The Morality of Serial Killing through the Ages

This is another of those pieces for the ACRE Forethought blog, this time about serial killing. Here's the stupid shit I wrote.

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Suffice to say that the morality of serial killing hasn't changed too drastically through the ages. It is bad. It is a very bad thing to do. However, the scope of what counts as serial killing has certainly changed over the course of many thousands of years, and there continues to be a discrepancy even from place to place geographically in one time frame.

According to Wikipedia:

A serial killer is typically defined as an individual who has murdered three or more people[1][2] over a period of more than a month, with down time (a "cooling off period") between the murders, and whose motivation for killing is usually based on psychological gratification.

This definition is, of course, nonsense. If this definition were accurate then you or I might be considered serial killers, which is clearly unworkable, because we are not bad people. I certainly am not.

Now, just over three months ago I killed a ticket inspector on a train, because I didn't have a ticket. Clearly, this was an action based not in psychological gratification, but in simple practicality. Ticket prices nowadays are ludicrously expensive, and I felt utterly justified in killing the man. In fact, I consider his checking me for a ticket an act of suicide.

A few weeks later, I was watching a national-level sporting event in a public house, and was distressed to discover that I had been surrounded by other viewers who were far more demonstratively approaching the game than was I. One fellow shouted at a sportsman in quite an alarming way, and I, not expecting the yell, was quite startled. Well, of course it is quite rude to startle a gentleman who you are watching the game with, and so I was quite forced to mash his fizzog into a mushed pulp of skinflakes, bone fragments and gore. Thankfully, his yelling quickly abated. I can be uncharacteristically merciless in the doling of justice. It is just rude to shout out; be quiet for goodness' sake.

For another fortnight I saw no wrong in the world that needed my direct intervention. Just as I crested the event horizon of that fortnight, I was confronted with what I must consider the nadir of human decorum. Having travelled to the Capital of the fair nation which has the honour of housing me, I entered a restaurant, nothing too fancy, just some common place where the common people may go to partake of their common fare. I sauntered up to the bar, for there is no waiting staff in these types of places, no one comes to take your order, you have to go up and actually order it yourself. It's a clever system. The very fabric of the place is designed to erode your dignity. Hungry as I was, I forced myself to the bar, hence my sauntering, and locked the serving wench with the iron glare of an angry eagle who has spotted something annoying and is trying to stare it out because he is an hard bastard. The wench, a veteran of this workplace, was unfazed, and spat right in my eye. I was impressed, and suddenly I felt all my anxiety melt away. The spittle, sinking in the cleft between my eye and my nose, ploughed by endless years of sleep deprivation, tricked my body into believing I was crying, and as such things always do, this belief cyclically perpetuated itself, and I began to weep. The serving wench, regaining her balance after her colossal spit, knew exactly what I was about. With a cry of "Blood alive, man! To a seat with you!" she swandived over the counter and, driving her head into the very top of my skull with the entire weight of her body behind her, we crumpled to the floor in a fallen mess. I was a little disturbed by this, but not knowing the ways of the peasant folk I kept schtum so as not to conduct any undesirable faux pas.

Groggily regaining my feet, I whipped around to face the also recovering wench, and landed a solid haymaker on her collarbone. Hearing it snap and pop, I smiled, and she led me to a nearby table and promised me that a plate of cod and chips, with mushy peas, would arrive within 10 minutes. It did, and it was piping hot and looked all set to be delicious. I arose from my chair to peruse the condiments, and alongside the vinegar, the salt, mayo and tartare sauce stood an overlarge bowl that was almost sarcastically empty. It might not be normal to have with fish dishes, but I need tomato sauce. I fucking lost it at that point. Leaping onto a nearby table, I lashed my foot out in a vicious 180° arc which caught three diners; one in the nose, another in the ear, and the third was entirely decapitated, spraying viscous red fluid into the empty tomato sauce bowl, the irony of which enraged me further. Rising unsteady on his or her feet, the diner that I'd punted in the ear made a clumsy attempt at my legs, which I'd foolishly left on top of the table; a rather perilous position. Due to my acrobatic background, I was able to avoid such a clumsy attempt with complete ease. Slipping nimbly off the table, I planted myself firmly and pushed against my clueless combatant. The force of my push sent the diner careening limply into the air, where an acquaintance was made with an adjoining window, but was short-lived. With this troublesome individual dispatched, I turned to the fellow I'd kicked in the nose. Looking down upon his crumpled remains, I discovered I'd killed him with the blow. I can be very deadly when I've been wronged.

