War Crimes

Article: Desecration of the dead is as old as war itself

Four Marines got in trouble for urinating on some dead Taliban soldiers. I understand that when you’re sent somewhere for the sole purpose of killing people, it’s probably hard to turn off the “kill” switch in dudes’ brains. I mean, a lot of these guys go to war as trained killers and then come back to be efficient work place shooters.

The dead Taliban are lucky… I’m sure there are guys that would pay a lot of money to have three Marines urinate on them.

The above article gives an idea as to what this blog is about: (Gooch, you ask, you mean uriphilia?) No… I mean corpse desecration. Like everything in the news, I’ve experienced the subject matter first hand. I present to you an essay:

******

I wasn’t even born yet, but that didn’t stop me from forging a birth certificate and enlisting in the Army. The year was 1968 and I belonged to one of the first battalions deployed to the conflict in Vietnam.

Much like in today’s wars, there is a lot of one on one combat. It’s different than the anonymity of killing someone with a bomb or a grenade from a distance. Killing someone while you stare into their eyes is something you carry with you for the rest of your life. It fucks with your head. You have to reach into the darkest place in your soul and realize it’s either you or him that’s going to die in that moment. You have to dehumanize the enemy. It’s really, really depressing.

Fortunately we made light of the whole thing by desecrating the bodies of our enemies. Much like today’s military, we had the time of our lives urinating on corpses and staging puppet shows with dismembered enemy heads. I wonder if they still use fishing line to move the mouths?

In all fairness… we were pragmatists. Sure we desecrated the bodies but we found practical uses for the corpses. For example, when we ran out of Q-tips, we would cut off a pinky of the deceased and use that to clean out our ears. The Vietnamese didn’t use nail clippers, so a single dismembered hand provided five regular head screwdrivers in different sizes. Fingers with tougher nails were used to open care packages.

One time, I made a floating party barge out of 20 enemy corpses I’d strung together with wire and twine. We used the open mouths to hold our cans of Budweiser .

Like many American soldiers in Vietnam, I would cut off ears of those I killed and make a necklace out of them. If I got lonely, I would take one of the ears and set it on the pillow next to me while I lay in bed and tell it all of my problems. Sometimes I would loan my ears to my brothers in arms if they needed someone to talk to. This is where the phrase “lend me your ear” comes from. True story.

One time, one of my Sergeants seemed depressed. I offered him one of the ears from my necklace and he said “what I really need is a shoulder to cry on.”

“Hell…” I said, as i loaded my M-16, “I can have one here in about 15 minutes.”

goochout

Best Of: Volume 3

Gooch (The Column)
Posted 3/4/2000 

“The Xanax Speech”

This is the last “Gooch: The Column” that I will write as a PSU student, for after this term, I’m graduated. My weekly web column on goochonline.com will be printed once a week in this section, so it’ll be like I never left, if you cared. At any rate, I’m in a Pomp and Circumstance type of mood. I’d like to give some sort of graduation speech to those of us who get to enjoy their Spring without the worries of tuition, but I think I’ll just discuss the most famous graduation speech that was never given in front of a class.

On June 1, 1997, Mary Schmich wrote a column in the Chicago Tribune entitled “Advice, Like Youth, Probably Just Wasted on the Young.” In it she writes “Inside every adult lurks a graduation speaker dying to get out, some world-weary pundit eager to pontificate on life to young people who’d rather be rollerblading.” She encourages anyone over 26 to try and compose a “Guide to Life for Graduates,” since most of us will never be invited to “sow our words of wisdom among caps and gowns.” Her attempt, the “Wear Sunscreen” speech, was printed in the same column and was later recorded by a Kurt Vonnegut impersonator. This recording was posted on the internet as being Vonnegut’s, and it was alleged that Vonnegut himself had given the speech at MIT. This recording was used on a Baz Luhrmann song, and we got to hear it on Portland’s alternative radio station KNRK once every two hours a few summers back.

