“…ours is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives.” Tyler Durden

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 11, 2011 by feastofalvis

Crossroads in life are shitty. Getting older is the quintessential drag of the human condition; ultimately leading to the final box in which we all will decompose. That said, I’m in a surprisingly chipper mood today all things considered…

 

Getting my shit together is giving me all the challenge that I can handle. Having a bank account that’s consistently in the negative and trying to start a new job leave me little time to socialize with my peers. And that’s a very good thing. Fuck ‘em. My peers are a group of tired degenerates that do nothing other than drag each other to deeper, before now unheard of levels of hell. Becoming a person of worth after so much wrong is a test, one that I have consistently failed in the past. I am realistically unsure of whether or not I will be able to overcome this time, but confidence is delusionally high for one in my circumstance.

 

In the past week I’ve been fucked over while trying to help out a friend; I then immediately turned around and fucked over a different friend in a completely different and much, much worse manner. C’est la vie, the cycle continues. A new chapter opening with the new job offers new opportunity to right my financial wrongs and make a new, positive network of friends to bide my time with.

 

But who gives a shit about me really? The dismal stats of readership of this blog are a testament to the relevance of that question. And it’s decidedly rhetorical in nature, the questions-not the stats. But what has happened in this moment of clarity brought on by the lack of funding for my usual endeavors is a bit of an epiphany. It reminds me of the matrix really, the movie. Somewhere in the trilogy, I think the first movie, somebody says that the “growing percentage of people opting out of the matrix” indicates the inevitable destruction of the “free” people of zion. I think that the rising percentage of people in my generation considered “addicts” or “drug dependent” constitutes a substantial number of people “opting out” of the machine; the escapism offered by a serious drug problem and those who choose to self-medicate in this way shows a good deal of americans, as well as countless other nations, who look at their options of a long life marked with a family, career, retirement, old age, then (and not soon enough) finally death, and simply saying “no thanks.” Obviously, it’s not just americans. Not just my generation either. I’ve seen dependence at all ages, from teenager to elderly.

 

I think that it also represents a semi-conscious yearning for a struggle in life that is lacking to most humans today. The past decade has offered a defining war, but it is not one that is as rewarding as WWII-thanks to the instantaneous modern media. Veteran funerals are protested. Returning soldiers are not always welcomed home as they should be for the sacrifices and services they provide the rest of us. No, the days of “c’mon boys jump on board, lets go fight nazis!” are long over. There’s no spiritual element of this ongoing conflict that fulfills those enlisted like wars past. But I digress. I look around and feel that the citizens around me are becoming very disenchanted with their prospects of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

 

When you turn to what may very well be, at the time anyway, a legitimate medicine prescribed by a legitimate doctor to ease this anxious feeling inside, you let all that go and decide to just “feel good” for the next few hours and not think about the dismal hopelessness of it all. And you like it. Who wouldn’t enjoy that? Immediately turning all worrisome and bad feelings into good ones? Then you do it again the next day. And the next. Modern age-old story. But on some level of cognition everyone knows what the result is: addiction. And we all know what addiction leads to: withdrawal to get clean again. The mystique of the drug culture and the question of whether or not “I can take” the extremely negative effects of cleaning up draw so many in; so many of us are not only looking for the escape that drugs offer but also the challenge they bring: can you put it down and move on with your life?

 

In the words of the great Tyler Durden, “We have no great depression, yadda yadda, ours is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives.” Cheers, mate! So many of us have become jaded and lost sight of the riches an upright life can bring us, the opportunities it opens to us. We feel we need that bone-deep personal, spiritual, physical obstacle to overcome; everyone wants to be able to say “yeah, I did that” or “yeah, I beat it. Myself. Me.”

 

This is where one of my least favorite elements comes into play: junkie pride. If you’ve ever known someone that has successfully quit doing an addictive substance, you know what I’m talking about. Some of our reformed brethren never stop talking about the “glory days” of their addiction with a certain fondness and pride. These people perplex me, I have no idea how they stay clean with it clearly on the front of their mind everyday, but whatever works for you is the best solution. Any rational person will say to one of these people (or at the very least think it), “Well, if you didn’t fuck up your life in the first place you wouldn’t of had to go through that ‘great harrowing’ trial of character, but ok man…” And they’re completely right for feeling this way. I feel this way. But if we didn’t need it somehow, we wouldn’t have done it to ourselves. Hopefully it’ll make you a better person for overcoming; more likely it will lead you to a life of sadness and maybe an early grave. Lifestyle hazard I suppose.