Bracing myself back a step, I made a quick dash and with an effortless handspring, leapt into a series of cartwheels and somersaults which took me across the length of the room, the last of which raised me high into the air and, sailing over the bar, my legs, acting as fleshy javelins, speared the barmaid, with precision, through the sternum. My fish and chips remained uneaten.

I'm in jail now, because I've been "caught", apparently. What I did wrong I'll never know. One man's anecdote is another man's horrendous crime. The occasion on which I was detained involved self-defence on my part. My flatmate was trying his level best to watch a program I believe is called 'The Goblin People Argue over their Goblin Children', and for the entire half hour of the show I found it necessary to dry my hair using the most powerful setting on my hair drier. Of course, he complained because he couldn't hear the show, which was the entire reason I did it. I hadn't even been in the shower, or moistened my hair even slightly. He came at me with his fists, but using my deft fingers I was able to unzip his jeans, forcibly insert the blow drier where the dry does not blow, which caused him some measure of discomfort, and eventually butchered him thoroughly, due to a power malfunction with the device.

The police have no sense of humour, which is why they end up in fights so often.

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Louis CK's Million

This is why Louis CK is my favourite ginger person. His latest standup release was done in a novel new way. He fronted the money himself, filmed it himself, and released it himself on the internet for $5. That is around £3.50. I bought it, it was easy to do, and it was very enjoyable to watch. It is something I will treasure in an external hard drive somewhere, and enjoy again.

Then, due to a tweet on the subject by Graham Linehan, I discovered this, which has pretty much made my day. Reasonable, dramaless, straightforward humanity. I love it.

hi. So it's been about 12 days since the thing started and yesterday we hit the crazy number. One million dollars. That's a lot of money. Really too much money. I've never had a million dollars all of a sudden. and since we're all sharing this experience and since it's really your money, I wanted to let you know what I'm doing with it. People are paying attention to what's going on with this thing. So I guess I want to set an example of what you can do if you all of a sudden have a million dollars that people just gave to you directly because you told jokes.

So I'm breaking the million into four pieces.

the first 250k is going to pay back what the special cost to produce and the website to build.

The second 250k is going back to my staff and the people who work for me on the special and on my show. I'm giving them a big fat bonus.

The third 280k is going to a few different charities. They are listed below in case you'd like to donate to them also. Some of these i learned about through friends, some were reccomended through twitter.

• The Fistula Foundation
• The Pablove Foundation
• charity: water
• Kiva
• Green Chimneys

That leaves me with 220k for myself. Some of that will pay my rent and will care for my childen. The rest I will do terrible, horrible things with and none of that is any of your business. In any case, to me, 220k is enough out of a million.

I never viewed money as being "my money" I always saw it as "The money" It's a resource. if it pools up around me then it needs to be flushed back out into the system.

The thing is still on sale. I hope folks keep buying it. If I make another million, I'll give more of it away. I'll let you know when that happens because I like you getting to know what happened to your 5 dollars and bringing awareness to the bla bla bla.

Okay I really gotta go now. Thank you again. I will now stop bugging you. I really hate being in the news this much so I'm gonna just disappear for a while.

Happy hollidays.
Louis C.K.

