Dear God,
Fuck you. Here I am kneeling by my bed, hands up in prayer for no one. Here I am kneeling by my bed, semen stains practically holding the fraying bed sheets together, and fuck you. You’re not even real. Here I am kneeling by my bed, like a pervert. Suck a fat dick, God. If that even is your real name. What are you calling yourself these days? Yahweh? Allah? Well fuck you Yahweh and an even bigger fuck you Allah. You think you’re so great but you’re not. You’re nothing. You’re literally nothing. What are you made of? Nothing! Not atoms. Not stuff. Not anything. Just a big ole pile of sloppy monkey-fucking nothing. You’re just a feeling. A vibe. Well fuck your feelings. Put your feelings in a fuck sack with all the other fucks and fuck that sack. I’m putting your feelings between the mattress and the box-spring and I’m fucking them. Don’t worry, I still got my hands up in prayer. I went to an orgy last week and some bearded guy had his whole arm up inside this chick. Like a puppet. Snorting lines of designer caviar, face smeared with lube. Nothing but tits and ass in the background. Seeing the sausage being un-made, peeled back like a banana’s. God, and the smell? Fuck me, no wonder they do so much coke — I was, like, what is this, the World Juniors? I don’t even know why I started on about this, what I meant to say was Fuck you. I’m so high I can’t even concentrate on swearing to — at — You. I swear to You every single night! Drugs — that’s my motto. No, wait, what was it, oh yeah: Drugs are fun! I eat drugs. I drink drugs. I inhale drugs. And when I do I feel my brain turn to mush, into a slurry of diarrheaic proportions. One guy came in, said he needed something to stop his sneezing, I gave him some laxatives, said take this, he said laxatives?, I said yeah, you won’t dare sneeze afterwards.
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To read the rest of this review — and more by Steve Schmolaris — visit his website Bad Gardening Advice.
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Steve Schmolaris is the founder of the Schmolaris Prize, “the most prestigious prize in all of Manitoba,” which he first awarded in 1977. Each year, he awards the prize to the best album of the year. He does not have a profession but, having come from money (his father, “the Millionaire of East Schmelkirk,” left him his fortune when he died in 1977), Steve is a patron of the arts. Inspired by the exquisite detail of a holotype, the collective intelligence of slime mold, the natural world and the suffering inherent within it — and also music (fuck, he loves music!) — Steve has long been writing reviews of Winnipeg artists’ songs and albums at his website Bad Gardening Advice, leading to the publication of a book of the same name.