In a moment of unoriginality, I rewrote Ms. Schmich’s speech to reflect my view of the world, and the advice I would give its people. My speech:

Ladies and gentlemen of the class of 2000:

Take Xanax.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, Xanax would be it. The short term calming effects of Xanax have been proven by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your credit cards. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your credit cards until they’ve been cancelled. But trust me, in 20 years, you’ll look back at photos of stuff you bought on credit and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how wealthy you really looked. 

You’re not as fat as your friends say you are.

Don’t worry about hygiene. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as a floating seat cushion on Alaskan Airlines flight 261. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that come up in a blood test on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares your parents.

Binge.

Don’t be reckless with other people’s sports cars. Don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Purge.

Don’t waste your time on dressing well. Sometimes you’re coordinated, sometimes you’re clashing. The race is long and, in the end, you’ll probably be disappointed with the results.

Remember the cash you receive. Forget the paternity suits. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old collection notices. Throw away your old subpoenas.

Stalk.

Feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. Eventually, your parents will kick you out of the house and you’ll wind up being a stripper (hey, it’s Portland, baby) or pushing the big green buttons at Kinko’s, like some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know.

Get plenty of Vicodin. Be kind to your parole officers. You’ll miss them when they’re gone.

Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll come home to find your wife and a her waiter/model friend in the back yard and you’ll have to hack them up. Whatever you do, don’t golf too much, or bowl either. Your efforts are usually half-assed. So are everybody else’s.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it or of what the Campus Police say they’ll do if you’re caught enjoying it in the Millar library or some building foyer on campus.

Vomit, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them. This doesn’t apply to condoms.

Read beauty magazines. They will make you feel ugly, but well adjusted by comparison.

Get to know your parents. They are the best link to your inheritance. Be nice to your siblings. They’re the one’s who’ll try and take your inheritance from you.

Understand that friends come and go, but alcohol will always be there. Work hard to bridge the gap between porn and mainstream cinema, because the older you get, the more you’ll wonder what Ron Jeremy and Peter North are doing.

Work in construction once, but leave before it makes you hard. Work in sales once, but leave before it makes you into an asshole.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Cable prices will rise. Politicians will become boring. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you’ll fantasize that when you were young, you stole cable, politicians were cheating on their wives, and day time talk show personalities exploited their children.

Exploit your children.

Make sure that you have a lot of cash on hand. Maybe you’ll day-trade on a computer. Maybe you’ll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either will show up with a virus.

Don’t eat too much saturated fat, or by the time you’re 40 you’ll be dead.

Be careful whose columns you read, but be patient with those who write them. Humor is a form of cheap entertainment. Publishing it is a way of taking news and everyday occurrences, embellishing on it, focusing on the ugly parts and recycling it for one to three credits a term.

But trust me on the Xanax.

Best of: Volume 2

Air Travel Sucks.

I hate to fly. I curse the day the Wright Brothers took so much meth that they thought it would be cool to build a homemade plane. Many people who read Jam and visit my website are musicians who, upon achieving any success whatsoever, should avoid air travel at all costs. Lynrd Skynrd, Ritchie Valens, John Denver, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and plenty of other musicians were all stripped of their chance to die of a more venerable cause (like a drug overdose) by a plane crash. So I’ve taken it upon myself to occasionally try to dissuade people from flying commercial airlines (and personal aircraft… Right Payne Stewart? Right JFK Jr.? Right Sonny Bono… oops, wrong column) by writing my opinions on air travel in general.

Not that you need me to tell you what can go wrong in midair, you’ve got flight attendants telling you as soon as you board the plane of all of the “unlikely” events that can occur during the flight. Example: “In the unlikely event of a water landing, your seat cushion can be used as a flotation device.” Unlikely? They never give any instructions in the unlikely event of the plane smashing into the side of an office building at 400 mph. What about the unlikely event of a bombing? What about the unlikely event that the passengers are served edible food? There’s so many “unlikely events” that can happen on a plane, yet the flight attendants completely ignore these during their obligatory pre-flight instructions. What about the unlikely event of the plane being overtaken by armed terrorists?

