The Best Fuck You - Part 2

Here we are: the inner-sanctum, where our shelves tower like a redwood forest, bulging like cotton briefs with decades of moments that bring people together through the mutual discovery and wonderful expression of the fierce contempt one can have for thy neighbor, friend, stranger, brother, coworker or even that senile bitch down the block who, oh, you’ll be tickled to know, drank that diabetic milk from the cat bowl on her front steps that fateful morning as she hungrily eyed the road for any passer-by whose attention she might attract with her endless wailing over her cat’s messianic demise. Yes, and when her appetite returned she discovered that she had locked herself out and when it began to rain she discovered that the roof leaked above her porch. Shivering with pruning hands and splinter in her foot it didn’t take long for her to lose her appetite among other things. If only her ancestors had developed a special hood over their anus and genitals to better moderate body temperature or any other number of benefits a human cloaca might have if only we could—Oh sorry I forgot where we were again.

The inner sanctum: our warehouse, our store, our palette, our womb, our nourishing soil that gives rise to poppies and barley. You’ll find we have quite a selection this time of year, although our stock seems to fly off the shelves around every election. Did you hear that? Something scratching along the sides of the hanger? Sometimes I hear those damned lizards, but this sounded more like boots. You’re certain you heard nothing? Maybe they’ve adapted. No, never mind me.
Let me just attach this hook here for the bungee. No, this isn’t for meat. See the dark red color of the razor sharp tips that’s how we mark the hooks that are perfectly safe. Here are the magnetic gloves. Don’t clap. Little jumps will send you far down a row or a only few shelves up. Big jumps are lead to big accidents. I’ll let you decide for what is big and what is small because one must respect everyone’s viewpoint especially the customer, but don’t be surprised if I’m upset by your choice. I get upset in this place. I scratch the skin off my wrists sometimes. Ugh, come along over here.

Before we hop, may I ask is this a timely venture? Are there any key terms or subjects that your Fuck You would be related to or about? Oh, it’s not timely then? Oh, I see. Planning yourself a big Fuck You down the road? That’s great! No, no worries! We all do it. We all have our little plans to look forward to. We need our little schemes, I mean that in a physiological sense you see it builds bones to scheme and sends blood to the brain among other places. There’s no room to grow if we don’t know the direction of growth. Here, bounce this way. Too high, my friend! Mind the hook! Oh you useless bastard! I wish you’d just fuckin’ end it so neither of us would have this purpose, this lie that clings like a burden. Oh, whew! For a moment I thought we were going to die or end up touching tips. Welcome to shelf 345Z, brother. This way.

Here you’ll find a large selection of what we consider a classical style. Not much different from what you’d find on the internet, eh? We find that a lot of our customers who choose something classical typically have had an unsatisfactory or troubling experience picking Fuck Yous from the internet, around the office, school, bars, somewhere downtown or a black person comedy. Which, if this profile fits a person like yourself, then you should know that there’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Plenty of people everyday struggle with the wording, timing and the overall gesture of the simplest Fuck Yous. We’re here to give you the best Fuck You experience by streamlining the process of determining the right Fuck You for You and by You! And I do mean by You! So instead of sorting through this ancient aircraft hanger looking up and down each of our quality expressions of Fuckery from the simple and timely middle finger to the more long term and elaborate gestures like raising a child to accept and live by the rules of a theology or philosophy that conflicts with the rival parent’s views and lifestyle.

Over here we have subtleties, a special class of Fuck Yous that act like a sort of time traveling Trojan Horse like playful poems or letters that are read upon arrival and interpreted as thoughtful but benign until they sit in desk drawers for years waiting to be rediscovered one day and realized to be a cleverly worded damnation of everything the subject is made of and will become, everything they’ve ever been.

Of course here we have the overts and aggressives: property damage, threats, hostilities, and fire. There’s so much fire. People love their fire. The firebugs are unique in their interesting choice of subject for they never choose to confront a specific group or individual instead they target some idea of order itself in the form of real estate or vast forests, any form of order really, centralized or spontaneous and then sometimes they even get off on playing the role of the subject either in front of a news camera or to a sympathetic ear at a bus stop or a church. Sad little bugs. They feed off the sympathy and it gives them a new purpose or call to action, but the actualization of that action is usually a failure leading to more burnt buildings usually something small at first, just a taste, a bench, a gazebo, then the big ones and another new purpose. Some even succeed. It’s a small amount, but they’re the ones worth remembering. Set your own building on fire and you can do whatever you want. That’s freedom. Freedom earned through a Fuck You.

