by
Get in the car, Helen

1. The Plot: A deranged parking lot attendant becomes obsessed with the first Human Centipede movie, to the point where he masturbates with sandpaper while watching it, shoots his psychologist in the crotch, then knocks twelve people over the head with a crowbar and sets about sewing them together, anus to mouth/anus to mouth.

2. The original Human Centipede‘s plot demanded a sequel the same way that the original Cannonball Run demanded a sequel. That is to say, there was no goddamn reason to make a sequel at all. Unless: (jump to point 3).

3. Our movie monsters occasionally say a lot about the times which surround them. In the 1950′s,while America’s children were being taught how to survive a nuclear Armageddon by casually ducking underneath their desks, the theater screens were filled with Godzilla and giant radioactive bug movies–thick legged physical manifestations of their atomic fears. In the early 1930′s Bela Lugosi’s on screen depiction of a smooth talking Transylvanian vampire could also be viewed as a dark mascot for the American male’s fear that some handsome prick with an foreign accent was going to drag their girlfriends away, quite willingly, by the neck. And now, here in the year 2012, home of the GOP candidates race to become President, a new movie monster has risen to give physical form to a scared country’s fears and overly stoked nightmares of chaos and Armageddon and doom. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you The Human Centipede!, the official mascot of the Twenty-Twelve Republican National Convention.

4. What symbol could better represent the glorification of ignorance, the war on altruism and compromise, and the monstrous levels of pandering and human sacrifice this year’s GOP presidential field has been willing to offer up for their big corporate masters in exchange for a seat in the big chair on 1600 Pennsylvania than a long line of beat-naked human caucuses sewn mouth to ass to each other, unable to stand up on their own two feet because they’ve been hamstrung by the big guys in charge, who’s miserable existence is spent mindlessly crawling around behind one another, taking turns regurgitating the shit that their fellow neighbor has just shit in their mouths? Fuck the Elephant. The Republican party can now be more accurately represented by the image of a Human Centipede.

5. This metaphor can be laid out a couple of different ways, depending on the size of your microscope. You can look at it as if the demented maniac that created the HC = things like Corporations, Fox News, and the Koch Brothers; and the people they’ve sewn together in order to create their centipede are the GOP presidential candidates. The demented god master decides what sort of propaganda (taxes are un-American, facts are situational, education is for Socialists, God’s loves us better than them, fuck you/not me) will succeed best in bullshitting the American people into voting for the things they want them to vote for, and then after sloppily stitching their candidates together, they shit their party-line talking points into the mouth of the front runner (Romney) and then he shits it into the mouth of the guy behind him (Santorum) who froths it into the mouth of the guy behind him (Gingrich) who shits it into the mouth of the crazy fucker behind him (Paul), who shat it into Bachmann, who shat it into Perry, who shat it into Cain, etc., until the whole thing eventually gets shit out into the atmosphere, where it eventually ends up being shoved down the American voters’ throats.

6. The other way to dissect this thing is to consider the candidates as the mangy God Gone Wild, and the poor fuckers stitched together as the lazy gullibility of the American people. The candidates feed the people their hysterical promises and the American people are force fed into eat/shitting them up. The thing with this is, just like in the movie, the Human Centipede can prove to be a picky eater. Things like Fox News and The Tea Party have succeeded in drumming up an atmosphere so thoroughly saturated in mass fear, egocentrism, and political hysteria, the Republican party pushed so far right to the right, that the voters are reticent to eat anything that tastes like compromise or common sense. If we refer back to the movie, this common sense and compromise can be found in the shape of dog food. The HC refuses to touch the stuff. So the mad god (i.e. the GOP candidates) is forced to inject liquid laxatives directly into the centipede’s blood stream in order to ensure everyone shits the party line. Returning once again to our metaphor, the liquid laxatives = the stream of ridiculous talking points the candidates have been assailing us with this political season in order to pander to the extreme rightism that has risen and the anti-intelligence tone of the entire goddamn campaign.

