by Kluwe, Chris
Begin Reading
Table of Contents
Photos
Newsletters
Copyright Page
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.
To my family,
to my friends,
to my teachers,
to my editors,
and to everyone who helped with everything
I cannot do on my own,
Thank You
Hello?
I’ve decided to call my own mind. There’s a lot of different characters in there, and I think we need to talk. Sadly, I have to use my three-year-old phone with crappy reception because I’m too cheap to upgrade to one that actually works, but I guess that’s on me.
First up is Football. As the phone rings, I pace around like a lion on methadone. I’ve never been able to sit still while I’m on the phone; it seems like thinking and listening and talking with someone I can’t see causes me to fill in the gaps with movement. Sometimes my wife yells at me because I’m driving her to distraction. I hope she doesn’t Tase me one day.
Football finally picks up. I can hear the yelling of coaches in the background. How’s it going? I ask. Oh, just fine, Football responds. It’s the usual—sitting around during practice thinking of spaceships, video-game ideas, possible book topics, how many different shades of blue there are before you start entering green—anything at all, really, to keep from going violently insane after we finish the forty-five minutes of punting we’re here for.
A dull roar shakes the phone in my ear—it sounds like a plane just landed on Football’s head. What was that? Inthemiddleofagame-havetogo-thesnapiscoming-puntisoff-gottacover-herecomeshester-ohshitohshitoh—click. The phone goes dead, the call cut off. I shrug and dial the number for Reading.
Reading doesn’t pick up, usually never does. Spends all its time among stacks of books, science fiction and fantasy mainly, tuning everything out inside the hushed cathedral silence of a library. I’m never quite sure where I’m going to go with Reading, but it’s always a great trip. I swear, though, if Reading ever gets an e-reader, I’m going to lobotomize myself. You can’t beat the feel of paper on fingertips.
Next on the list is abstract. I dial the number, and my phone swallows me up and spits me out inside a psychedelic landscape of non-Euclidean geometry and fireworks. The colors taste like triangles. All of a sudden, a herd of bowling-ball llamas run past me whispering scenes from Hamlet while a thunderous bass track shimmers the air into crystal sculptures. At one point, I’m pretty sure they all look like Jessica Rabbit. Commence the sweet-tea tango.
Time to leave, before abstract takes me on another tangent. It’s a fun place to visit, interesting scenery, but I don’t think I’d want to live there.
At this point I realize I’m talking to Reason. Reason’s always sitting above everything else, custodiet the custodians and all that, and usually keeps abstract on a pretty tight leash. There’s a couple long-chain molecular compounds that can distract Reason for a while, but they also generally make the next morning slightly unpleasant, so they get in only occasionally. The funny thing, though, is that Reason is the only one that will let them in in the first place. Unless Reason’s satisfied that it’s okay to take a break, all guards stay on high alert.
Reason assures me that it’s still very much in control at the moment, so I hang up and go looking for the last portion of my mind I’d like to speak with. It crafts me a wonderful conversation and then brings this snapshot to a close.
Enjoy the ride.
Welcome to the Circus
I never intended to write a book. All of this started when I wrote a letter.
A lot of people seemed to enjoy reading this letter, and one of the reasons they enjoyed reading it was that it had a bunch of naughty words in it. Words like lustful cockmonster and narcissistic fromunda stain and holy fucking shitballs.
Some other people didn’t like the language, and I imagine they went into apoplectic fits when they finally reached the very last word I wrote down, which I’ve taken the delight of reprinting here:
Asshole.
Coincidentally, Kurt Vonnegut always included a stylized picture of an asshole next to his signature (one of the many delightful hand-drawn illustrations he liked to include in his stories). There’s a big asterisk middle finger emblazoned on the spine of each book (at least on the ones I own, anyway), telling the world that this was his voice and you could take it or leave it.
I like Kurt’s voice, how he was able to highlight the absurdities and awfulness of the human race, hope and depression all twisted together into one complex knot (just like people!). I’m not Kurt, though. I have to use my own voice—colorful language, obscure tangents, mixed metaphors, and all.
As the great poet Marshall Mathers put it,
Sorry, Mama, I’m grown, I must travel alone
Ain’t following no footsteps, I’m making my own.
Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines.
So now that I’m writing a book, people have suggested topics for me to consider. Some of them I like, some of them I’ll ignore (I’m the one writing; I get to make the rules), but one in particular I find absolutely fascinating. The topic is “How the truth will always help you win.”
Sorry, but that’s not true. The truth will help you win only if people are willing to educate themselves as to why truth is important, and, make no mistake, truth is very important.
But what is truth?
To me, truth boils down to two things: a willingness to see the world as it really is, and the desire to change your beliefs when they conflict with your vision.
First off, to see the world as it really is. The world, one that we’ve made for ourselves, is absolutely fucked. We drop bombs on each other, kill children in the name of religion, discriminate against the poor and minorities because they’re “different,” pollute and destroy and despoil to satisfy our own selfish needs; in short, human beings are assholes.
