create_destiny (
create_destiny) wrote2007-02-10 03:45 pm
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The Monster at the End of this Post
Certain health care professionals have accused me of having undue anxiety. What's that saying, "If you're not confused you're not paying attention?" How about "If you don't have an anxiety disorder you weren't paying attention to the books you were exposed to as a child."

Take, for example, The Cat in the Hat, a godless recipe for anarchy. This book wrecked me as a child. My hypothalamus most certainly shrank, marinated as it were in a toxic bath of stress hormones, while my mother read this book to me. A trickster cat hops on a ball while performing a circus act of balancing objects. Don't You Realize That a Goldfish Could Die and a Perfectly Good Cake is About to be Ruined? Not to mention the demonic flying of kites in the house by the perverted twins --"Thing One" and "Thing Two!" Holy Christ! Will no one heed the goldfish, crying like a voice in the wilderness, urging the children to chase the Cat out and restore the house to sanity and order?!?
Even worse was Grover in The Monster at the End of This Book. Each turn of the page brings Grover and the reader closer to the monster at the end of the book. Grover desperately scrambles to prevent the reader from turning the pages. He ties the pages together with rope, he builds a brick wall, but nothing is strong enough to stop the ceaseless turning of the pages.
Even as a child I knew this book was written to prepare children for the end of the world. Each passing hour is the turning of another page, bringing us closer to the horror of eternal bedtime. Yes, the monster at the end of the book turns out to be Grover himself, but this was no consolation to me. I knew that was just a sugar-coated ploy devised to trick children into going to sleep, into living an unconscious life where we dare not question God or Dick Cheney.
Yes, give me Wellbutrin and buckets of TrimSpa, Baby. Give me new pills all shiny and green -- striped ones, piped ones and a Prozac machine! For these green house gasses are killing us, Lasses. There's a Bush in the house and our Mother stepped out. Turn the page! Turn the page! Turn the page!

Take, for example, The Cat in the Hat, a godless recipe for anarchy. This book wrecked me as a child. My hypothalamus most certainly shrank, marinated as it were in a toxic bath of stress hormones, while my mother read this book to me. A trickster cat hops on a ball while performing a circus act of balancing objects. Don't You Realize That a Goldfish Could Die and a Perfectly Good Cake is About to be Ruined? Not to mention the demonic flying of kites in the house by the perverted twins --"Thing One" and "Thing Two!" Holy Christ! Will no one heed the goldfish, crying like a voice in the wilderness, urging the children to chase the Cat out and restore the house to sanity and order?!?
Even worse was Grover in The Monster at the End of This Book. Each turn of the page brings Grover and the reader closer to the monster at the end of the book. Grover desperately scrambles to prevent the reader from turning the pages. He ties the pages together with rope, he builds a brick wall, but nothing is strong enough to stop the ceaseless turning of the pages.

Even as a child I knew this book was written to prepare children for the end of the world. Each passing hour is the turning of another page, bringing us closer to the horror of eternal bedtime. Yes, the monster at the end of the book turns out to be Grover himself, but this was no consolation to me. I knew that was just a sugar-coated ploy devised to trick children into going to sleep, into living an unconscious life where we dare not question God or Dick Cheney.
Yes, give me Wellbutrin and buckets of TrimSpa, Baby. Give me new pills all shiny and green -- striped ones, piped ones and a Prozac machine! For these green house gasses are killing us, Lasses. There's a Bush in the house and our Mother stepped out. Turn the page! Turn the page! Turn the page!
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I love you!
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Two months apart.
It was EXACTLY as you say here.
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Dr. Seuss ain't nothin!
You have to go to German kid;s books to get the real deal. American's don't have the chops to freak out kids like those old German dudes did.
Like this story warning kids to not suck their thumbs.
The great, long, red-legged scissorman.
Oh! children, see! the tailor's come
And caught our little Suck-a-Thumb
And Conrad cries out - Oh! Oh! Oh!
Snip! Snap! Snip! They go so fast;
That both his thumbs are off at last.
Mamma comes home; there Conrad stands,
And looks quite sad, and shows his hands;-
"Ah!" said Mamma "I knew he'd come
To naughty little Suck-a-Thumb."
Re: Dr. Seuss ain't nothin!
Re: Dr. Seuss ain't nothin!
Re: Dr. Seuss ain't nothin!
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Some variation of this thought has crossed my mind every day since age 5.
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I feel the same way about depression- whenever I go to the doctor because I'm just feeling so low energy and the doctor asks if I'm feeling sad or hopeless, I wonder whether the man is reading the papers? Watching tv? Looking out his window (my clinic is in the center of the city, with many many homeless people around it).
BLASPHEMY!!!
(btw, we have 'The Day After' on VHS, if you ever have the perverse desire to watch it again...)
Re: BLASPHEMY!!!
Re: BLASPHEMY!!!
Re: BLASPHEMY!!!
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I had a frantic grandmother, so I always equated grover (in this book) with a hysterical old lady. Silly Grover.
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"The Day After" was very emotional to me, but was nothing compared to "Soylent Green". I didn't eat for a long time after that. Every day is one day closer to that.
the big one
Re: the big one
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Nothing like racist propoganda cartoons from a beloved children's author to brighten your day.
Oh wait, you're already scared.
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