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Authors: Douglas Coupland
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good of the show—and because right now is more about the memory of Matt Bradley than it is about me—I’m going to let it slide. But you might want to get Dino in for some counselling.”
“You’re a wise and kind woman, Sarah,” I said, and she giggled.
Inside, the hangar lobby resembled the Columbine parking lot, network TV people keeled over and looking miserable in the wake of Mr. Bradley’s death.
Sarah vanished while we stood for a few minutes trying to decipher the action. She returned with a cartoonishly handsome executive-type guy. He barely glanced at us, then asked her, “Are these the two B-unit camera guys?”
“It’s them. Guys, this is Stuart.”
“Great.” Stuart proceeded to ignore us, quizzing Sarah. “Did you get a refund of the Fiji tickets?”
“I did.”
Shit.
This guy was Sarah’s boyfriend—my
competition.
Sarah turned to us. “Fellas, we’re going to be a little while organizing a thing or two. Go grab a bite from the vending machines.” She gave each of us a pile of U.S. dollar bills and a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for rescuing me back there.”
I said, “Our pleasure, ma’am. I didn’t know Matt Bradley for long, but I know he would have done the same thing.”
She giggled a big satisfying giggle and went off to wherever. But Stuart didn’t follow her. Instead, he came up to me. “Okay,
fella
,” he rumbled. “I can see you mind-raping my Sarah, so I’ll ask you to stop right now. If I ever get even the slightest inkling that something ishappening, I’ll sweep down from the sun with one thousand of my best ninjas and carve you into hamburger. Am I clear?”
“Uh …”
“Am I clear?”
“Right. Loud and clear.”
“When are we leaving for Kiribati?” Neal asked him, trying to break the tension.
“No idea. Screw off, the both of you.” Stuart stalked away.
12
Maybe you have a Stuart McDoucheworthy in your life.
Look at me, I’m Stuart. When I check myself out in the mirror, I think I’m better-looking than even, say, Matt Damon. I coast on my good looks.
“A right dickhead,” Neal observed.
“No, he can’t be a dick, Neal, because he’s a twat.” At least Matt Damon has the talent to play Jason Bourne. Without his looks, Stuart would be nothing more than, well—he would be nothing more than me. Except
I
am a well-rounded bloke seasoned by a life of adventure; it kills me to think of all the attention Stuart gets just because he has a fucking
chin.
I seriously wish that Stuart had spent his entire childhood being serially arse-raped by teachers, scoutmasters, members of the clergy, relatives, policemen, doctors, door-to-door salesmen and all registered sex offenders within a 500-mile radius of his unprotected bedroom.
Neal said, “This certainly mixes up your mating strategy, doesn’t it, Ray?”
“What on
earth
are you talking about?”
“It’s pretty obvious you want to bonk Sarah till her skull pops. Even that clueless American twat noticed that. Shall we hit the vending machines while we’re hanging about, Raymond?”
“Might as well.”
Okay.
I’m not a celebrity chef. I like to think of myself as a giving, caring person who really does think about the modern world—someone who tries to improve the planet, even though it seems pretty much doomed. As a consequence, maybe I’m not fully qualified to pass judgment on the diet of most Americans. But as I stood there staring at the shit-coated guano logs and repulsive cans of room-temperature weasel piss in the airport vending machines, I was appalled. “Come on, America, you’re living creatures, not science experiments.”
“Scary, isn’t it, Ray.”
“How on fucking
earth
do Americans expect to ensure that weaker countries stay weak when all they eat are overpackaged chemical goatfuckings manufactured in the same factories that make dildos and pesticides?”
“Ray, I don’t think there’s anything in there we could actually put in our
“You’re a wise and kind woman, Sarah,” I said, and she giggled.
Inside, the hangar lobby resembled the Columbine parking lot, network TV people keeled over and looking miserable in the wake of Mr. Bradley’s death.
Sarah vanished while we stood for a few minutes trying to decipher the action. She returned with a cartoonishly handsome executive-type guy. He barely glanced at us, then asked her, “Are these the two B-unit camera guys?”
“It’s them. Guys, this is Stuart.”
“Great.” Stuart proceeded to ignore us, quizzing Sarah. “Did you get a refund of the Fiji tickets?”
“I did.”
Shit.
This guy was Sarah’s boyfriend—my
competition.
Sarah turned to us. “Fellas, we’re going to be a little while organizing a thing or two. Go grab a bite from the vending machines.” She gave each of us a pile of U.S. dollar bills and a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for rescuing me back there.”
I said, “Our pleasure, ma’am. I didn’t know Matt Bradley for long, but I know he would have done the same thing.”
She giggled a big satisfying giggle and went off to wherever. But Stuart didn’t follow her. Instead, he came up to me. “Okay,
fella
,” he rumbled. “I can see you mind-raping my Sarah, so I’ll ask you to stop right now. If I ever get even the slightest inkling that something ishappening, I’ll sweep down from the sun with one thousand of my best ninjas and carve you into hamburger. Am I clear?”
“Uh …”
“Am I clear?”
“Right. Loud and clear.”
“When are we leaving for Kiribati?” Neal asked him, trying to break the tension.
“No idea. Screw off, the both of you.” Stuart stalked away.
12
Maybe you have a Stuart McDoucheworthy in your life.
Look at me, I’m Stuart. When I check myself out in the mirror, I think I’m better-looking than even, say, Matt Damon. I coast on my good looks.
“A right dickhead,” Neal observed.
“No, he can’t be a dick, Neal, because he’s a twat.” At least Matt Damon has the talent to play Jason Bourne. Without his looks, Stuart would be nothing more than, well—he would be nothing more than me. Except
I
am a well-rounded bloke seasoned by a life of adventure; it kills me to think of all the attention Stuart gets just because he has a fucking
chin.
I seriously wish that Stuart had spent his entire childhood being serially arse-raped by teachers, scoutmasters, members of the clergy, relatives, policemen, doctors, door-to-door salesmen and all registered sex offenders within a 500-mile radius of his unprotected bedroom.
Neal said, “This certainly mixes up your mating strategy, doesn’t it, Ray?”
“What on
earth
are you talking about?”
“It’s pretty obvious you want to bonk Sarah till her skull pops. Even that clueless American twat noticed that. Shall we hit the vending machines while we’re hanging about, Raymond?”
“Might as well.”
Okay.
I’m not a celebrity chef. I like to think of myself as a giving, caring person who really does think about the modern world—someone who tries to improve the planet, even though it seems pretty much doomed. As a consequence, maybe I’m not fully qualified to pass judgment on the diet of most Americans. But as I stood there staring at the shit-coated guano logs and repulsive cans of room-temperature weasel piss in the airport vending machines, I was appalled. “Come on, America, you’re living creatures, not science experiments.”
“Scary, isn’t it, Ray.”
“How on fucking
earth
do Americans expect to ensure that weaker countries stay weak when all they eat are overpackaged chemical goatfuckings manufactured in the same factories that make dildos and pesticides?”
“Ray, I don’t think there’s anything in there we could actually put in our
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