Winter Constellations

It is early December, so perhaps it is a little TOO early for this observation, but I have seen very few trimmings this year. Though I myself have no intentions of trimming my house, nor ever putting up a tree, I have enjoyed trimming up in work. I put up a Christmas tree with my friends from work, and had great enjoyment twisting a stiff length of faux branch up the railings of the stairs.

Still, no stars twinkle in windows as of yet. The closest I’ve come to being moved by shiny lights was in looking at the actual moon one night when it was full, and eventually managing to make out its curvature, seeing it as a ball rather than as a flat circle. That pleased me a lot.

Maybe it’s the recession. Timers are hard, money is scarce. Electric bills are high enough without plugging in some shinies to no palpable end. But is that really the case? In bust times comedy profits, as people give of what little they have for a smile. Would that not hold true for Christmas decorations? Tinsel, if already owned, runs on observation. Are people simply miserable? Or are people deserting Jesus?

It is my guess that we are a more godless nation than even it is estimated. Certainly we are a hearteningly secular place, though some seem not to fully appreciate what this entails. Our publicly-funded school system is still upsettingly entangled with religious ‘teaching’, and too many hold on to an unquestioned presumption of higher power. I don’t think as many people as I would like are turning away from the gods. I certainly don’t think that if they were turning away, it would correlate with a decline in trimmings or Christmas decorations, and this is why I believe that.

Christmas is not about Jesus. A celebration within deep winter predates the Cruijff by many a year, and though Christians have tried to paper over these previous incarnations of the solstice, we can still see through. In fact, the baby Jesus’ mug has been plastered there so long the façade has begun to peel horrendously, and we’re left with a collage of diy disasters, a patchwork of Jesus, Santa, trees, tinsel, Coke, tradition, rampant consumerism and human solidarity. Of these only human solidarity really interests me, though I think consumerism may be necessary, and I certainly have no better idea; trees and tinsel can be pleasing, mind you, and Santa is quite good fun.

Jesus I’ve got no time for, especially not in his super-privileged baby form, and Coke is too sugary. Tradition is overrated, though often fascinating to consider.

So, are we lacking a festive spirit this year? Are we failing our human solidarity? Or are we poor, plain and simple? Warmth comes before shiny colourful constellations trotting predictable waltzes around the window frame.

Perhaps we are in truly dire straits.

Perhaps its just a little early yet for decorations.

The Three Wise Men (or How My Pedantic Literary Criticism Can Ruin Christmas)

This is how the story was told to me. Mary and Joseph went to Bethlehem, the was no room at the Inn and therefore they ended up in a stable. In this stable Mary gave birth to a baby boy: The Little Baby Jesus™. So far, so within the realm of the possible.

Meanwhile, however, a group of people were believed to be homing in on TLBJ™'s position. These were two distinct groups of people. The first group were shepherds, who'd been tipped off by an angel. From this we can deduce that this is now firmly a work of fiction, but nevertheless we shall continue. The second group were the Three Wise Men. Widely reported as having come from The East, these were three educated, worldly and rich fellows. They had been travelling far longer than the shepherds, having come all the way from The East, and rather than following the instructions of angels, these three were following a bright star. This may not sound like the actions of Wise men but you are underestimating the brightness of the star. Boy, was that star bright. Also, it must have been a Wise thing to do, because they are the Three Wise Men. This is known as a tautology, which in logical dialogue is a negative, but in Biblical thinking is a virtue. Also, when it is said that they were following the star, I don't think it is meant that they were using it to navigate by, as the story was told to me the star was actually leading them like an astronomical will-o-the-wisp. I'm not an astronomer, but I'm fairly certain that would be considered fairly kooky behaviour for a star to be engaging in, what with them being so far away and a lump of unconscious matter and all. Stars aren't known for their interest in human affairs, let alone feeling it imperative to lead three gentlemen to a baby in a stable.

However, I will allow for all this magick, and continue with the story.

