Super Massive Fu*kwit

A cautionary tale...if caution was off chops on meth

By Mark Mi Words

A Philosophy of Fuckwittery

I love fuckwits. It’s a love born from a long and distinguished career in observation, a thirty-year apprenticeship in the wildlands of human stupidity.

I’ve developed a whole philosophy on it. The dictionary...that clean, sterile book of words—tries to pin it down. It calls a fuckwit a 'complete nitwit, an utter idiot'.

But that’s like saying the sky is blue. It tells you the what, but not the why. It doesn’t tell you about the special kind of physics that governs the orbit of a true fuckwit, the way they generate their own gravitational pull of chaos.

The book doesn’t connect the dots. ‘Wit’ is intelligence, right? The spark. And a ‘nit’ is a louse’s egg. So a nitwit has a parasite’s egg for a brain. It’s like having shit for brains, but the term ‘shitwit’ never took off, did it? And a fuckhead is different again. A fuckhead is a state of being, but a fuckwit is a state of doing. To state it plainly, you would say ‘take a look at that fuckhead being a fuckwit’.

For three decades, I was a warden of this chaos, a security officer cataloguing specimens at nightclubs and festivals. Now, the specimens are caged. I’m one of them.

Here I am in this great grey ocean of a maximum-security prison, cruising amongst a flotilla of fuckwits, all of us leaky vessels in a sea of bad decisions. And from the inside, you see it all so much clearer. It takes one to know one, after all.

The Ginger Nut with the Gap-Toothed Grin

My fuckwit radar is a finely tuned instrument. The moment Dylan shuffled onto the block, it screamed. You could have categorised him on looks alone. Picture Kramer from Seinfeld, but shrink him down a foot and wind the fidgeting back just a notch. Slap a cheap plastic neck brace on him, the kind that looks like it’s been through a war, holding up a head of hair the colour of a ginger nut biscuit.

And the smile. The bloke had a smile like a dog that's shat on your noisy neighbours doorstep.

It was a permanent fixture, a shameless advertisement for the gap where his front tooth used to be. It wasn’t a malicious smile. Nothing about Dylan said that he was a nasty pastie. It was the smile of a kid who’s just pushed a lawnmower into a swimming pool and can’t wait to see what happens next.

He’s no fool, Dylan. Although some might say that he is so dense that he wraps reality around him…but bugger me dead, the stories that spilled out of him were monuments to foolishness. He’d tell them with this breathless pride, his tales of drug-fuelled larceny and misadventure, as if he were recounting heroic deeds.

The sheer joy he took in his own debauchery almost made you forget you were listening to a rap sheet fifteen pages long. Thirty-six briefs of evidence, and not one of them for violence. Not yet, anyway.

Crashing a stolen car while he was asleep at the wheel nearly folded him into a wheelchair for life. That was a wake-up call, a wailing siren in the dead of night. But time will tell if it was enough to scare him straight.

A Catalogue of Calamities

"Reckon I only got caught for a quarter of the stuff I done," he told me once, that shit eating grin plastered to his face.

"And bullshitted my way outta half of what they charged me with."

I believed him. Being a fuckwit doesn't mean you're not smart. It means your smarts are wired to a different circuit board, one that’s constantly shorting out.

The part of the brain that handles self-preservation? In Dylan, it was a smouldering crater.

My definition is this: a person who performs risky activities with a profound and unwavering lack of fucks to give about the health and safety of themselves or anyone unlucky enough to be nearby.

Take the toothless grin. He earned that playing club cricket. You hear that and you think, "Ah, an accident."

But then Dylan adds the colour.

He’d been on a meth bender for three days straight. He hadn’t held a cricket bat in a decade.

He was keeping wicket, standing way too close to the stumps, high as a satellite, when a fast bowler sent a rocket down the pitch.

He didn’t just fail to catch the ball; he welcomed it with his face.

That wasn't an accident. That was a demonstration.

That was Dylan being a fuckwit.

Stay tuned for Part 2 where we explore the criminal code of a Shit C*nt