230 -|- Black and White
No one really appreciates the versatility of tar any more. Oh, everyone hears in history class about people being “tarred and feathered” but no one really understands how horrific it is. No, people just see it in the cartoons, some caricature of a person or an animal toddles around half covered with tar with a hand full of feathers thrown in for good measure. This thing isn’t screaming in pain, or desperately trying to get the impossible stuff off of them.
That’s a real shame.
The great thing about tar is the pain and suffering it brings along with it. It seems relatively harmless until applied in great quantities to the human flesh. What was pure as snow, becomes filthy and black. Pores begin to clog, skin begins to sizzle because you have to heat the stuff up to at least three hundred and fifty degrees in order to apply it the correct way. Think of the smell as construction workers having a cook out while they repave your street.
Oh, it’s truly horrific. Watching people trying to breathe against the fumes or even better, trying to some how roll around in the dirt to stop the pain. I should just tell you now, that stuff is never, ever coming off. Especially when it hardens fully. I mean I suppose you could burn the stuff off, but that would be subjecting the human body to extreme heat. You may as well put a bullet between their eyes, it’s the most humane thing to do.
If you aren’t into that kind of stuff you can pose them once they’ve gone into shock and stopped flailing around like an idiot. You could put them in your back yard, tar sculptures. You could sell them at art galleries to pretentious assholes who look down their nose at you, but tolerate you because you produce: “great art.”
Or, at night, when you get lonely, you could set your creations on fire, you could watch them melt away. Everything you’ve worked hard for, everything you strove to perfect. Dripping down into nothing but a puddle of black brittle and sharp with the fragments of broken bones.
It just goes to show you, that nothing lasts forever.
(387)
That’s a real shame.
The great thing about tar is the pain and suffering it brings along with it. It seems relatively harmless until applied in great quantities to the human flesh. What was pure as snow, becomes filthy and black. Pores begin to clog, skin begins to sizzle because you have to heat the stuff up to at least three hundred and fifty degrees in order to apply it the correct way. Think of the smell as construction workers having a cook out while they repave your street.
Oh, it’s truly horrific. Watching people trying to breathe against the fumes or even better, trying to some how roll around in the dirt to stop the pain. I should just tell you now, that stuff is never, ever coming off. Especially when it hardens fully. I mean I suppose you could burn the stuff off, but that would be subjecting the human body to extreme heat. You may as well put a bullet between their eyes, it’s the most humane thing to do.
If you aren’t into that kind of stuff you can pose them once they’ve gone into shock and stopped flailing around like an idiot. You could put them in your back yard, tar sculptures. You could sell them at art galleries to pretentious assholes who look down their nose at you, but tolerate you because you produce: “great art.”
Or, at night, when you get lonely, you could set your creations on fire, you could watch them melt away. Everything you’ve worked hard for, everything you strove to perfect. Dripping down into nothing but a puddle of black brittle and sharp with the fragments of broken bones.
It just goes to show you, that nothing lasts forever.
(387)