You slide behind the wheel and immediately reach for the audio
controls. Lest a troubling original thought pop into your unsus-
pecting ID, you drown out any chance for introspection with the
latest drugged-out jam session / “song” by Bootie & The Beats.
Emotional manipulation and unexamined sentimentality allow
you to wallow in repetitive conjectures over the “turns” your
shallow existence has “taken.”
Psychopathic tendencies are encouraged with passages pro-
claiming the worthlessness of life without “you,” the pathological
need for “you,” the bleeding, sweating, yearning fearful thought
of having to bear existence without the validation of an idealized
romantic object packaged in the convenient form of “you.”
How you swelter now, and suffer in this heat of your summer innocence.
As you pretend that nothing malicious is afoot, you condition the air
beneath your salty lip.
You bleat and bloviate about inconsequential sidebars in hopes of
drawing the attention that will reassure you that you are not simply
a lame dream from which the rest of the world will soon awaken.
You rant authoritatively on treadmill topics that have minor significance
to anyone outside of your particular social niche, and wonder why no
one clicks upon your unimaginative, run-of-the-mill blather.
controls. Lest a troubling original thought pop into your unsus-
pecting ID, you drown out any chance for introspection with the
latest drugged-out jam session / “song” by Bootie & The Beats.
Emotional manipulation and unexamined sentimentality allow
you to wallow in repetitive conjectures over the “turns” your
shallow existence has “taken.”
Psychopathic tendencies are encouraged with passages pro-
claiming the worthlessness of life without “you,” the pathological
need for “you,” the bleeding, sweating, yearning fearful thought
of having to bear existence without the validation of an idealized
romantic object packaged in the convenient form of “you.”
How you swelter now, and suffer in this heat of your summer innocence.
As you pretend that nothing malicious is afoot, you condition the air
beneath your salty lip.
You bleat and bloviate about inconsequential sidebars in hopes of
drawing the attention that will reassure you that you are not simply
a lame dream from which the rest of the world will soon awaken.
You rant authoritatively on treadmill topics that have minor significance
to anyone outside of your particular social niche, and wonder why no
one clicks upon your unimaginative, run-of-the-mill blather.
This, the fruit of the tree of slavery and individual kingdoms, the democratic
dichotomy of modern times.
And while that is the USA's evolution, imagination suggests that America
could have become the same overbearing, obnoxious propagator of crap
culture by several other means, though none of them would have pro-
vided the sheer glee of multi-leveled exploitation afforded by shackles,
sex on demand, and denial of education.
One might infer that the future would be well-served, then, by choosing
another cultural subgroup for purposeful persecution. We might even
be able to forecast the consequences this time, enabling a desirable
conclusion as a reasonable goal. If the blacks get reparations, and the
Jews get their own country…
Some ideas:
Persecute fat people. Once downtrodden, they will rise from the ashes
with thousands of new restaurants, innovative fast foods and a possible
solution to world hunger.
Persecute liberal arts colleges. If enough of them die, one day we’ll enjoy
more scientists who can contribute to solving global warming.
Persecute cops. When world sympathy gathers, there’ll be no shortage
of actual law enforcement officers who are finally intelligent, in good
physical condition, aren’t corruptible and can hit a target.
could have become the same overbearing, obnoxious propagator of crap
culture by several other means, though none of them would have pro-
vided the sheer glee of multi-leveled exploitation afforded by shackles,
sex on demand, and denial of education.
One might infer that the future would be well-served, then, by choosing
another cultural subgroup for purposeful persecution. We might even
be able to forecast the consequences this time, enabling a desirable
conclusion as a reasonable goal. If the blacks get reparations, and the
Jews get their own country…
Some ideas:
Persecute fat people. Once downtrodden, they will rise from the ashes
with thousands of new restaurants, innovative fast foods and a possible
solution to world hunger.
Persecute liberal arts colleges. If enough of them die, one day we’ll enjoy
more scientists who can contribute to solving global warming.
Persecute cops. When world sympathy gathers, there’ll be no shortage
of actual law enforcement officers who are finally intelligent, in good
physical condition, aren’t corruptible and can hit a target.
How important are you? Let a capsulized voyage into the future
illustrate the futility of your aspirations:
In 10 years, no one will directly remember World War Two.
In 50 years, Hitler will be a footnote, the Holocaust an
oddity, and the 20th century a romanticized period of optimism.
