Axioms vary from culture to culture, from era to era. Self evident in their prime, wise old sayings like a penny saved is a penny earned were once indisputable in America. While it behooves us to observe that every old adage in this country was either coined or catalogued by Benjamin Franklin, thereby reinforcing his case for the title of Greatest American Ever, it has to be obvious to any observer that such rustic wisdom no longer applies. This is a country where a penny saved is a penny you could have flushed down the toilet of credit card debt buying crap you can't afford.
So let us begin the process of cataloging our new axioms, wise new sayings by which future generations can understand who we are. Self evident truths like:
"A stitch in time can extend your career several years."
But more than one will make you look like a freak, on a sliding scale somewhere between Joan Rivers and Michael Jackson.
"Early to bed, early to rise makes a person healthy, wealthy, but still somehow sucked into the national caffeine addiction."
"The News Media and the American people are like mongrel dogs meeting in the street and smelling each other's butts."
Each can only offer the lowest common denominator, because each is only offered the lowest common denominator.
"Make the world a better place: punch Bill Maher repeatedly in the face."
Ok, this one is something you DO more than say. But it feels good just thinking about it, doesn't it? To be fair, I was totally in love with the book he wrote just after 9/11. But that was yesterday. Seriously: I want to fight Bill Maher. I'm putting it out there now. Because having a discussion with him is like wrestling with a pig, you both get dirty and only Bill likes it. I know, I know, violence just plays into his hands, because smarmy condescension is his tool to get your brain to go angry and shut off so he doesn't have to worry about you exposing his weak, wannabe hipster bombast. I don't even care if I get paid. And it doesn't have to be in the squared circle. A back alley will do just fine. The need for this has to go all the way back to elementary school. He has literally been begging for it his whole life, and the only reason he has gotten this bad is because the poor fellow has been coddled when he should have been beaten. So let me be the one. [Editor's Note: Given S.K.Namanny's well documented abhorrence of violence, and his total inability to stomach fighting of any kind, it is unlikely that he would be able to follow through on the above-mentioned threats. He is, after all, a vegetarian. It is hoped therefore that the mere image of Mr. Maher's bleeding nose and/or blackened eye will suffice to please the reader.]
"You made your bed--now have loads and loads of sex with multiple partners in it."
If you don't, they'll never put you (or any fictional character resembling you) on television.
"Please Hammer, don't hurt 'em."
I don't know exactly how or where it applies, but please, just for me, will everyone please please start saying this as often as possible? For instance, the next time you get pulled over for a traffic violation. The cop says the requisite "Do you know why I pulled you over?" And you respond with "I don't quite know officer, but as the old saying goes, Please Hammer, don't hurt 'em!" It works on so many levels.
It's no Poor Richard's Almanac, but it's a start.
jeudi, août 21, 2008
mardi, août 19, 2008
News From the TMI Dept. (or, the road to nirvana is paved with toilet paper)
Years ago, I read something above a urinal that troubled me.
No matter how you shake and dance, the last drop always falls in your pants.
With the wherewithal I then possessed, I had only one course of action, to prove the statement wrong. I developed an elaborate ritual of shaking and dancing. Eventually I became convinced. The last drop was not in my pants. It was elsewhere. It had to be. No bodily fluid could withstand such dedicated efforts. Years passed. I was able to move on.
Enter Doctor Long, professor of philosophy at my Alma Mater. When he started the first day with a seemingly non sequiturial story about taking his dog out to the forest to put it out of its misery, I knew I was in the right place. Here was a professor who aggravated--nay, infuriated the general ed. minimalists who wanted to get a C, fulfill a requirement, and get back to beer and mindless sexual conquest.
No matter how you shake and dance, the last drop always falls in your pants.
With the wherewithal I then possessed, I had only one course of action, to prove the statement wrong. I developed an elaborate ritual of shaking and dancing. Eventually I became convinced. The last drop was not in my pants. It was elsewhere. It had to be. No bodily fluid could withstand such dedicated efforts. Years passed. I was able to move on.
Enter Doctor Long, professor of philosophy at my Alma Mater. When he started the first day with a seemingly non sequiturial story about taking his dog out to the forest to put it out of its misery, I knew I was in the right place. Here was a professor who aggravated--nay, infuriated the general ed. minimalists who wanted to get a C, fulfill a requirement, and get back to beer and mindless sexual conquest.
Ingeniously, he had confirmed the complaints that were circulating before his entrance. He didn't discuss the matter further. Because to explain literally means to flatten out. And because obvium est means there is something in the way.