7. If there is a god, it’s existence will not be made visible by the il-legalization of birth control or the annihilation of affordable health care as the batch of candidates purporting to be called upon by god to do its work have been preaching. Proof of a higher power will be verified by the fact that when this year’s Republican National Convention opens its doors, its gift shops shelves will be gorged with Human Centipede stuffed animals, Centipede jacket lapels, bumper stickers that read “Romney/Human Centipede 2012″, and shit like that. If only the GOP would embrace this new monster as their official mascot! Truth in advertising at last!

8. As I’m writing this, news has hit that Santorum’s officially pulled himself out of the race. He withdrew, wiped the thick froth off on a borrowed towel, made a subtle reach around gesture while mumbling something about god being his copilot, and then hopped the big jet that Mitt Romney allegedly brought him home.

9. Question: Why the fuck is Newt Gingrich still in the GOP race? He’s left plenty of wives in the past, so it’s not like he doesn’t know how to quit things. Maybe he doesn’t feel his campaign is sick enough yet. He’s waiting for his campaign to get REALLY sick before he packs up and abandons it. Or maybe he hasn’t found a younger/sluttier campaign that’s willing to take him in once he leaves his old one. Yeah. That’s probably it. As soon as Newt’s campaign is diagnosed terminal, and he finds a young/slutty campaign willing to take him in, then he’ll throw in the towel–and not a second before that.

10. Back to the subject of shitting into other people’s mouths: Mitt Romney wants to be President so bad he’ll say anything to get elected. If hating your grandmother became popular, this bastard would rent out an entire country club and fund a Hunger Games style Death Tournament tomorrow, in which Tributes consisted exclusively of grandmothers. Then he’d stand, eyes professionally teared on the campaign trail in front of an almost crowded IHOP declaring that his only true regret in this life (besides helping to provide health care for all those un-American little bastards who couldn’t afford it) was that both of his grandmothers didn’t live long enough to participate in the big event (even though they may still be very much alive, who knows).

11. “I can just see Maw Maw Romney now, running her little plastic knee replacement orthopedics off in The Games, trying to get to a nice cleaving knife, or, I don’t know, maybe one of those mystery backpacks. And then getting her head cleaved in with a beautiful trident. You know what I’m talking about, you’re all good hard working Americans. Aren’t grandmothers, aren’t they just the worst?! Polls say you hate them, and let me tell you, I hate them too. And I’ll tell you something else, I bet you wouldn’t hear President Obama talking about his grandma this way. No. He went to Harvard. He probably buys his grandmother, you know, flowers and stuff. Fucking educated people. I mean, sure, I went to Harvard, but President Obama REALLY went to Harvard, if you know what I mean.”

12. There’s one more thing that The Human Centipede 2 can be used as an accurate metaphor to: falling in love with Helen. She knocked me over the head with a wrench made out of pretending-she-loved-me, and when I woke up she’d sewn my mouth to my own ass, thus creating a Human Centipede of one, the loneliest Human Centipede of them all. I’ve spent the past three years since her leaving sweating it out in a dark basement, puking a thousand “poor me’s” into my own asshole, and repeatedly shitting my pathetic inability to get over something like this back into my own mouth.

13. Thanks, Helen. And you too, Politics. Thanks, Politics. Do you know Helen? You two’d make a great couple, maybe. You’re both so goddamned self centered and anally destructive to everything requiring oxygen around you. You should get together, the two of you. I can believe anything, provided it is incredible.* Shit. It might just work out.

* Oscar Wilde, author of one of Helen’s favorite quotes.

Since being ubiquitously dumped by Helen, GITCH has been watching a lot of movies. While watching these movies, he writes many things down, in a mad tentacled world attempt to make sense of the heart breaking events that take place both on and outside the screen. His second book, The Aftermath, etc., is now available from Monkey Puzzle Press.