In 100 years, The Beatles, Hollywood and every major
star of today will be forgotten.
In 500 years the United States, the United Nations and nationalism
In 50 years, Hitler will be a footnote, the Holocaust an
oddity, and the 20th century a romanticized period of optimism.
In 100 years, The Beatles, Hollywood and every major
star of today will be forgotten.
In 500 years the United States, the United Nations and nationalism
itself will be anachronistic.
In 1,000 years all of our wars, inventions, words of
wisdom and greatest structures will be of interest
only to the scholars.
In 5,000 years none of our present cities will stand,
few will be studied and reminisced, and the concept of
the city itself will have morphed beyond recognition.
In 10,000 years every person you ever knew or ever
heard of, save one or perhaps two, will be buried in the
lost files of the dustiest containers in the oldest
storehouses of the very most ancient treasures of our
distant descendants.
In 50,000 years the creators of electricity, artificial
intelligence and biological engineering will be of no more importance
In 1,000 years all of our wars, inventions, words of
wisdom and greatest structures will be of interest
only to the scholars.
In 5,000 years none of our present cities will stand,
few will be studied and reminisced, and the concept of
the city itself will have morphed beyond recognition.
In 10,000 years every person you ever knew or ever
heard of, save one or perhaps two, will be buried in the
lost files of the dustiest containers in the oldest
storehouses of the very most ancient treasures of our
distant descendants.
In 50,000 years the creators of electricity, artificial
intelligence and biological engineering will be of no more importance
than the names of those who first harnessed
fire, built two wheels, or used a stick as a deadly spear -
if indeed they even HAD names.
You are all germs on a ball of rocky mud suspended around
a cinder, in a sea of ashes full of dying cinders. How I despise
this time I must spend among you.
You human robots, you descendants of the clock, you time-
keeping assholes who tie knots around your necks every
morning and pretend to have original thoughts as you quote
comic books at the drunken bar you attend nightly.
You silly fuck machines who, when given full reign to discuss
any subject in a vast multitude of encyclopedic possibilities,
are fixated on blow jobs and Naked Professors. You worms.
You resource-sucking tubes.
You thump to the beat while daydreaming about your soap-operatic
everyday concerns, your social standing, your job status, your
mind-sedating business that keeps you busy, thus excusing your
lack of time for actual meditation. It’s all summarized on station
KRAP-69, where the trite recitals of your ritualistic existence are
delineated in full production with orchestrated arrangements.
Carry on, carrion; for soon you will know the true heat of justice, the
melting of your mental ice caps, the global warming of your gluttony.
It is the sweat of three billion exploited revengers glistening down on
the shimmering mirage of everyday security that will be the final sting
in your tunnel-visioned eye.
Fan your flesh faster, but the air is hot. The water is warm, and the
stench is building with the humidity of guilt. There is no relief from
this heat. There is no shade that will cool the breezes from Hell
wrought by easy living and technological entitlement.
Turn up the power on your coolers and await the blackout of your
temporary reprieve. Your timers are running down, your ice cubes
are melting, your barbeques are blazing out of control.
While you stuff your gullets with meat amalgams you call "dogs" - after
supposedly "beloved" pets, consider how many times today you will hear
the nationalistic propaganda spewed by your elders.
As you colonial-descended apes celebrate your wrong-minded sense of
“independence,” remember that it is all at the mercy of greater forces who
grow impatient with your quaint 20th century thought.
This mass music, this bonding audio-graffiti unavoidable past the
age of 2, has conditioned your emotional reflexes, limiting your
evolved brains to a set of boxed responses based upon manipulative
chord-structures and blissfully common sentiments.
Your markets subliminally seduce your skull mush by piping
musical messages through each isle, knowing that your mood and
your wallet are dearly engaged.
And as Jesse Jackson and many others who would sway public
opinion have discovered, the masses are sure to accept any idea
presented to them in the form of a rhyme as authentic and
naturally true.
As you inadvertently reveal the core of your own motivations in
your critical speculations about mine, deny the obvious.
Every day passes into an uncertain tomorrow. Nothing stays the
same, not even those around you on whom you desperately depend
for love. Goodbye Grandma. Farewell, son. Each song, each
laugh, each jest – far flung into the mists of forgotten things.