 

So ultimately, I don’t think it’s just the high you get from drugs; the challenge is seated somewhere in every user’s mind. No one is ignorant of what happens to users if they’re not careful, that excuse is dead and buried. So, kiddies…here is the carnivale of flashing lights and ultimate pleasure. Cost of entry: your soul and salvation. Enter if you dare (you malcontent asshole, you).

 

Just a thought.

“Heroin’s coming back in a big way…” -Pulp Fiction

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 27, 2010 by feastofalvis

Mark my words: There are going to be a lot of dead white kids sweeping the nation. I suspect that actual heroin overdoses will only account for a small number of them. Disease caught when ignorant people learn heroin is nowhere near as strong as oxycontin or morphine or fentanyl, then inevitably try injection, will also claim a considerable number. And many will fall to the hood. Scared white kids having to go somewhere they don’t really understand to get their fix is NOT RESPONSIBLE BUSINESS. Purdue Pharma, or whatever the fuck your name is, by starting this tamper proof pill production for OC 80 (and soon oxycodone 30mg or “roxies”) you are displacing a lot of dependant users of drugs that are produced in this country LEGALLY. Simply taking that away is irresponsible.

But on to my actual article…

Addiction is life. Pure and simple. Say it with me now:

ad·dic·tion

–noun
the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.
Still can’t get that fucking bouncing ball graphic to work on wordpress…ok, I haven’t really tried. But I digress-my point here is that this negative, “upturned nose” kind of attitude toward those with admitted addictions is really very hypocritical. Everyone is addicted to something. Life is addictive, and it goes both ways. The simple act of getting up everyday, if stopped, will cause one’s life a great deal of trauma, no? (Assuming of course one has a job, or a family, or whatever may require daily attention.) Going to work? Ha. I chose a definition of the word “addiction” that used the word enslaved for a reason, get the picture? Yes, you get paid to be there (unless you’re me, wtf). But where does that money go? Channeled into your car, your mortgage, your kids, your wife, etc. The list is immense.
The only form of immediate reward available is taking whatever expendable income the “smart” member of society chooses not to psychotically save (and watch everyday through the window of his or her computer monitor) and spending it on those oh-so-insidious things…things pile up and clutter your life. My generation grew up watching Fight Club, you’d be hard pressed to find someone 23-28 who couldn’t place the line “…working shit jobs we hate to buy more shit that we don’t need” correctly.
So please, while taking sporadic breaks to pass judgement on others and talk shit to people like me, enjoy suffocating. No, really-choke on it all you fucking hoarders. The addict may lie to everyone else, but you do too now don’t you? And worst of all, you lie to yourself the most, don’t you?
Looking around my life and seeing nothing but the diminishing values around me inevitably tend toward entropy, but I know the score. I know that the shit I’ve wasted my money on for all these years actually made me feel better, to the core. The only problem was that it only lasted for a short time. And it was never enough.
Now, from the outside looking in I understand the fact that a lot of drug stories are sad and end really sadly, but fuck it. Everybody dies. Shit, everybody dies alone. But at least we get to die feeling a LOT better than you on your best day. Yes, they are really that good.

Christine O’Donnell to lead 1st annual “Hike to Hell”; Delawareans to follow.

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 25, 2010 by feastofalvis

Good morrow, y’all…it has been quite a while.

Well, the fix is in. Or so I thought. As a Delaware resident and native, I’ve been paying slight attention to the upcoming elections. It’s hard not to what with Bill Maher and, I don’t know, everyone else focusing on the Tea Party and its shenanigans, specifically those of Christine O’Donnell. When I first got wind of this one I felt very sure that the Dems were in for the senate, for Delaware at least. I was sure that since the opposition in no way resembles a feasible candidate that it was in the bag. Was sure. Coons, while obviously not the first choice for the candidacy, boasts a decent record in terms of experience and has somewhat feasible ideas for the Senate seat. We all know that candidates make promises they will never be able to keep, but he seems to be the obvious pick.

But I simply cannot believe the number of people I’ve heard saying that they’ll be casting their vote for this candidate who, mind you, had a lot of trouble A) naming a supreme court decision, any one of them from all of American history and B) describing how she felt about it/why she disagreed with it during her debate with Coons. At least Sarah Palin had the forethought to cheat and write a few notes on her palm in this situation. These people I’ve spoken to, good, hardworking Americans, say that a vote for O’Donnell sends a message to the Democratic White House. A message? Is it that we are so pissed off about the current state of affairs that we will elect anyone, ANYONE, that will slow you down and cause a ruckus by simply utilizing buzz words and mob scare tactics, all for spite?