But something was in the way. I knew what he was doing. And as I examined the useless minutia of life, and let myself wonder if they do indeed constitute its truest meaning, an errant thought, a dangerous thought, entered my mind: What if the last drop is still falling in my pants? What if, for all my ceremonial shaking, the act of evacuation is what it is? Can life be clean and still be called life? Was that bit of potty humor written by a prophet? How can I go on living if I can't stop the last drop of urine from dropping in my pants? Am I not a man? Can I not pee standing up and return unencumbered and unhindered to my manly pursuits? It haunted me. For a time. But the purpose of it all had to be acceptance. So I accepted. I agreed to disagree with Life.
Until one day, when, peeing in the privacy of my own home, the toilet paper called to me, saying: Discard your gender bias, your learned self deception. I've been here all along. Follow the path. Enlightenment awaits. You will see. You will see. My brain went to a place of utter focus, stillness even. Upon completion of the drip drop dance, I exited my body and saw my hand reach out for a few squares of toilet paper. I saw that same paper used to daub, or dab, and witnessed the drop of urine that no dance could shake free, a drop that would have ended up in my pants. I didn't even stop to fret about all those drops that had obviously been there despite my efforts. This was a new dawn. Toilet paper had set me free.
The only problem then was that I was left to mourn for all those who didn't know. Who couldn't answer the call of the toilet paper. Who unhygienically allow that last drop to fall where it may. It didn't seem a subject that could be broached. Maybe people must discover Nirvana on their own. Maybe they can't face the truth. Maybe we just don't talk about what happens in the bathroom for a reason.
Then, as I sat eating a wonderful lunch, the woman who had thrice tried to kill/maim me offered the following question, which, if she is the first to ask it, makes her a philosopher in her own right: "I've always wondered, do men wipe after they pee?" The initial answer in this unenlightened world is, "wipe what?" followed by, "we don't have to, we're men." She could not have known how destiny had prepared me for this question. I proudly stood and proclaimed: "Alas, by and large, we do not. But those who have attained wisdom know what to do!" I felt liberated, and, as is the case with all true liberation, called to a higher purpose.
Hence, after all these years, I can at last pass it along. Use this information as you will. Even to make fun of me. I don't care. You all go ahead and shake and dance. The last drop doesn't fall in these pants.
lundi, août 11, 2008
The Onion
We would be amiss if we failed to pause and raise our voices in collective praise to brilliance where and when we find it.
If you already visit theonion.com on a regular basis, then this will be nothing but another chance to agree with Girl Pants. If you already read the onion in print, but have yet to visit their website, this post will not necessarily change your life, but it remains a revelation of sorts. If you have never heard of "The Nation's Finest News Source," then I'm about to make your day, and at least one day a week for the rest of your life.
Please to be visiting theonion.com immediately. Absorb their completely revolutionary and consistently hilarious take on local, national, and global events. Watch all their videos. All of them. There are hundreds in their archive, but there isn't one that will disappoint you. Order their books, (starting with Our Dumb Century). Don't read it in the bathroom, because you'll spend hours in there, laughing out loud. People will get the wrong idea.
Before there was the daily show, there was The Onion (many of their writers now write for the Daily). Considering their amazing, juggernautesque track record, I don't think it hyperbole to state that The Onion is, quite simply, the greatest, most inspiringly funny presence on the internet. [And one could write an entirely separate post paying tribute to their A.V. Club, which consistently offers the most insightful commentary on the entertainment industry (movies in especial) available on-line.]
They certainly don't need my advocacy, or your patronage. But do yourself a favor. Log on to The Onion at least once a week.
If you already visit theonion.com on a regular basis, then this will be nothing but another chance to agree with Girl Pants. If you already read the onion in print, but have yet to visit their website, this post will not necessarily change your life, but it remains a revelation of sorts. If you have never heard of "The Nation's Finest News Source," then I'm about to make your day, and at least one day a week for the rest of your life.
Please to be visiting theonion.com immediately. Absorb their completely revolutionary and consistently hilarious take on local, national, and global events. Watch all their videos. All of them. There are hundreds in their archive, but there isn't one that will disappoint you. Order their books, (starting with Our Dumb Century). Don't read it in the bathroom, because you'll spend hours in there, laughing out loud. People will get the wrong idea.