The world is also full of joy and wonder: a fireman running into a burning building to save a complete stranger; a church offering food and shelter to the homeless; a child given encouragement and love from those around her. Human beings are assholes, but they’re also self-sacrificing, noble, and filled with boundless love.
The world is full of complexity. This is the truth, and it’s a hard one to learn. People can’t be defined by labels or categories; one man’s hero is another man’s villain. We cannot judge people by their own claims, which they shape as they see fit, or their thoughts, which we cannot see; we can judge people only by their actions and by how those actions affect others around them.
The truth is that the world is what we make it. What consequences our actions bring—that is truth. What our society values, not in word or phrase but in law and policy—that is truth. What people are willing to fight for, work for, die for—that is truth. The only truth that is self-evident is that we determine how truthful we want to be with each other.
Right now, the truth is that we value the shallow, the immaterial, the worthless, and the inane. Huge department stores
and horse-meat hamburger chains are built on shoveling as much cheap, easily replaceable trash on people as they can, no matter the consequences. (Have another Double McLard Burger to go with your lead-infused milk!) Reality TV, daytime talk shows—they’re mindless pap to distract us from actual issues. (But, boy, I’m sure glad Maury found out the fifth man tested was the child’s father!) Political races are closer to gladiatorial spectacles than rational discussions of important matters (why think when we can be entertained!).
The truth will always help you win? Hardly likely. No one is interested in the truth anymore, because the truth is harsh, unpalatable, bitter to the tongue and the mind. Give us our soma, our video walls, our bread and circuses to numb the dull ache of ignorance until we don’t even realize what it is we’ve lost. Give us a truth, but not the truth, because to change our beliefs and confront that truth is to admit that we’ve failed as a country and as a people, grown fat and indolent on the spoils of empire, that we’re content to fiddle as it all slowly burns around us, unwilling and unable to recognize that this path has been well trod throughout the course of history. For the truth to win, you have to want to know the truth, and not many people have the appetite.
Perhaps enough people will one day realize the truth—that we have only each other on this planet, that how we treat one another is the only legacy we leave for our children—and will act accordingly. Perhaps one day people will realize that we are a species composed of complex and unique individuals, that our differences don’t divide us but instead highlight our wondrous diversity. Perhaps one day people will treat each other the way they want to be treated: with respect, with dignity, with tolerance and compassion. That’s the day the truth will win.
Until that day, ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.
Some People Don’t Understand Logic
Emmett C. Burns is a Maryland state delegate who, in August 2012, wrote a letter to the owner of the Baltimore Ravens concerning statements made by Ravens linebacker Brendon Ayanbadejo in favor of same-sex marriage. The letter from Mr. Burns (n’excellent) to the Ravens demanded the organization inhibit Brendon’s right to free speech, which I had a bit of a problem with. In response, I wrote this letter, which originally appeared on Deadspin, because they’ll print just about anything (love you guys).
Dear Emmett C. Burns Jr.,
I find it inconceivable that you are an elected official of Maryland’s state government. Your vitriolic hatred and bigotry make me ashamed and disgusted to think that you are in any way responsible for shaping policy at any level. The views you espouse neglect to consider several fundamental key points, which I will outline in great detail (you may want to hire an intern to help you with the longer words):
1. As I suspect you have not read the Constitution, I would like to remind you that the very first, the VERY FIRST, amendment in this founding document deals with the freedom of speech, particularly the abridgment of said freedom. By using your position as an elected official (when referring to your constituents so as to implicitly threaten the Ravens organization) to state that the Ravens should “inhibit such expressions from your employees,” more specifically Brendon Ayanbadejo, not only are you clearly violating the First Amendment, you also come across as a narcissistic fromunda stain. What on earth would possess you to be so mind-bogglingly stupid? It baffles me that a man such as yourself, a man who relies on that same First Amendment to pursue your own religious studies without fear of persecution from the state, could somehow justify stifling another person’s right to speech. To call that hypocritical would be to do a disservice to the word. Mindfucking obscenely hypocritical starts to approach it a little bit.
2. “Many of your fans are opposed to such a view and feel it has no place in a sport that is strictly for pride, entertainment, and excitement.” Holy fucking shitballs. Did you seriously just say that, as someone who’s “deeply involved in government task forces on the legacy of slavery in Maryland”? Have you not heard of Kenny Washington? Jackie Robinson? As recently as 1962 the NFL still had segregation, which was only done away with by brave athletes and coaches daring to speak their mind and do the right thing, and you’re going to say that political views have “no place in a sport”? I can’t even begin to fathom the cognitive dissonance that must be coursing through your rapidly addled mind right now; the mental gymnastics your brain has to tortuously contort itself through to make such a preposterous statement are surely worthy of an Olympic gold medal (the Russian judge gives you a 10 for “beautiful oppressionism”).