Ladies and Gentlemen: In the unlikely event of a midair hostage situation, please pass your valuables toward the aisles. You’ll then want to access the burlap sack under the seat-flotation device. Completely cover your head with the sack as this will keep you from being able to identify the terrorists and will lessen your anxiety in the unlikely event that you’re shot execution style in the back of the head. Our in-flight movie will be a documentary, “Crash and Burn: The ValuJet Story.” Enjoy your flight.

My disdain for air travel does not reside solely with the airlines and their employees. For example, passengers can aggravate me as well. Here’s an open letter to a little boy who sat behind me on my last flight:

Billy? Was that you’re name? You probably remember me. I was sitting in front of you and was one of the nice people that were trying to find your teddy bear, “Woofie.” Yes, we looked, and we looked, and no one could find your bear. You got off of the plane, crying, like a six-year-old often does when he or she loses a prized toy. Funny thing? Woofie was in my backpack the whole time. That’s right! You see, when I have to get up at 5am, I get grouchy… Like Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street. In adult terms, it’s best not to fuck with me. So when you kicked the back of my seat eight or nine thousand times, I got really grouchy. In adult terms, fucking pissed. During your fourth mid-flight “potty break,” I took Woofie from your seat, leaving only the blanket in which you covered him. Woofie got to ride home with me in my “Goochmobile.” Can you say “Goochmobile?” I knew you could! Can you say “cigarette lighter?“ I knew you could… you seemed like a smart kid. Do you know what a “car cigarette lighter is?” Ask your Mom… ‘cause that’s what I torched your fucking bear with, you little bastard.

Actually, I pretty much take air travel as a time to avoid as much personal contact as possible. Like a porcupine uses its quills, a bee uses its stinger, and a prostitute uses its mace (long story), I use lack of hygiene (hair sans brushing, teeth sans brushing, ass sans brushing) as a natural defense from people. Since I buy the cheap seats on the cheap airlines, I’m usually tired, hungry, and aggravated enough to not want to take the chance with any human contact. Not everyone pisses me off, just the ones that want to “conversate.” The ones who want to assure me that it’s not the heat, that it is in fact, the fucking humidity.

Ultimately, I’ll fly long distances over driving them ever since the price of gas aligned itself with the price per ounce of cocaine served in a solid gold bathtub. “But Gooch,” you interrupt, “isn’t flying safer statistically than driving?” Save that crap for the tourists and the FAA. Statistically that may be true, but how do you really want to die? Plummeting from 20,000 feet for what seems like an eternity, or a sudden unexpected impact into the back of a logging truck, killing you instantaneously?

[columnist’s note: Here’s where I stopped writing and figured I’d start the editing process in a day or two and then whip out a conclusion. Then my appendix went really bad and I spent a couple of nights in the hospital. I apologize for this horrible ending which was done quickly so I could meet deadline and get back to my vicodin and my bed. I know that it’s not even that funny. Writing students please note: never end anything with the phrase “in conclusion” except in a medical emergency. You may now continue with the rest of the column.]

In conclusion, I’d like to say that as the summer travel season approaches, weigh your options, consult your travel agent, talk to friends and family about your travel decisions, and remember that you’re screwed no matter what you do. Thanks, have a great summer.

Best Of: Volume 1

It’s Better to Have Loved and Lost Than to Have Never Loved At All.
(And Other Crocks of Shit)
by John “Gooch” Gallucci
07.23.03

So your girlfriend broke up with you. What did she tell you? She needed “me space?” She needs to find herself? It’s a crock of shit. Trust me. Every man has had a woman shove her fist up his ass, grab his heart, pull it out, and hold it in front of his sobbing face.

Women get dumped, too. They get hurt. However, they’ve got a support group. They have friends. They have Dr. Laura, Dr. Phil, and Oprah. Men have Budweiser, PlayStation 2, and porn. Your guy friends will make fun of you if you’re torn up over a failed relationship. You’re better off suffering in private.

Suffer in private, but don’t suffer alone. I’m always here for you. Not in person (I honestly don’t want to meet you), but through my writings you will learn how to cope. I’ve artificially inseminated this column with enough tips to help even the most jilted of hearts get through the tough times.