Republicans conveniently forget the reasons that we are currently in a recession; their man was in charge for eight years prior Obama’s election to office. No one in the mainstream news seems to ever want to mention to conservatives that the comparison of what Clinton’s Administration left for the next president and what Bush’s Administration left for the next President are apallingly disparate. It has always been the same, conservatives utilize this technique all the time. They royally fuck everything up for anyone not making 250,000+ per year during their four or eight year tenure in the Oval Office, and since the next (Democratic) President cannot possibly repair the damage done they brand him ineffective or worse, usually. And people still vote for them.

If you are a blue-collar worker voting republican, or even middle-class voting republican, I’m sorry but you are a fool. The ones you hold in high regard for their leadership and core values are the ones holding you down. And you still vote for them.

“Sending a message” by voting for O’Donnell does far more harm than good for your situation. If elected, she will be in that Senate seat for SIX YEARS, with little to no experience dealing with any pertinent issues that face our state. She wouldn’t even own up to her position on abortion when questioned about it during that same Senatorial Debate. The question asked what her stance was on the legality of abortion with respect to rape or incestuous conception. Her response was phrased as “what my opponent would say about how I feel about this issue.” She also noted that rape and incest-conceived fetuses only account for 1% of the pregnancies in the country, as if to imply that 1% was a number not worthy of consideration under the law. Jesus Christ.

If you’re not outraged by that statement, here’s why you fucking should be. From http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/07/us/07births.html, “Over all, 4,247,000 births were recorded in 2008…” taking this number, which is simply the number of births total and not over all conceptions in ’08, 1% of this is 42,000 births. 42,000 raped women forced to carry this life long reminder of the day their body was violated to term. 42,000 possible cases of incestuous rape with no legal recourse to rid themselves of this unwanted and probably disabled child. If O’Donnell’s statistic is correct, which I have my doubts as she certainly did not say from where she pulled that number, then she has essentially trivialized the lives and trauma of 42,000 violated women, nationwide.

That’s right America, go send your message. We want our Senatorial seats filled with those that won’t make concessions for 42,000 people (specifically raped women) nationwide. Also for your consideration…as of 2009 Delaware’s population was 885,122 people. 42,000 is roughly 5% of the total population of Delaware. If all these cases happened to be in Delaware, that’s every 20th person you’d meet. Just sayin…

Death Row is not without merit

Posted in Uncategorized on October 8, 2009 by feastofalvis

This still rings true, if you have the means pick up “Revolutionary Vol. 2″ by Immortal Technique…

To think about the origins of hip hop in this culture and also about homeland security is to see that there are, at the very least, two worlds in America. One, of the well-to-do, and the struggling. For if ever there was the absence of homeland security, it is seen in the gritty roots of hip hop. For the music arises from a generation that feels, with some justice, that they have been betrayed by those who came before them. That they are, at best, tolerated in schools, feared on the streets, and almost inevitably destined for the hell-holes of prison. They grew up hungry, hated, and unloved; and this is the psychic fuel that seems to generate the anger that seems endemic in much of the music and poetry. One senses very little hope above the personal goals of wealth and the climb above the pit of poverty. In the broader society, the opposite is true: for here, more than any place on earth, wealth is more wide spread and so bountiful. What passes for the middle class in America could pass for the upper class in most of the rest of the world. Their very opulance and relative wealth makes them insecure, and “homeland security” is a governmental phrase that is as oxymoronic, as crazy, as saying “military intelligence,” or the “U.S Department of Justice.” They’re just words that have very little relationship to reality. Do you feel safer now? Do you think you will anytime soon? Do you think duck tape and Kleenex and color codes will make you safer? From Death row, this is Mumia Abu Jamal.

Often off the deep end, but Immortal Technique, and Mumia, have poignant insights.

Shit sandwich or Giant Douche? I’m sorry, the correct answer is who fucking cares.

Posted in Uncategorized on October 6, 2009 by feastofalvis

Anybody hungry out there? Pissed off? Or has a general malaise overcome you? As a young adult coming into my own in modern America I can see no reason to feel otherwise. I struggle to make ends meet by working a job (often several) that I hate to pay for things I don’t really need or want (yes I’m a frequent drug abuser). I tread water, and I know I’m not alone in this scenario.

My fellow bottom-feeders know this feeling well; all you restaurant waiters, register jockeys, delivery persons, etc. I’m speaking to those of you with worthless jobs and I’ll assume you know who you are. We may not be out on street corners taking money for sexual favors just yet or slingin’ crack in the city, but we’ve sold our souls nonetheless. You’ve got to trade your youth for something, but for this? What have we done that is worthwhile? I sit and watch my country do the same: here we tread water as our new regime bails out corporate America time and time again; and every year I still owe several hundred dollars in taxes when I am in the lowest tax bracket that exists.

