Un an déjà ! Le festival d'Angoulême, qui avait lieu ce week-end, et dont la précédente édition avait été le sujet de mon premier billet, me rappelle que le temps passe vite, surtout quand on raconte des conneries. Merci à tous pour vos encouragements et à bientôt autour d'un verre, pour fêter ça ou autre chose...
Pour les amateurs de petites crottes matinales bien moulées qui ont l'avantage de ne pas sentir mauvais pour un sou, en voici un magnifique spécimen. Extrait pour les impatients :
Trois gamins [d'une vingtaine d'années, ndlr] sur un scooter volé tentent d'échapper à la police, qui est à leurs trousses. Poursuite, dérapage, l'un meurt, les deux autres sont toujours entre la vie et la mort. De là où elle est, je suis sûr que Super Nanny grommelle : "D'accord, c'est pas bien de rouler à trois sur un scooter volé, sans casque, sans papiers, trop vite. D'accord. Mais comment ça se fait que dans ce pays on ait si peur de la police qu'on en finit par mourir de trouille ?"
Quand Bill Hicks parle de musique, les pendules sont remises à l'heure...
Cause you know, if you play New Kids on the Block albums backwards... they sound better, you know. "Oh come on, Bill, they're the New Kids, don't pick on them! They're so good and they're so clean-cut and they're such a good image for the children..." Fuck that! When did mediocrity and banality become a good image for your children? I want my children to listen to people who fucking ROCKED! I don't care if they died in puddles of their own vomit! I want someone who plays from his FUCKING HEART! "Mommy, mommy, the man that Bill told me to listen to has a blood bubble on his nose!" SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO HIM PLAY! The New Kids! "Hi! We're the New Kids and we're so good and clean-cut! We're so clean-cut!" Sieg Heil! Heil! Heil! A good clean country... Heil! Heil! Heil! FUCK THAT! I WANT MY ROCK STARS DEAD! I want them to fucking play with one hand and put a gun in their other fucking hand and go "I HOPE YOU ENJOY THE SHOW!" BANG! YEEEEEEES! YEEEEEEES! PLAY FROM YOUR FUCKING HEART!... ... ... I am available for children's parties, by the way...
Drugs have done good things for us and if you don’t believe they have, do me a favour – take all your albums, tapes, CDs and burn them cause you know what? The musicians who made that great music that has enhanced your lives throughout the years… Reeeeeal fucking high! Oooooooookay! And these other musicians today who don't do drugs and in fact speak out against them? Boy, do they suck! What a coincidence! Ball-less, soulless, spiritless corporate little bitches, suckers of Satan's cock, each and every one of them! "We're rock stars against drugs cause that's what the President wants." Aw, suck Satan's cock! That's what we want, isn't it, government-approved rock and roll? "Whooh, we're partying now! We're rock stars who do Pepsi Cola commercials!" Suck Satan's cock! Put that big scaly pecker down your gullet! Drink that black worm jism! Drink it! Fill your little bellies! Ha ha ha! Send in Vanilla Ice. Hello Vanilla. Says here on your application, you have no talent, and yet you want to be a star… I think something can be arranged. Suck Satan's cock! I will lower the standards of the earth. I will put 56 channels of American Gladiators on every TV. I will put all the money in the hands of 14-year-old girls. They will think you are charismatic, deep and edgy. Oooooooooooh!... … Send in MC Hammer on your way out… Hello Hammer. Back again, huh?
[I]n the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in the world were the truths and they were all beautiful. The old man had listed hundreds of the truths in his book. I will not try to tell you of all of them. There was the truth of virginity and the truth of passion, the truth of wealth and of poverty, of thrift and of profligacy, of carelessness and abandon. Hundreds and hundreds were the truths and they were all beautiful. And then the people came along. Each as he appeared snatched up one of the truths and some who were quite strong snatched up a dozen of them. It was the truths that made the people grotesques. The old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the matter. It was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood. You can see for yourself how the old man, who had spent all of his life writing and was filled with words, would write hundreds of pages concerning this matter. The subject would become so big in his mind that he himself would be in danger of becoming a grotesque. He didn't, I suppose, for the same reason that he never published the book. It was the young thing inside him that saved the old man. Sherwood Anderson, "The Book of the Grotesque", Winesburg, Ohio, 1919
Groland peut bien aller se faire voir ailleurs : voici une très grande leçon de modernisme. Comme d'habitude, il va de soi que toute distance critique, toute forme de lucidité, toute velléité de rire - bref, toute manifestation d'intolérance - est à réprimer sur-le-champ.
