimation of figures tends to not matter so much any more.
And people want things like this to ‘open up’ to them? They’re dicks! Bram Stoker may of had some quaint ideas on how the human anatomy worked, but I don’t recall the passage where Mina and Dracula both looked on at the cheerleaders from the bleachers, being moody and listening to the blathering of My Chemical Romance while they both discussed how they’re so angsty.

Angsty Panscy

And what’s with the humping?

Angst. Blow it out your hole. Hungarian blood suckers care as much about the human condition as a child cares for behind his ears. These things are adult concerns, if they are to be concerned of at all. Vampire aren’t adults, vampires are dicks. True, adults can be dicks, but philosophic ponderings are not my forté.

It’s not that they’re just ‘misunderstood’ It’s the fact that the sun will burn them alive. Would the apartheid of ended if the Black population had a habit of bursting into flames at the merest touch of Ra’s ever giving light? Would women of gotten the vote if at the merest whiff of a cross them recoiled in horror, hissed like snakes and fled into the night?
They’re not ‘visibly different but I guess we’re all just human underneath and let’s all get along’, they’re cock-smoking vampires who suck blood and rape, and no amount of Christian Slater interviewing Brad Pitt will change that.

Except for Angel. Angel is a dude I could have a pint with.


The undead dieth

July 3, 2009

Mikey Jackson. What a man. What a creepily dead, terrifying man. Ghoulish is a word that was used often to describe him. Course, it wouldn’t make any sense to call him that now, seeing as two of the characteristics of ghouls, i.e., eternal movement and restlessness, are now sadly absent from this man.

There was talk of the fact that felt up children, which of course, we won’t talk about about cos it would sully the reputation of this fine, plasticized man. This man who had his own zoo. This man who drank wine with children and danced very unlike a child-loving wine-drinker.
In an article in the paper today (Kevin Myers if anyone’s interested), I was reminded of the young girl who, unlike her fellow passengers, (including her mother) shrugged off a plane crash and just got on with it. I imagine afterwards she said something along the lines of: “Meh”.
Maybe Sky could dedicate some of its army to covering this a little bit more in-depth; perhaps use some its 7th battalion and 342nd Airborne that are currently patrolling Jackson’s Neverland Ranch. Will he arise once more to feed and drink wine again?  Thank God that Sky is on the case bringing us rolling updates on Jackson in between its mouthfuls of Andy Murray Wimbledon-slippery knob.

I dunno, personally I find the Unbreakable story more worthwhile. I suppose the problem is that that movies already been made, while the Jackson Biopic is only around the corner. My bets on Johnny Depp doing an Edward Scissorhands and Willy Wonka amalgamation.

One final thing that about 1% of people will get. Remember the first two Fallout games? Remember the Ghouls? Think Thriller.

Now, remember the Ghouls that glowed in the dark?
Uncanny ain’t it?