Before there was the daily show, there was The Onion (many of their writers now write for the Daily). Considering their amazing, juggernautesque track record, I don't think it hyperbole to state that The Onion is, quite simply, the greatest, most inspiringly funny presence on the internet. [And one could write an entirely separate post paying tribute to their A.V. Club, which consistently offers the most insightful commentary on the entertainment industry (movies in especial) available on-line.]
They certainly don't need my advocacy, or your patronage. But do yourself a favor. Log on to The Onion at least once a week.
jeudi, juillet 31, 2008
Connected: to Nature.
As we sat in one of the five Starbucks in our small town, discussing issues of politics, art, and religion, (it would later be remarked how very European it all was) the natural world entered into the conversation. Specifically, a recent naturalist's thesis which posits that humanity is "losing its connection" with Nature. I got a little distracted when I realized that Starbucks had switched from carrying Odwalla to Naked overpriced health juices, but I think the gist of his argument what that there are fewer and fewer vacant lots for kids to play in.
Naturally, somebody cut to the heart of the issue.
"What does that even mean? What constitutes a connection with Nature?"
We were running out of time, and we hadn't spent any money whatsoever (now that's European!) so we ended up leaving before putting any kind of point on it. The closest we came was when someone put forth that there may be something meditative to the connection, something therapeutic. People who are connected to Nature turn to her for some kind of spiritual renewal. I've thrown it out to a few others, and (perhaps to put an end to the conversation) they seem to agree with that reduction rather readily. Someone very smart even brought up Emily Dickinson, for whom Nature took the form of her religion ("some keep their Sabbath going to church"--etc.)
But this is, without a doubt, too facile, if not a total cop out. It is proof that the question itself is uncomfortable--especially for people who consider themselves "in touch" with nature. Because if to answer the question ("what constitutes a connection with Nature"), you have to resort to something outside the scope of the subject of the question ("spirituality"), then your answer is that you have no answer. I cannot find a definition of Nature that even implies that it has anything to do with the spiritual essence of the creatures that inhabit it.
Let me admit that people who resort to Nature for a renewal of some kind, or who draw meditative calm from its wild places--these are my kind of people. But do we who love the great outdoors, who live in remote places so as to avoid the excesses of urbanization really have a greater "connection" to Nature? Can we claim such if we can't even really define what that means?
So, though I was at first offended when the heir to the Unabomber proclaimed that we are losing touch, I am now ready to take his argument a step further. We are not losing touch, we've lost it already. We lost it thousands of years ago. We might never have been in touch. We might not be meant to--except in the spiritual, meditative, caretaking way we have invented for ourselves. How do you like them apples?
Consider . . .
*Humans all over the world are warm when it is cold outside, and cool when it gets hot. We've been fighting it since forever. (Don't listen to losers who claim to not believe in air conditioning. When it gets into the triple digits, they believe. All of them.) From the moment the first of our kind decided to wear the remains of the animal he'd just eaten, we were out of touch. We didn't need to evolve blubber or body hair (Burt Reynolds excluded) or migrate long distances to avoid the cold. We were out of touch with the seasons of the earth.
*We are the only creatures I can think of who don't void the contents of their bladder or bowel all over the place. Except on the streets of Paris, France, we've stopped participating in the idea of randomly returning to Earth that which we have eaten. We even demand the same from the animals we have domesticated. The moment you suppress the urge to go--even for a second--you've lost touch.
*The rest of Nature's children have only 2 real interests, which are, in order: 1) the next meal; and 2) the next mate. I was about to posit that we have interests beyond food and sex. But come to think of it, in this sense we are very much in touch with Nature. There might be a rare exception here and there, of course. We're only human. But hooray for all of you gluttons, sluts, nymphomaniacs and ultrasexuals: in this one respect, you do not fall under the indictment of the so-called Naturalists.
*That said, we are almost alone in our constant preoccupation with and use of sex for some purpose other than reproduction. The entire existence of almost every other creature is centered on reproduction. We on the other hand have a never ending line of products and procedures to ensure that we can have sex more often than rabbits without the horrible side effect of actually having to deal with the most natural result of that act. Nature made it pleasurable so we would want to do it. We looked her in the face and said: Look, we'll do it like dogs in heat, we'll even call it a "reproductive" act, but we will tear that little nightmare out with a vacuum before we'll compromise our freedom, job, or wardrobe. If you believe in birth control like I do, admit to being WAY out of touch with Nature.
