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The Scum Gentry journal - An Alternative News Source
Satirical news articles, social satire and political satire Headlines.

Ritual Terror: A Month in Review - satirical news article by Manz DeFio

March: a month of fresh beginnings, the promise of improving weather, smiles to be found on the city streets, new-born lawnmowers humming in the distance; producing the ever-pleasing odour of cut grass. The days are a prelude to summer laziness; iced glasses of booze in the garden, girls’ dresses lifting lightly in the breeze, tramps sleeping dangerously close to the water’s edge. But I’m getting distracted by the future. Did March deliver? Did I even have any expectations to begin with?

There’s a sailor who eats
Only fish-heads and tails
He will show you his teeth
That have rotted too soon

Financially speaking, the month has been perilous. Food needs have taken a back seat as, once again, I’ve been unable to shake the preposterous urge to consume the tropical spirit Rum. Last month, I dabbled in it; this month, it’s been coursing through my veins like sewer-water underneath a metropolis. Invariably, as I wander the shopping aisles loading cheap mince, kidney beans and toilet roll into my basket, my body begins to gravitate towards the drink section. It’s nothing short of instinct. Before I know it, I am staring at row upon row of shining fluids, and without fail my eyes are drawn further downwards towards the sparse blue and white label of Kinsey Rum. Decadent papa Kinsey, squatting in his glum and dusty domain, singing his putrid hushed ballad that my poor ears have not yet learned to dismiss. If we had the climate to grow sugar-cane, you can be certain that there would be reams of it standing tall in the back garden. Subsistence drinking: a simple, yet far-away dream.

The general health of the apartment took a turn for the worst this month. The immersion heater gave up, the washing machine began to incrementally fall apart and the toilet became monstrously clogged up. I awoke one morning, obscenely hung-over, to the sound of water splashing on porcelain. I stumbled towards the source of the noise and to my absolute horror discovered that the toilet had transformed into a hideous, perverted fountain. Shit-infested water was spewing all over the floor. To make matters worse, the water was steaming hot, being thrown back up the pipes from the shower upstairs. It pains me too much to dwell on it any further.

Adding to all of this domestic misery, the circuit breakers tripped for no apparent reason numerous times. If I was a religious man, I would have fallen to my knees and assumed The Lord God was punishing me for sitting around drinking all day and treating my neighbours with derision. As it happened, my house-mates and I, upon pulling various appliances out of the way, discovered a deadly extension lead under the sink, dripping with water, which was powering half the kitchen. The only logical conclusion: A team of Boom-Era animals wired the place under a cloud of fine whisky and mind-bending narcotics, all the while laughing and braying, wiping drool from their asinine lips with silk handkerchiefs.

But the month was by no means an exclusively depressing affair. Despite the ever-present burden of a near-empty wallet, I managed to grace the pubs and clubs numerous times. The key to this behaviour, as any moderate-to-obscene drinker knows, is to drink as much as possible in the home and take the rest out on the town with you, concealed in as many bottles and pockets as dignity will allow. A most wonderful discovery was the Cabernet Sauvignon on sale in Lidl for €4.79. It was like walking into a dimension where the shopkeepers don’t always try and whip every last coin from the drunkard’s pocket. Armed with this juice of the vine, and lubricated further with toxic rum, I scoured the evening beer gardens like a beast let loose from the confines of a zoo cell.

When I grow too old to dream,
I’ll have you to remember, my dear.

The pinnacle of March for many is Saint Patrick’s day. Myself, I equate the holiday entirely with the consumption and abuse of alcohol and any other available substance, and have done since I first put a tin of cider to my lips under the light of a summer moon in a country field many years ago. I decided that 1pm, Saturday 16th of March was the perfect moment to lash into the rum. I poured my drinks tall and proud, and set off on my patriotic trip into the bowels of degeneracy. Seven hours later, I was stuck in the corner of a couch, preaching obscenities to those in my vicinity. With most of the bottle consumed, it occurred to me to eat two pills of MDMA. For some reason, I completely dismissed the notion that one pill would be enough. It didn’t take long for the effects to kick in.

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