3. This is more a personal quibble of mine, but why do you hate freedom? Why do you hate the fact that other people want a chance to live their lives and be happy, even though they may believe in something different than you, or act different than you? How does gay marriage, in any way, shape, or form, affect your life? If gay marriage becomes legal, are you worried that all of a sudden you’ll start thinking about penis? “Oh shit. Gay marriage just passed. Gotta get me some of that hot dong action!” Will all of your friends suddenly turn gay and refuse to come to your Sunday Ticket grill-outs? (Unlikely, since gay people enjoy watching football too.)
I can assure you that gay people getting married will have zero effect on your life. They won’t come into your house and steal your children. They won’t magically turn you into a lustful cockmonster. They won’t even overthrow the government in an orgy of hedonistic debauchery because all of a sudden they have the same legal rights as the other 90 percent of our population—rights like Social Security benefits, child-care tax credits, Family and Medical Leave to take care of loved ones, and COBRA health care for spouses and children. You know what having these rights will make gays? Full-fledged American citizens just like everyone else, with the freedom to pursue happiness and all that entails. Do the civil-rights struggles of the past two hundred years mean absolutely nothing to you?
In closing, I would like to say that I hope this letter, in some small way, causes you to reflect upon the magnitude of the colossal foot-in-mouth clusterfuck you so brazenly unleashed on a man whose only crime was speaking out for something he believed in. Best of luck in the next election; I’m fairly certain you might need it.
Sincerely,
Chris Kluwe
PS: I’ve also been vocal as hell about the issue of gay marriage so you can take your “I know of no other NFL player who has done what Mr. Ayanbadejo is doing” and shove it in your close-minded, totally-lacking-in-empathy piehole and choke on it. Asshole.
Bowdlerizations
First off, let me say thank you to all the people who commented on my letter to Emmett C. Burns Jr.
You all give me great hope for the human race—hope that one day we can rise up past the petty differences that divide us and realize we’re all in this together. Perhaps our children won’t look back on our stewardship with regret.
Second, I heard from quite a few sources (including my dad) that the letter would have been more powerful and would have delivered the message better without the swearing, and that those who would refute the point could seize upon my colorful insults to dismiss the main thrust as little more than childish antics and egotistical displays of temper.
Bollocks.
The swearing is there for a reason. What Emmett C. Burns Jr. wrote, what I responded to, was far more disgusting and foul-minded than any simple scatological reference or genital mash-up. His words degrade the very essence of the English language with their barely hidden venom and intolerant hate; drag it screaming into the muck of iniquity by wrapping a mantle of seeming reasonableness around corruption and control; masquerade as discourse while screaming their very lies to any heaven you care to name—I could go on.
My words? My words are a litmus test for those who would see the truth of a message rather than the package it’s delivered in. I won’t lie; I use those words also because I personally find them entertaining to write and read (as do a large number of other people), but those who argue that my message means nothing sim
ply because I’m referencing a portion of the male anatomy would never have accepted the message anyway. They would have used other excuses to refute it, like “Oh, he’s just a punter,” or “What do you know? You just play football,” or “No one cares what you think, you fag.”
No, my words are meant for those who might be on the fence, those who are initially drawn in due to shock, or laughter, or outrage but then look at what lies beneath, at the truth of the matter. Those people I might reach, might give a quick lightbulb flicker of “Ohhh, so that’s what’s wrong with that argument.” But those who don’t look, who don’t question, who happily treat the symptoms and not the disease—isn’t that the very problem with our politics today? No one is interested in what lies hidden in plain sight beneath what’s said, the glossy dung ball of intolerance and hate buffed to a lustrous gleam by rhetoric and catchphrases.
So here is my gift to you. The exact same letter, but without the oh-so-naughty words, which only mean what we allow them to mean. What will your excuse be this time?
Dear Emmett C. Burns Jr.,
I find it inconceivable that you are an elected official of Maryland’s state government. Your vitriolic hatred and bigotry make me ashamed and disgusted to think that you are in any way responsible for shaping policy at any level. The views you espouse neglect to consider several fundamental key points, which I will outline in great detail (you may want to hire an intern to help you with the longer words):
1. As I suspect you have not read the Constitution, I would like to remind you that the very first, the VERY FIRST, amendment in this founding document deals with the freedom of speech, particularly the abridgment of said freedom. By using your position as an elected official (when referring to your constituents so as to implicitly threaten the Ravens organization) to state that the Ravens should “inhibit such expressions from your employees,” more specifically Brendon Ayanbadejo, not only are you clearly violating the First Amendment, you also come across as a BEAUTIFULLY UNIQUE SPARKLEPONY. What on earth would possess you to be so mind-bogglingly stupid? It baffles me that a man such as yourself, a man who relies on that same First Amendment to pursue your own religious studies without fear of persecution from the state, could somehow justify stifling another person’s right to speech. To call that hypocritical would be to do a disservice to the word. SAD-PUPPY-DOG-EYES hypocritical starts to approach it a little bit.