*We do not know where our food comes from. Noted naturalist Jason Adair would disagree that this constitutes a disconnect. (The only explanation for this stance is that he is heavily invested in McDonald's and its parent and subsidiary corporations.) I don't care if you know that the egg came from a chicken. Obviously any dumb-ass knows that. And only a dumb-ass would use that as proof that humans are connected in any way with nature through their food. We have taken the second most fundamentally natural act, namely, food consumption, and turned it into a pre-packaged jaunt down the aisles of a sterile, air conditioned supermarket. And you and I both think that is just great, or we'd be scavenging around the wilderness for whatever is in season, or sucking the blood from our fresh kill, or at least gardening.
So please join with me in seeking [un]natural spiritual renewal through Nature's gorgeous green places. Appreciate unspoiled wilderness. (You can even read Wordsworth and agree with him that people who don't are "dull of soul.") Please love your fellow creatures and preserve their habitats. You can even make Nature your religion, or at least part of it (if it isn't, then your religion is totally screwed up). But let's hunker down and admit that you and I are observing from the outside. And have been since we could be called Human. And there is nothing wrong with that.
Naturally, somebody cut to the heart of the issue.
"What does that even mean? What constitutes a connection with Nature?"
We were running out of time, and we hadn't spent any money whatsoever (now that's European!) so we ended up leaving before putting any kind of point on it. The closest we came was when someone put forth that there may be something meditative to the connection, something therapeutic. People who are connected to Nature turn to her for some kind of spiritual renewal. I've thrown it out to a few others, and (perhaps to put an end to the conversation) they seem to agree with that reduction rather readily. Someone very smart even brought up Emily Dickinson, for whom Nature took the form of her religion ("some keep their Sabbath going to church"--etc.)
But this is, without a doubt, too facile, if not a total cop out. It is proof that the question itself is uncomfortable--especially for people who consider themselves "in touch" with nature. Because if to answer the question ("what constitutes a connection with Nature"), you have to resort to something outside the scope of the subject of the question ("spirituality"), then your answer is that you have no answer. I cannot find a definition of Nature that even implies that it has anything to do with the spiritual essence of the creatures that inhabit it.
Let me admit that people who resort to Nature for a renewal of some kind, or who draw meditative calm from its wild places--these are my kind of people. But do we who love the great outdoors, who live in remote places so as to avoid the excesses of urbanization really have a greater "connection" to Nature? Can we claim such if we can't even really define what that means?
So, though I was at first offended when the heir to the Unabomber proclaimed that we are losing touch, I am now ready to take his argument a step further. We are not losing touch, we've lost it already. We lost it thousands of years ago. We might never have been in touch. We might not be meant to--except in the spiritual, meditative, caretaking way we have invented for ourselves. How do you like them apples?
Consider . . .
*Humans all over the world are warm when it is cold outside, and cool when it gets hot. We've been fighting it since forever. (Don't listen to losers who claim to not believe in air conditioning. When it gets into the triple digits, they believe. All of them.) From the moment the first of our kind decided to wear the remains of the animal he'd just eaten, we were out of touch. We didn't need to evolve blubber or body hair (Burt Reynolds excluded) or migrate long distances to avoid the cold. We were out of touch with the seasons of the earth.
*We are the only creatures I can think of who don't void the contents of their bladder or bowel all over the place. Except on the streets of Paris, France, we've stopped participating in the idea of randomly returning to Earth that which we have eaten. We even demand the same from the animals we have domesticated. The moment you suppress the urge to go--even for a second--you've lost touch.
*The rest of Nature's children have only 2 real interests, which are, in order: 1) the next meal; and 2) the next mate. I was about to posit that we have interests beyond food and sex. But come to think of it, in this sense we are very much in touch with Nature. There might be a rare exception here and there, of course. We're only human. But hooray for all of you gluttons, sluts, nymphomaniacs and ultrasexuals: in this one respect, you do not fall under the indictment of the so-called Naturalists.
*That said, we are almost alone in our constant preoccupation with and use of sex for some purpose other than reproduction. The entire existence of almost every other creature is centered on reproduction. We on the other hand have a never ending line of products and procedures to ensure that we can have sex more often than rabbits without the horrible side effect of actually having to deal with the most natural result of that act. Nature made it pleasurable so we would want to do it. We looked her in the face and said: Look, we'll do it like dogs in heat, we'll even call it a "reproductive" act, but we will tear that little nightmare out with a vacuum before we'll compromise our freedom, job, or wardrobe. If you believe in birth control like I do, admit to being WAY out of touch with Nature.
