One does not kill the Spirit of Gravity with anger, but with laughter. 
-Friedrich Nietzsche

 


All their stories ended with “happily ever after” but nobody looked very happy. Of course, it’s hard to be happy when you live your whole damn life tiptoeing around sleeping giants. Maybe in their dreams they were giant-slayers, but when they spoke, all they were really saying was, “I don’t mean any harm.” And that was the problem, everybody was so afraid of “meaning any harm” they couldn’t do anybody much good, either. So I had to laugh when I remembered my giant-dream.

I was stuck in traffic, sitting there looking at the back end of this VW bus. You know the ones I mean, they always have rainbow stickers, and "free tibet" stickers and crap all over them. So I'm looking at all these "free this" and "love that" stickers that were made by some company that doesn't give a rat's ass about loving anything or about anything being free—and I saw this one that said "practice random acts of kindness". 

Yeah, right. That "practicing random acts of kindness" stuff ? That's what guys like Ted Bundy count on. It’s easy enough to say “free this” and “love that” on the back end of a Volkswagen, but really being free scares the shit out of most people, and what most people mean by “love” won’t help you if you meet up with Ted Bundy. But I knew from my giant-dream that it's possible to live happily ever after—as long as you understand what a random act of kindness really is. 

When most people talk being kind, what they really mean is “polite”, and people are already too damned polite. That’s the kind of stupid shit that made me want to be a counselor in the first place—that, and seeing how fucked up the whole profession was. They teach you that no matter what a client says, you’re supposed to keep this poker face on, you're not supposed to look shocked or disgusted or anything. You're supposed to sit there and say shit like, I see, and how do you feel about that, which is the biggest load of crap I ever heard…the people who write those books must not be getting the sick fuckers I have to talk to every day. Last week there was a guy in my office telling me how he got high the night before because he was having fantasies about doing his two-month old step-daughter. There's nothing kind about a poker face there, and I didn’t need to ask that guy how he felt about it; he was almost crying for me to tell him what he already fucking knew. 

So I just tell these guys who tell me something really sick like that? I say, Dude, that's really sick, you know that don't ya, and of course they do. They're either saying it because it's true, or they're testing you to see how straight with them you'll be. I learned all about this stuff when me and my cousin Connie were teenagers, and our parents sent us to that shrink about what Grandaddy did. 

I don’t remember Connie complaining about it at the time; Grandaddy gave her candy and presents too, just like he did with me. And we understood, in a kid way I mean, that if anybody knew Grandaddy touched us down there, or asked us to touch him down there, somebody was gonna be in trouble. But we figured nobody would want to know, and we were right too; I remember how my mom was saying I could come to her with anything, but she couldn’t look me in the eye while she was saying it. 

See, the first time, the very first time? I did feel funny. I remember thinking, what if somebody sees, or what if when I go back home, my mom can see it on my face—you know, dumb kid thoughts. But then Grandaddy said he'd give me these tassel-things I wanted for my new bike, and I'd been talking like an idiot about wanting those purple tassels for the ends of the handlebars

So maybe the first time you kinda felt funny, but you did it because you wanted some present, or like me, I wanted those tassels for my bike. But after you find out it feels good when someone touches you down there, I don't care what anybody says, you're not just doing it for candy or presents or tassels anymore. You're doing it for the same reason anybody does anything—it feels good, and if you get candy or presents or tassels besides that, that's just your good fucking luck. But you try telling that to the people who write those psychology books. Or try telling it to those guys with all the letters behind their name. They start talking about "cognitive dissonance" and shit, just so they don't have to deal with the fact that not every part of being "abused" or being "molested" is bad. The worst motherfucker in the world touches you in the right place, the right way, and it's gonna feel good. No big fancy word or magic phrase is gonna get around that.  

But most of those guys with the letters behind their name don't want to talk about that part of it—so if you didn't have the giant-dream, like me, how would you know that you don't have to feel bad about it feeling good?

When I was five I dreamed this giant lived in our backyard; we had a big backyard when I was little, and you could play there if you were real quiet, and didn't wake the giant up. Then out of nowhere there was this loud BLAAAALLLARRM sound, like somebody stuck in traffic, leaning on the horn.

Of course the giant woke up then, and when he saw me he was so mad he picked me up by my feet, and turned me upside down; he took his big giant-hand and scooped my face out, and then he got this big bowl and held me by my feet and used me like a spoon to eat his giant-food.

See, there's nothing wrong with being afraid, as long as fear is something that you feel.  But for most people fear is something they become, which is how they end up "not meaning any harm." And once that happens, anyone can use you as a spoon or a knife or something to wipe their ass with, if that's what they need you to be.

I didn't say "How do you feel about that ?" to that guy who couldn't stop thinking about doing his two-month old, 'cause you can't live your whole damn life tiptoeing around giants. You have to go where the giants live and find out what they eat.  Then you have to take their food away and set their homes on fire.

The only real act of kindness is that deliberate act of violence.

Once you understand that, you’ll live happily ever after.