Home About

How Not Too…Go Out With a Bang

Marty Mc.B



Deciding what to write for my final ever Salient column was tricky. At first I had it in mind to write a sort of retrospective a Marty McB. this is a columnist’s life, sort of deal. But, this has been overdone, every writer, singer, artist, pedicurist, taxidermist, and Islamic militant wants their movie montage, a carefully selected collection of images that make them look as good as possible and hopefully bring a tear to the eye of all reading. And, it’s okay, I know there’ll be tears before bedtime because of the end of Marty, but I don’t think I quite deserve a montage. Lets be honest, all I’ve really done this past year is rip people to shreds, as it’s the easiest way to be funny. Hardly noble, unlike Aaron Spelling’s work, which heralded his montage at the Emmy’s this year… his shit was noble. I mean look, he gave his semi-retarded daughter Tori a chance to be in his TV shows, that man deserves a medal.
So, I was stumped. What to write? I’ve often (to be frank) dreaded writing this every weekend, hungover, before my Monday deadline. But now, in typical Marty style, because it’s about to end, it seems like something I’ll miss. So I wanted to go out with a bang.
This was brought up last week, when a friend J-dawg-Mason outed me as Marty to a big table of people at a dinner at Istanbul. I flushed a little, the armour of my pseudonym ripped off of me, but then Mase brought up a good point when I asked what I should end on.
“I mean, we love your work Marty, but lets be honest, we all like it best when you talk about sex, porking, etc.”
Spoken like the words of a wise man. That’s it, that’s how I shall end! I shall end on banging … You all sit through my other columns as faithful readers, but lets be honest – it’s the dirty ones you stick around for. We don’t watch porn for the dialogue. So, considering that this column will have little right of reply, I’m going to go crazy gratuitous ghetto stylez. This is how to go out with a bang my friends.
However, now the pressure’s on and I have no idea what to talk about. I have sat here aimlessly for about half an hour, writer’s block weighing down upon me. From where can I draw inspiration? Screech from Saved by the Bell’s new dirty sanchez sex tape? No, that’s too wrong, even for Marty. Should I let that story I once read in a contemporary fiction collection about a girl receiving cunnilingus from her Labrador come out of that dark corner where I box in things that I can’t deal with? No, not quite ready for that yet, that one will come out of its disturbed shell probably around my mid-life crisis when I quit my job, take a toy boy lover, and drive around in a cheap convertible.
Could I venture into the sex dream my friend once had about Stephen Hawking where he talked dirty to her in his little computerised voice? “Iii liiike iit wheeen yoouu toouuchh meee there.” I mean, it’s tempting, as he did come up with the ‘Big Bang Theory’ which would allow for a plethora of neat little puns. But let’s leave poor Steve alone and get back to the money – I mean for Gods sake people, he’s in a wheelchair.
What is it about sex that interests us so? I bet even the Exclusive Brethren take an extra long look at the novelty dirty toys you find at most gift stores. I bet most lecturers at university would take advantage of their free streaming Internet to surf porn. If only it weren’t for that pesky adult watch security system that they have here, I know I would. And I bet you’re all far more likely to rent a romantic comedy at the video store if it has an R16 rating, as you’re more likely to see boobs.
When it comes down to it really, we’re just dirty bastards. The ancient Greeks were at it like buggery, literally, Shakespeare was, lets admit it, just a sick cunt with a twisted sense of humour, and God, he’s not getting away for free. I mean, love your work, but you can’t say you didn’t sneak a peak at Eve’s perky apples, or perhaps Adam’s perky nana? Don’t worry, I don’t judge. Whatever floats your boat, or ark, or whatever man, it’s cool. No need to repress it – we’re open to all people here at Salient.
Shall I bring up the fact that I had my sexual awakening in the scene where Judge Reinhardt wanked over Phoebe Cates in Fast Times at Ridgemont High? No, that’s too embarrassing. I could discuss the fact that James Robinson has a secret Alicia Silverstone fetish, but no, that’s been done. I don’t blame you J, the short skirt, fluffy pen schoolgirl look in Clueless almost turned me.
Well, now that I’ve offended a good lot of people – it might be time for me to sign off. How not to go out with a bang? You can probably just refer to these past few hundred words of ramble. Attempt not to offend the disabled, allude to the homosexual status of the Christian God, try not to piss off Islamic militants (you deffo want them on your side), and, most of all, attempt not to offend James Robinson – you don’t want to feel his wrath. But most importantly, if you say you’re going to talk about sex, actually do, don’t just pussy foot around it like I have, no better way to piss off the reader.
So, goodbye for now dear reader, I must pass the baton on to someone else for next year. Become a Salient columnist. No better way to vent some of your dirty alter ego to a couple of thousand people each week anonymously – well, fairly anonymously, although I get the feeling quite a few of you know who I am, judging from the dirty looks I get on the overbridge. But that’s cool, I’ve made fun of most of you by now anyway. Marty McB, Out!