Don’t return to the scene of the crime. Don’t go back and visit the Ex. Don’t call, don’t write, don’t email. Everyone either knows someone who got so drunk and sick off of a type of alcohol (tequila, for example, comes to mind) or done so themselves to the point that they cannot even smell the offending spirit without decorating a toilet with their lunch. Treat the Ex in the same manner that you would treat the booze. It already hurt you once, don’t fucking let it hurt you again.

Why would you even consider it in the first place? Do you think that there’s a chance you’ll get back together again? It’s not going to happen. She broke up with you because she couldn’t bear to spend another second with you. Her cat pukes in the kitchen. Her dog shits on the carpet. They’re still around. You’re not. Think about it.

Another thing to think about when you’re dropping dollars on bouquets with notes like “glad we’re still friends:” SHE’S FUCKING EVERYONE THAT SHE CAN. The aerobics instructor, her boss, her Rabbi. They’re all getting a piece of your ex and using condoms that you paid for and left at her place. She’s making up for lost time, my friend. Oh, and your best friend? He’s using foreign objects on your old flame, taking pictures of it, and emailing the pictures to all of your other friends so that they can all laugh at you. Here’s a good rule of thumb when it comes to breakups: Imagine the worst possible scenario and know that it’s happening in real life.

Have sex with as many people you can. The mercy fuck is your friend. So is the pity fuck and the “I can’t believe I got so drunk that I fucked that guy” fuck. Embrace it and show no shame. These are likely one night stands, so don’t even bother asking for a phone number. They don’t want to see you again. They don’t want to have dinner with you. They want you out of their apartment or they want to get out of your van. When I was in high school, I was so distraught over my girlfriend breaking up with me right up to the point that some 24 year-old (I was 17 at the time) told me to get in her car and drove me to a hotel room. I gave her 10 minutes of the worst sex of her life and the next morning the despair over my ex and my virginity were gone.

As you get older, it takes more than one orgasm less session of humping to rid you of the depression. It could take up to ten girls and by the time you lay ten chicks, Holmes, time will have healed your wounded heart anyway.

Be aware that there are people you shouldn’t bang. Any girl that has ever had so much as dinner with one of your friends is off limits. Don’t even bother asking for permission from your friend to see about dating one of his exes. It’s a stupid move that opens up a can of worms. You get attached to the girl, start dating her, and your friend will say something like “You mean you haven’t fucked her in the ass yet?” No one wants to compare notes on a chick that they really, really like.

Objectify women as often as necessary. If you find yourself crying in a fetal position in the middle of your living room, longing for days past filled with companionship; fuck you. Don’t be such a pussy. Watch porn, listen to rap music, buy as many table dances as you can afford, and shoot the heads off random females while playing Grand Theft Auto III or Vice City. When you watch a video of Rocco Siffredi sodomizing a girl while holding her head in a toilet (I’d love to meet the director of that flick), you start to realize that women are in fact objects not worthy of your affection. Once this occurs, the healing process can truly begin.

Jerk off as much as possible. Sixty-fucking dollars you used to pay for lobster dinners in an effort to get laid. You can get the same result for the cost of a video rental, lotion (I like Vaseline Intensive Care), a paper towel, and a little elbow grease. Do it, roll over, go to sleep. No stupid conversations. No “where do you think our relationship is going” bullshit. You change your car’s oil yourself in an effort to save money. This is no different.

Oh, you’re going to want to be in the company of a woman again. It’s instinct. It’s like eating meat, driving fast, and sleeping in. You have to do it eventually. If you meet a girl, have your guard up, do background checks over the internet, and maybe the girl passed out on your bathroom floor can be the next future ex-girlfriend. Dating is not the fun and glitz you see in television and movies. It’s a lot of hard work and who wants to do that. Marriage is like a stripper: It falls in your lap unexpectedly and eventually takes all of your money. I say that I’ll never date again… that I’ll never get married. I know I will, though. And if you’re in a position where you’re in pain over something like a breakup, remember that time is the best healer.

Time and smut.