Following the star, the Three Wise Men are led to TLBJ™. They have brought gifts for the infant, one each. These gifts were Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh, which are all fairly unconventional gifts, although the usefulness of gold is readily apparent. That is a Bloody Good Gift™. The Three Wise Men burst dramatically through the stable wall with a Jeet Kune Do flying kick, and doing headstands the three lay their offerings at foot of the manger, wherein lay TLBJ™.

Why did they do this? Who did they believe TLBJ™ to be?

They believed that He was the son of God. They believe that He is the King of the Jews, the redeemer, the Holy One, the Dude. It is with that conviction that they travelled so far, all the way from The East remember, and brought their thoughtful gifts.

They partied late into the night, and the second wise man really impressed with his bodypopping skills, that he had developed in The East. The next day, presumably, the Three Wise Men went home, and were never heard from again.

TLBJ™ grew up to be Jesus Cruijff, a carpenter. He was raised by his earthly parents, Mary and Joseph, presumably in an amount of poverty and hardship. No account is given of what the family did with the gold, frankincense or the myrrh. Presumably even a modest amount of these would have made a significant difference to the life of this little family, but nothing is said of it again. Perhaps Joseph had a nasty gambling habit, or Mary may have pissed it up the wall at the local tavern.

However, it is the Three Wise Men themselves that really bother me. These three were wealthy, educated and driven, after all, they had travelled far, from The East, in order to meet with TLBJ™. They believed this child to be the son of god, and yet after some preliminary gifts they bugger off for the rest of his life. Surely they must have had a vested interest in educating the child, raising him out of a life of poverty and hard work, ensuring that he lived healthy and well? He's the son of god for Cruijff's sake! Of course, I shouldn't question their wisdom, for how could they do something unwise, being Wise as they were?

So they disappear, taking no further part in the story, and Jesus grows up exactly the same as he would had he never been visited by Three Wise Men. It's almost as though the Christmas story was a standalone tale not meant to fit into the overall ark of His life story, almost as if this story of His birth was a Frankincense's Monster stitched together from the body parts of older messiah birth tales. I use the term 'almost' inaccurately there, what I really mean is that is exactly what this story is.

However, as we are often told, we have forgotten the true meaning of Christmas. With all the magickal sillies pulled out of the yarn, here is the true meaning of Christmas: A baby was born in a barn, and some people went to see him. That's a pretty naff meaning of Christmas. For it to really mean anything in a religious sense it has to be replete with all the magick, one dimensional characters and gaping plot-holes.

Luckily, Wintertime celebrations did not begin with the Jesus cult. As with so much in Christianity, Christmas is simply a re-tooling of something that already existed. But if we aren't celebrating the given bornness of TLBJ™, then what are we celebrating? Well, in the Winter, it is pretty dark, cold and miserable, atmospherically speaking. My impression is that at some point people started flicking the bird to the weather, saying "it is cold, it is dark and it is miserable, but I am with the people who matter to me, and I am going to be a cheerful fudge, even if it kills me".

Of course, in some parts of the world it isn't cold and miserable on Christmas, so I don't know what they're happy about. Oh, wait...

I like time off work. I like getting presents. I like spending time with friends and family. I think it's very important to have times set aside to reflect and recharge, to consider your life, and perhaps make modifications to the path you may have been hurtling down over the course of simply living through the rush of life. I even like silly stories, but not when they are taken seriously. I don't need a seriously silly story to justify the things that popularly make up Christmas, I think the holiday stands on its own merits, mysticism aside.

Put it Away!

or: How I Know that Bared Human Flesh is an Abomination.

This is a piece I wrote (facetiously) for my comedy groups communal blog The ACRE Fourthought. The topic was nudity, and this is what I done written. I will post a link at the end should you wish to read the other ACREs pieces.

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Good heavens! Scarcely can I venture from the grounds of my land, nor peep from the upper echelons of my towers without my oracles suffering a cannonade of unfiltered humanity. I cannot bear to see bared flesh, it makes my stomach churn with the violence of a child drowned in a storm. I must apologise for the strength of that analogy, but I feel it is entirely necessary to kindle in you an appreciation for quite how distasteful I find the sight of skin. Grargh!