*We do not know where our food comes from. Noted naturalist Jason Adair would disagree that this constitutes a disconnect. (The only explanation for this stance is that he is heavily invested in McDonald's and its parent and subsidiary corporations.) I don't care if you know that the egg came from a chicken. Obviously any dumb-ass knows that. And only a dumb-ass would use that as proof that humans are connected in any way with nature through their food. We have taken the second most fundamentally natural act, namely, food consumption, and turned it into a pre-packaged jaunt down the aisles of a sterile, air conditioned supermarket. And you and I both think that is just great, or we'd be scavenging around the wilderness for whatever is in season, or sucking the blood from our fresh kill, or at least gardening.
So please join with me in seeking [un]natural spiritual renewal through Nature's gorgeous green places. Appreciate unspoiled wilderness. (You can even read Wordsworth and agree with him that people who don't are "dull of soul.") Please love your fellow creatures and preserve their habitats. You can even make Nature your religion, or at least part of it (if it isn't, then your religion is totally screwed up). But let's hunker down and admit that you and I are observing from the outside. And have been since we could be called Human. And there is nothing wrong with that.
dimanche, juillet 27, 2008
Ears, Bud.
I tried shouting this from the housetops. But nobody heard. (Guess why).
Hey, Soccer moms! Hey, newly minted faux yuppies! Hey, formerly technophobic Seniors!
The new law stipulates that you must use the bluetooth--or other hands free technology--whilst DRIVING. You are not required to keep it in your ear in the grocery store. You will not be fined for talking on your phone at the bank. The Highway Patrol cannot pull you over while you walk with your baby in the park.
Please spread the word amongst your ilk.
Hey, Soccer moms! Hey, newly minted faux yuppies! Hey, formerly technophobic Seniors!
The new law stipulates that you must use the bluetooth--or other hands free technology--whilst DRIVING. You are not required to keep it in your ear in the grocery store. You will not be fined for talking on your phone at the bank. The Highway Patrol cannot pull you over while you walk with your baby in the park.
Please spread the word amongst your ilk.
vendredi, juillet 25, 2008
Mr. Clouds/Mr. Sunshine
The standard formula for political discourse hasn't changed since the disgusting idea of being a politician entered into the first Greek head. It goes something like this:
Part 1) Let me tell you about all the problems (if there aren't any, I'm the incumbent).
Part 2) Let me tell you how I'm going to fix the problems.
Simple enough. But a good politician doesn't just follow the flow chart. A really slick one makes it seem like there isn't any formula at all. A legendary one speaks from the heart, where a bedrock of firm principles and well conceived, actionable plans dictate words we won't soon forget. A bad one has only the formula to offer.
And then there is Barack Obama.
With full apologies to the intelligent, forward thinking, principled people who have latched on to idea of change in American Politics (and NO APOLOGY WHATSOEVER to the orgasmic hoards who mindlessly worship him as the Great and Eloquent Messiah who shall deliver us from the Abominable Satanbush--this second group includes a sizable portion of the American Press Corps), I find myself in the regrettable position of having to do some playah hatin'.
Let me first admit that I found myself drawn to the man. Seriously. I'm not setting up a punchline. I wanted to believe in him. Despite his almost total lack of relevant experience (just over a hundred days in the senate is his only official qualification), and willing to turn a blind eye to his truly ridiculous affiliations with really horrible people, I found myself listening to his speeches, becoming really enamored with the idea of a President who was also an effective public speaker. I was so into his early offerings that I was even willing to overlook the sneering comments of his wife, who took it upon herself to go on record saying that she was never proud of her country until it started salivating over her husband. I liked the tone of his voice. I liked his look. I liked the way he handled the female embodiment of all that is evil in the universe. Had my affection continued, I might have even been ready to forgive the way he defiled sacred spots in Israel with campaign posters for a photo op, or the way he mumbled and fumbled his way through a recent press conference in Jordan (where, between unquotable hesitations, he ingeniously observed that "Israel is a friend to Israel.") [editor's note: the author is not Jewish. Obama just happens to have been most recently in the middle east.] I was even completely ready to overlook the fact that he is, technically speaking, whiter than Tiger Woods. The fact is, the man had my ear. I was listening.
The problem is that I kept listening, and began, almost against my will, to perceive his transparent use of certain rhetorical traditions. I don't begrudge him using the formula--they all must--but I am bound to despise the shameless sophistry with which he employs it. Every speech he gives comes down to a shallow litany of how bad America is, followed by him filling a hot air balloon made of gold colored tin foil with billowy clouds of empty ersatz eloquence.