We like to think one of our great strengths here is finding a Fuck You in a place that our competitors and clients would overlook. You’re an individual, leading a complicated and enlightening life in the U.S. of A. You are unique and although I’ve never met your target, the limey bastard, he or she is unique as well, making your specific situation a dynamic one-of-a-kind experience and everyone should be given treatment that’s made especially for them. Your Fuck You should be a special victory for you and a memorable defeat for your target, excuse me, of course I mean your subject. Come this way. Down here. Watch your hands. Those magnets will erase any card you might carry in your pockets. Grab the ledge. No, the other ledge! There we are. Just through this airlock here and we’ll be right where we need to be.

For those most unique situations we have what we call an artisanal Fuck You, handcrafted right here in suburban Seattle or, at least, here in this vacuum sealed room we can replicate the same atmospheric conditions of the Pacific Northwest by controlling the temperature and humidity, by raising the radiation levels, by adding a number of carcinogens and, to recreate the pleasant energy of a cooperative tribe of people i.e. the feeling of a cheerful bustling city, we play the pleasantly mild, yet upbeat Samba music you hear this very moment pouring from our P.A. system and we cover everything in wood, leather, plaid, coffee, black and white photos, and facial hair. Yes, that ugly dog you see there is actually a chair made of facial hair. Sit on it. Touch it. Pet it. Just don’t smell your hand afterwards.

To truly create a handcrafted product one only needs a simple pair of hands, but what you see before you are anything but. These nimble little producers you see here are robotic hands, yes, hands. They have all the detail and composition of organically produced human hands without all the human error. They are controlled by a sentient artificial intelligence whose personality is quite accommodating when under the delightful spell of the Samba. I’d also like to make it clear that the human tissue used to make the leather outer coating of the autonomous hand workers come from our cruelty-free sources in Micronesia as outlined and enforced through the Nafta negotiations.

Have you ever felt the soft touch of Micronesian child-leather? Have you ever held hands with a toddler in a warm, summer rain? Hop down this way a few shelves. Here on this platform of artisanally-crafted wood. Behold the severed hands of a thousand colored children! Ha, they aren’t severed they’re robotic. Just pulling your leg, pal! Or, what is it they say around here? Just throwing your butt? Joshing your butt? I’m washing your butt! Yes, that sounds right. Anyways’ this switch here, that’ll turn them on. There. Look at ‘em go! They aren’t severed hands, but they are just about as close as we can get to one. Go ahead. Touch one. They’re friendly. As long as the Samba drums beat through the atmosphere the hands are our friends. Tuck your shirt up into your head-hole and lean forward on your hook so you can glide your big white belly over the wriggling fingertips. It’s great for digestion. If only we could hang pianos above them to hear the music they’d create, but I’ve been told never to let a sentient A.I. discover it’s own ability to create music. It creates a debilitating decay in their naturally servile nature. When you are finished being tickled join me on the other side of the airlock.

Ready to leap? This edge here will do. Do you hear that? I guess they’re flying helicopters outside or some other lifeless employee has snuck his way into a corner with a war flick. That’s probably all it was. I hate war movies they never show the good part. Hold my hand as we leap to the bottom. Not that hand. There we go. Jump.

Here we are. Remove the hook before the rubber withdraws. You won’t need your magnetic gloves either. In fact it would be best if you roll up your sleeves. Here at this furnace filled with what we conceptualize as a more energetic form of what you might call blood. See these holes, here. Yes, your arms go right in there till you here that a snap. There’ll be a pinch, but that’s what you want. Look at me. Look deep into my eyes. brother as I join arms with you in our burning forge. Yes I know it hurts quite a bit, but try to focus on my words. To best fulfill our guarantee of customer satisfaction we have developed a metaforge, a device capable of forging your DNA into my own so that I understand your situation through an epigenetic intimacy more potent than brotherhood. This is what I meant when I said that this would be made for You and by You. Soon I’ll be You, too and then we’ll both have a say in what is the Best Fuck You. Oh stop squirming, I know the needles tear and burn, but it’s best to use this opportunity to learn how to let go. All pain is meant to teach this lesson. See that light ahead? As soon as it becomes blinding and white this will all be over and we can continue our journey, I mean, our little tour. Quit your screaming. It hurts a lot more on this side you know, I am the one being forged, but the benefits on this side are quite nice: a unique view into the human psyche, new skills acquired in seconds through days of memories of their fine-tuning , a longer lifespan. I’m two hundred and forty-one years old myself, but I’ve only made minimum wage in those long years so I still don’t have a lot of savings. There it is. The light. It’s coming now. Let go. Let yourself be taken. Embrace the release.