Humanity developed clothing for a reason. It is because our bodies are hateful to us. The soul within the body is trapped, like a dignified gentleman bedecked in formal regalia forced to travel via a zorb ball of muck, carried aloft on a canal of effluent. It is clear in both examples that we are better than such things, and must strive to rise above of our imperfect transport.

The bodhisattva Siddhartha Gautama knew well this problem, but incorrectly identified that it is life itself that is suffering. Wrong, Siddy, wrong. It is our bodies which are the source of suffering. Look at them for Cruijff's sake! They are loose, sagging, peach hemp sacks holding on for dear life! The Sisyphean effort of the human form to defy gravity is a pathetic reminder of our imperfection and must be summarily ignored. Of course not everybody agrees with me, and those whose conclusions differ from my own are, quite simply, cretinheaded pocks.

There are even such fools as believe the human body is a thing of beauty!!! I have a mouthful of vomit simply considering such an untenable position. Beautiful, they say. Good spirits, I should fucking well say not! The droop of a breast and a willy's wrinkles and not things to be celebrated. They are things to be covered up, as all fundamentalists correctly know. However, they also believe that god created us perfect, which is clear nonsense. No sensible thought had a hand in designing a human being. Should we shit when standing, our excrement would travel down the backs of our legs, which is wholly unpleasant. A further example of the imperfection of humanity are the people who, most perversely of all, enjoy these sorts of things. People who would like nothing more than to have flecks of faecal matter in their eyelashes. Dirty dogs! It is horrifying to think that even if people appear decently dressed, it is still possible they are harbouring essence of dookie in the hair near their eyes, the eyes they are looking at you with. Cack. But I digress.

No, I will digress. Surely we cannot be perfect beings, how perfect can we be when in experiments run by Berrendium University, 98% of sane humans were unable to differentiate between an image of a testicle sack or of an elbow. What caring creator would copy and paste between two such incompatible areas? Not a cowing one! It wouldn't and didn't happen.

I was once so disgusted with my own physicality that I bit a chunk of flesh straight out of my arm, but this only succeeded in upsetting me further.

Cover yourself up!

It just occurred to me that you could be naked reading this, and it revolts me. I'm freezing cold right now and I'm wearing a quarter of a million togs worth of duvet. How cold must you be whilst naked? Very cold indeed, but of course you cannot feel the cold because you are being protected by Diabolus, King of Hell, who loves nudity because he is perversion. Cover yourself up or burn forever in angry sulphur! Get some wool about you for the love of all that is good.

It is an undeniable fact that all bad things happen when at least some part of the skin is clearly visible. The only human who ever successfully lived without sin was Breton Diarckaluuma who was born into a large hessian sack and spent his entire life in there, being fed by his parents who gunged porridge through the side of the sack. The only way they could tell whether he was a girl or a boy was asking him to provide a detailed verbal account of his genitals, which he did with undignified eagerness.

I had sexual intercourse once, and I was so ashamed with both my own body and the body of my accomplice I drowned us both in a vat of dimethylmercury where we both would have died had I not INSISTED that we be clothed in an Iron Maiden of kevlar. I patented this cleansing procedure under the name Nudity-Expunging Baptism. Whenever I masturbate I don't look.

Fashion today is like the worst kind of cooking, tiny proportions and inappropriately ineffective dressing. Just as a sprig of parsley does not cover up a big bowl of oats, so too is vacuum-packing yourself in skimpy garments which do not cover up your skin unsightly.

If my expert evidence has still failed to convince you, consider this, every single person in the history of the world who has ever died at some point had their skin showing. The exception of course is Breton Diarckaluuma, who is alive and well in space, hidden. Be decent and cover up your inane appearance, and you too could live forever.

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The full blog is here.