The OOPAPOTS translation of any randomly selected Obama speech comes out as the following. (Please read it in your best Obama voice replication pattern).
This horrible place cannot be allowed to exist as it does any longer. Show me your guilt button, I will push it. Don't tell me you're not suffering--you are. Show me your panic button, and I will massage it for a moment before lowering my fist upon it with a mighty force. Now everybody drop your pants and bend over. I'm about to blow copious amounts of warm, meaningless sunshine up your ass and you're going to love it. It feels so good. It will not satisfy your mind. It cannot. But you will feel uplifted. NOW. Did you hear me? I said feel uplifted! YES! I AM THE WALRUS!
He is, when you get right down to it, damned insulting. Why not just say "if you vote for me, all your wildest dreams will come true" and then get Napoleon to dance? He says nothing. I don't care anymore if he delivers it well. What good has ever come of a politician whose message amounts to "close your mind and open your anus"? I'm not by any means endorsing McCain. But I've had enough warm gilded air, thanks.
Part 1) Let me tell you about all the problems (if there aren't any, I'm the incumbent).
Part 2) Let me tell you how I'm going to fix the problems.
Simple enough. But a good politician doesn't just follow the flow chart. A really slick one makes it seem like there isn't any formula at all. A legendary one speaks from the heart, where a bedrock of firm principles and well conceived, actionable plans dictate words we won't soon forget. A bad one has only the formula to offer.
And then there is Barack Obama.
With full apologies to the intelligent, forward thinking, principled people who have latched on to idea of change in American Politics (and NO APOLOGY WHATSOEVER to the orgasmic hoards who mindlessly worship him as the Great and Eloquent Messiah who shall deliver us from the Abominable Satanbush--this second group includes a sizable portion of the American Press Corps), I find myself in the regrettable position of having to do some playah hatin'.
Let me first admit that I found myself drawn to the man. Seriously. I'm not setting up a punchline. I wanted to believe in him. Despite his almost total lack of relevant experience (just over a hundred days in the senate is his only official qualification), and willing to turn a blind eye to his truly ridiculous affiliations with really horrible people, I found myself listening to his speeches, becoming really enamored with the idea of a President who was also an effective public speaker. I was so into his early offerings that I was even willing to overlook the sneering comments of his wife, who took it upon herself to go on record saying that she was never proud of her country until it started salivating over her husband. I liked the tone of his voice. I liked his look. I liked the way he handled the female embodiment of all that is evil in the universe. Had my affection continued, I might have even been ready to forgive the way he defiled sacred spots in Israel with campaign posters for a photo op, or the way he mumbled and fumbled his way through a recent press conference in Jordan (where, between unquotable hesitations, he ingeniously observed that "Israel is a friend to Israel.") [editor's note: the author is not Jewish. Obama just happens to have been most recently in the middle east.] I was even completely ready to overlook the fact that he is, technically speaking, whiter than Tiger Woods. The fact is, the man had my ear. I was listening.
The problem is that I kept listening, and began, almost against my will, to perceive his transparent use of certain rhetorical traditions. I don't begrudge him using the formula--they all must--but I am bound to despise the shameless sophistry with which he employs it. Every speech he gives comes down to a shallow litany of how bad America is, followed by him filling a hot air balloon made of gold colored tin foil with billowy clouds of empty ersatz eloquence.
The OOPAPOTS translation of any randomly selected Obama speech comes out as the following. (Please read it in your best Obama voice replication pattern).
This horrible place cannot be allowed to exist as it does any longer. Show me your guilt button, I will push it. Don't tell me you're not suffering--you are. Show me your panic button, and I will massage it for a moment before lowering my fist upon it with a mighty force. Now everybody drop your pants and bend over. I'm about to blow copious amounts of warm, meaningless sunshine up your ass and you're going to love it. It feels so good. It will not satisfy your mind. It cannot. But you will feel uplifted. NOW. Did you hear me? I said feel uplifted! YES! I AM THE WALRUS!
He is, when you get right down to it, damned insulting. Why not just say "if you vote for me, all your wildest dreams will come true" and then get Napoleon to dance? He says nothing. I don't care anymore if he delivers it well. What good has ever come of a politician whose message amounts to "close your mind and open your anus"? I'm not by any means endorsing McCain. But I've had enough warm gilded air, thanks.
S'abonner à :
Messages (Atom)