The generations die and none remember even those a hundred
years before. Your peers forget nothing, but the generations have
a special amnesia. Rest assured, even if by slimmest chance your
“name” – a hardly unique moniker – spills from descendant lips,
you will be but the air that carries the sound.
You kill other life forms randomly. You kill each other randomly.
You pretend to be good and practice the bad. You lie to each
other and you lie to yourself.
You rush hour zombies with highway scowl etched deep in pained
brows, who relish the crawl to the slave house, because there on
that bleating asphalt may you commune with your hoard, your herd
of fellow drones. There, on the back of that dredging snake, you
may glance over for a moment at the Others who are You, who will
validate your sacrifice of self for pay.
Know you that regardless of your toil and accomplishment among
Man, nothing will come of it. In a century, you will be dust. In the
end, all will be Nothing.
And the void will echo not.
Fuck you people. Why do you live?
fire, built two wheels, or used a stick as a deadly spear -
if indeed they even HAD names.
You are all germs on a ball of rocky mud suspended around
a cinder, in a sea of ashes full of dying cinders. How I despise
this time I must spend among you.
You human robots, you descendants of the clock, you time-
keeping assholes who tie knots around your necks every
morning and pretend to have original thoughts as you quote
comic books at the drunken bar you attend nightly.
You silly fuck machines who, when given full reign to discuss
any subject in a vast multitude of encyclopedic possibilities,
are fixated on blow jobs and Naked Professors. You worms.
You resource-sucking tubes.
You thump to the beat while daydreaming about your soap-operatic
everyday concerns, your social standing, your job status, your
mind-sedating business that keeps you busy, thus excusing your
lack of time for actual meditation. It’s all summarized on station
KRAP-69, where the trite recitals of your ritualistic existence are
delineated in full production with orchestrated arrangements.
Carry on, carrion; for soon you will know the true heat of justice, the
melting of your mental ice caps, the global warming of your gluttony.
It is the sweat of three billion exploited revengers glistening down on
the shimmering mirage of everyday security that will be the final sting
in your tunnel-visioned eye.
Fan your flesh faster, but the air is hot. The water is warm, and the
stench is building with the humidity of guilt. There is no relief from
this heat. There is no shade that will cool the breezes from Hell
wrought by easy living and technological entitlement.
Turn up the power on your coolers and await the blackout of your
temporary reprieve. Your timers are running down, your ice cubes
are melting, your barbeques are blazing out of control.
While you stuff your gullets with meat amalgams you call "dogs" - after
supposedly "beloved" pets, consider how many times today you will hear
the nationalistic propaganda spewed by your elders.
As you colonial-descended apes celebrate your wrong-minded sense of
“independence,” remember that it is all at the mercy of greater forces who
grow impatient with your quaint 20th century thought.
This mass music, this bonding audio-graffiti unavoidable past the
age of 2, has conditioned your emotional reflexes, limiting your
evolved brains to a set of boxed responses based upon manipulative
chord-structures and blissfully common sentiments.
Your markets subliminally seduce your skull mush by piping
musical messages through each isle, knowing that your mood and
your wallet are dearly engaged.
And as Jesse Jackson and many others who would sway public
opinion have discovered, the masses are sure to accept any idea
presented to them in the form of a rhyme as authentic and
naturally true.
As you inadvertently reveal the core of your own motivations in
your critical speculations about mine, deny the obvious.
Every day passes into an uncertain tomorrow. Nothing stays the
same, not even those around you on whom you desperately depend
for love. Goodbye Grandma. Farewell, son. Each song, each
laugh, each jest – far flung into the mists of forgotten things.
The generations die and none remember even those a hundred
years before. Your peers forget nothing, but the generations have
a special amnesia. Rest assured, even if by slimmest chance your
“name” – a hardly unique moniker – spills from descendant lips,
you will be but the air that carries the sound.
You kill other life forms randomly. You kill each other randomly.
You pretend to be good and practice the bad. You lie to each
other and you lie to yourself.
You rush hour zombies with highway scowl etched deep in pained
brows, who relish the crawl to the slave house, because there on
that bleating asphalt may you commune with your hoard, your herd
of fellow drones. There, on the back of that dredging snake, you
may glance over for a moment at the Others who are You, who will
validate your sacrifice of self for pay.
Know you that regardless of your toil and accomplishment among
Man, nothing will come of it. In a century, you will be dust. In the
end, all will be Nothing.
And the void will echo not.
Fuck you people. Why do you live?
