Shannon hates America.
Shannon is a genius and you are all sheep.
Shannon thinks niggers should either speak proper English or shut the fuck up.
Shannon is a genius. And he hates capitalism.
He knows for a fact that Freemasons rule the planet.
He knows that Communism and witchcraft are the only ways to true freedom.
And you’re all maggots. Imbeciles. And Shannon, of course, is a God.
Shannon hates America, did I mention that? And all of you blathering, bleating sheep that are obviously too stupid to understand him.
Did I also mention that he’s a genius and you’re an idiot?
This is essentially what you’re going to get, repeatedly, over and over again, in Colebank’s recent spiral-bound little gem: page after page of vitriolic, delusional, hateful writing. Essentially, what it comes down to is that Shannon writes repeatedly how he “gets” it and you, the reader, don’t and won’t. But he just keeps crankin’ ‘em out, doesn’t he? Topics of Shannon’s attacks here include but are not limited to: America, Asians, queers, blacks, America, punks, the American Medical Association, the California Department of Parks and Recreation, meter readers, America, Shannon’s ex-roommate Kathleen, America, drug addicts, and America. You get the point: pretty much anyone but Shannon is repeatedly labeled as a “blithering imbecile.” At times it’s hilarious, at times really frightening; the depths of this dude’s delusions run pretty deep.
An excerpt, as Shannon yet again reminds us how much he hates America—and all the people who inhabit it—and that he will eventually move to a more acceptable Socialist country (such as, he says, Iceland): When I get to the Socialist country, and they ask me where I am from, I will not defile myself with the humiliating label of “American”. I will instead tell them I am from the Utopia I have created in my own mind (when I was 10!), and ask them if they are worthy of it.
So, essentially, this is the sort of vocal exchange Shannon would be looking at should he ever find himself waiting for a bus in Iceland or something:
Random Icelandic dude: Hey, man, how’s it going? Where are you from?
Shannon Colebank: I am from the Utopia I have created in my own mind when I was ten. Are you worthy of it?
That shit’ll fly like a jet, I’m sure.
Like I said, his writings come across as bitter, hateful, paranoid and random. There’s no real cohesion. He repeats himself over and over again. The themes (Shannon versus the world) get tiring. They’re also just not very well written. I mean, yeah, I get it, Shannon; you’re frustrated because no one accepts you as a God except you. And we’re all sheep, and Asians are all politically correct idiots, and “antagonistic flaming faggots” dress in drag for the sole purpose of being “discriminated against” and blah blah blah. On and on. I get your shtick, trust me.
Another excerpt: I pity the average person (though I feel no sympathy) for their inability to grasp what I am talking about. It is pointless for me to explain it here, since I have already beaten it into the ground in a dozen other zines you are too stupid to read. This is the difference between a shitty but emotionally balanced writer, and one who is not so balanced: the guy who’s got some degree of solidity in his life takes rejection in stride and works on perfecting his craft. The guy who considers himself a God blames his crappy writing and lack of readership on eeeeveryone but himself. –Keith Rosson ($3 ppd. to Shannon Colebank, PO Box 5591, Portland, OR 97228)