BC: Excuse me, I can't let you in, I'm cleaning my finger. It was up my arse all day, as I was racking my brains for new ideas for my GOOTUBE rants.
CB: In person...you look even less like a person.
BC: What's going on? You've got a camera. You just took a picture of me waving my finger...are you with a newspaper?
CB: I'm on assignment for the Grimsby Tell-a-Laugh — COMMENTS SECTION!
BC: With the what?
CB: The Grimsby Tell-a-Laugh COMMENTS section! What, doesn't that IMPRESS you? You pretend to be famous because you have a GOOTUBE account! I'm supposed to be IMPRESSED.
BC: I get a lot of hits.
CB: Not where it counts. Listen, you delusional fungus-covered duck egg, stop waving your finger around; it's attracting flies.
BC: Well, what do you want from me? Hurry up, I want to go back to my little tiny room and open up Amazon packages and show off CDs and shit I bought.
CB: I heard you pulled a long rant about Keith Emerson and suicide, and you said that people who kill themselves are cowards.
BC: Well, yeah. Fuck 'em! They have a nerve. I was hoping for another Keith Emerson album or an ELP reunion or something. Now I can't have it. Selfish bastard, depriving ME of entertainment!
CB: What do you know about what leads to suicide and what makes life not worth living? You sure don't know anything about quality of life, considering how YOU live.
BC: Here, I've been depressed. I snapped out of it.
CB: Depressed? About what? Your sideboards being uneven? Your fucking battery-operated torch arriving a day later than Amazon said it would? That you shone it on your crotch and still couldn't find your dick? That you tried to put on your wife's girdle and snapped out of it?
BC: Christ, how did you know?
CB: Why is it that a feeble, no-talent wad of gum like you is so insensitive and stupid that you think because YOU were "depressed" you know the depth of other peoples' depression and sadness? How old are you, Hippo-butt Face? For every year you've been on this planet, Keith Emerson was a star. Think about that. He saw the world. He had tremendous ups and downs. You can't even imagine what he went through and the amazing emotions he had to be able to do what he did. Magnify it all, and it's no surprise he had an extreme answer to what, for him, was an extreme condition.
BC: I own some guitars. Uh.
CB: Ever play 'em in front of a stadium of 50,000 people?? NO! So fuck off you preposterous posturing pot of piss. Your brainless bullying in front of a camcorder is NOTHING. Speaking of nothing... nothing can be an incredibly frightening void, leading to the free fall of self-destruction. It's not just stars who fall a victim to severe depression or suicide.
BC: Ugh?
CB: What I mean, you bloated gorilla embryo, is for every suicide of a star like Keith Emerson, there are another hundred, committed by ordinary people. You DON'T UNDERSTAND that depression afflicts the common housewife, a young teenager, or even a bus driver going through mundane chores every day. How dare you pretend to know the depression others feel based on your own watered down petty disappointments? What do you know of the chemical imbalances that trigger anxiety?
BC: Ugh?
CB: Think of the albino who can't be out in the sun. That's physical. Is it so hard to understand the mental version? Someone who can't deal with stress, or suffers ennui, anhedonia, or melancholia in the extreme? You want to go yell "Fuck You" to people in sanitariums? You think all they need is a fat bastard yelling at them to snap out of it?
BC: Ugh?
CB: Why the FUCK do people like you pretend you know progrock, and that you understand Dylan or Bowie or Lennon or even Keith Emerson? You haven't a clue about their lyrics or the tumult that produces the music. You can't even understand that a fucking pearl on your wife's necklace was the product of sensitivity.
BC: Ugh?
CB: Why is it you're a failure? Because you LACK real emotion and sensitivity. You're a drone. You feel nothing. You're just a selfish fool. You sit on your fat ass bellowing and blabbering just to see your ugly mouth move.
BC: Ugh?
CB: You are just a consumer. You consume too much garbage and it makes you fat. You consume CDs and DVDs but you only play with them like a baby plays with a rattle. You grimace and gawk into the camera in what is really a form of masturbation. Useless twit. Be lucky that like blubber on a walrus, the goo that surrounds your brain insulates you from REAL depression and, in a word, REALITY. Blessed are the fools. Damned are those who suffer fools. Blessed are those who finally walk away from fools and suffer them no more. Goodbye! Stay in your little room with your tiny mind and delusional egomania. Look at you. You're a glutton. A pig. You'll eat anything. You're an opinionated spoiled brat. Would you please KILL YOURSELF?
BC: NO, I'm expecting an Amazon package.
CB: Well, fuck off and die of AIDS and EBOLA. And while you're dying may your house catches fire and burn up all your junk and singe your beard off, and roast your pubic hairs so that Shauna Cuntwell has to come over and shave you clean and apply ointment, disinfectant and deodorant. I hope that doesn't sound rude. Because I want it to sound like a mean it. I wish I was a rugby player.
BC: Huh?
CB: I'd love to rip your dick off and stomp it into the ground. Not that I like to use vulgarity. Tell you what, pretend I said penis. Or turnip. Or an overdone McDonalds' crisp. You're the loser. You're nobody. You can't take your life because you never even lived.
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