B-Sides: All the Things | Never Should of Said

Ass, Piss iV Balis—Looking into the ‘T of the dork

Brandon Ferguson, Opinions Editor

 

 

It recently came to my attention that I suck. According
to noted literary laureates—the kind of folk who write
A, A, B, B poetry a la grade seven love letters—I’m an
egomaniacal, self-immortalizing bastard. That assertion
is, well, partly right—I am a bastard.

But I’m also in charge of the Opinions section so,
like my asshole, anything I produce is strictly mine (as is
the unfortunate decision to serve it up and offer it to
you every week).

For instance: did you know that if you eat Kraft

Dinner more than twice in one day, your bowels will
pass something resembling a neon yellow sea monster?

How sick is that shit? There’s more.

For instance: did you know that you’re officially an
asshole if, after your girlfriend has just taken her first
hot shower in two days, you promptly jizz on her
tummy? Sorry sweetie.

I don’t mean to gross you out or piss you off, valued
reader; rather, it’s my intention to start anew and take
you deeper. The common bond amongst all these smelly
nuggets of faux wisdom is the “I” that is me; the glue
that sticks these steamy words and ejaculated ideas
together can be found in the eye of the beholder-you.
And as I’ve gotten older, ’'ve grown bolder in what I’m
willing to share with you.

I value and appreciate your eyes taking the time to
read this, but if I were to remove the “TI” from the senti-
ment you’d end up with a Hallmark card that reads “one
values another’s attention”—and then Id be talking like
a math textbook and not speaking from the heart.

So there I am in print and here I’ll be for you.
They’re just letters put together, but the goal is to give
you, my voyeuristic peeps, a little more.

When I was younger, and far less vain, the idea of
exposure terrified me. If ever I was to speak, which was
rare, the fear of imperfection was almost crippling. The
slightest falter and I’d forever be a failure; the faintest
mistake and I’d be feigning success from the gravy train
of unemployment for life. Now I know that that’s not
so.

Part of the problem with exposure, as I see it—
which is the point of an opinion, one would presume—
is the critical side of the effort. Once this tripe is writ-
ten and printed, it’s out there; for ridicule, for dissection,
for wiping your ass with, for whatever, forever more.
That’s fine, and not to lend too much prominence to an
otherwise obscure college publication, but when you
fuck up, it’s there in the archives and online and littering

bathroom floors for as long as it takes for the next fire,
dot-com crash, or janitor to come along.

And when you fuck up as often as I do, that’s a lot
of fires to set.

The reason I raise the whole subject is twofold.
First, I’m bored with myself. At 26 years of age, I’m
dreadfully dull and feeling really unimportant. Hence,
accusations of grandiosity seem incredulous, absurd,
and hurtful. Like the one-inch nymph, two-pump
chump, porn star—is there anything here worth boast-
ing about?

Secondly, I'd like to start over with you readers. It’s
been a trying time of late—work obligations made me
so crazy I became an angry, irritable person to be
around; the DSU-Douglas College crap just doesn’t have
the common decency to die already, which makes me
both mad and sad; ex-girlfriends and former lovers seem
to be crawling out of their cranky depths to either make
claims that don’t exist or stake claims with their fists;
and I haven’t seen my best friends in months. In the
end, it’s a depressing forum to form opinions in and a
terrible place to write from. All the words end up angry,
alienated, and alone.

And so, in the kind of announcement that makes the
U2 release of Pop in a K-Mart look sage and savvy,
here’s my new column and soap box: B-Sides. All the
useless and hopefully amusing crap you could’ve done
without; twice the belligerent Brando that you’d never
introduce to your parents.

If it’s egomaniacal or self-immortalizing along the
way, I hope you'll forgive me, laugh at me, or maybe,
ideally, you'll do both. ’m an ass of epic proportions;
Tl fully piss you off if given half a chance; but mostly
and mainly, I’m just trying to have the balls to tell you
what’s on my mind.

You’ve been gracious enough to give me your eyes,
so you’re hereby welcome to have all of my life. Now
turn the page, friend.

 

 

or toll free 1-866-7-VOYAGE.

 

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Editorial Cartoon by JJ MC Cullough