In case you are wondering, you’ll never get rich working for someone else. I have no brilliant ideas of how to revolutionize an industry for monetary gain; I’ve been working for someone else since I’ve legally been allowed to. My bosses, the entrepreneurs or restaurateurs of America, are all terrible humans as far as I’m concerned. Under the guise of pursuit of happiness and a better life for their respective children, they cheat and steal from both the general public as well as their employees. I’ve been threatened and guilted into working 16+ hours to sell $3,000 worth of food and alcohol to the public. I’ve been robbed of the little money I make for this task by my employers all because credit card companies see fit to charge them a percentage of every credit card sale made in their restaurants. I’ve been told, not so politely I might add, to keep my fucking mouth shut about my bosses fucking their employees on the clock while their wives are at home with the kids. My paychecks say zero dollars due to taxes; they pay the state government $3 an hour so that I can be their slave.

…and some wonder why I drink and use drugs quite liberally day to day. Why the hell not? These same employers claim to want a clean and sober staff. Paid nothing, treated like shit from every angle, and forgotten at the end of the day; I do the things that I do because you’ve forced me. Take some responsibility. All you poisoners feeding patrons liquor until they can no longer stand, vomit, or start a fight and then throwing them to the wolves; you middle-management fucks paying minimum wage to workers trying to provide for a family and laying off others because the order came from above. You CEO’s fattening-up your bonuses at the expense of the working class. You’ve sold out our American Dream and I think you should be held accountable. You treasonous bastards outsourcing jobs while Americans lose their homes. I used to think that treason was a crime worthy of hanging, thank you Dick Cheney for showing me the light.

This is not to say the blame rests solely on their shoulders. The worker bees never cease to cut each others’ throats either. We squabble over the same dumb shit over and over. We do nothing because we choose to see nothing. I know why you do it; it’s so much easier than trying to affect change in this big scary world. The days of successful violent revolution are a thing of the past, this is no call to arms. I have no energy to inspire you to rise up against it, and I know you wouldn’t even try if what I write here speaks to you.

So what say we drop the facade of ‘yes we can’ and ‘change’ and any other bullshit we’ve all been bombarded with recently. The system is broken and there is no way to fix it. Any politician that claims he or she will fight for the people will be cannibalized by the incumbent white men whose pockets are lined with the money of corporate America, that will one day own the government itself instead of many key individuals that hold much of the power. Any citizen that calls for upheaval, regardless of merit or logical thought on his or her part, will be labeled a traitor or terrorist. We are doomed, don’t fool yourself. Accept your fate. This plane is obviously crashing. Fire up a cig and steal some single-serving vodka and hell, try to join the mile-high club while you’re at it. Just don’t think you’re different. No one is exempt, and we’ve all got it coming.

Atlantic City Loves the Homeless

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on February 24, 2009 by feastofalvis

I get a phone call that I’ll never answer willingly.  It is my manager from the restaurant in which I work, and when I listen to the message I am surprised to find that he is not asking me to cover a shift.  He has a plan.  He wants to know if I want to be a part of it.  He’s gathered around eight hundred dollars and is trucking it down to Atlantic City tomorrow after class ends at 3:00pm, he’s gonna throw it all on one black roulette spin.  Tells me the trip is on him if black hits: room at the Trump Taj Mahal, drinks, and more drinks.  The downside?  If black misses, the Old E forties are on me and we drown his sorrows in my living room.  This type of decision will require deep thought and soul-searching.

At 3:30pm the next day we barrel down I295 across the bridge into Jersey and promptly ignore the first sign we see for Atlantic City. My travel companion insists there is another route nearby that is faster than a road entitled “Atlantic City Expressway,” and I’ve never been there before so what the hell do I know about getting there.  Five hours later we arrive in Atlantic City (it is approximately a two hour trip from where I live).  Whatever.  If I had anything better to do than get lost in traffic in New Jersey I guess I would be doing it at this point. 

My manager, F Word, struts his stuff into the casino at Trump Taj Mahal and heads for the roulette tables.  True to his word, he throws eight one hundred dollar bills in front of the dealer and places all chips onto the black rectangle.  Ninety seconds later we’ve got eight hundred more dollars burning a hole in his pocket.  We rallied.  The first round of martinis is on Mr. Trump and we are also given a room.  They don’t want to let this money go, the silly bastards don’t realize it was in the plan from square one to give it all back anyway.

F Word and I shoot the shit at the bar there for a few more rounds while the floor manager on the tables looks in our direction, as if to wonder if these two jokers are planning to spend nearly a thousand dollars on one bar tab.  I’ve seen this look before.  I’m told there have been instances in which I’ve ignored more than one stripper behind a bar in order to finish the drunken story I had been telling a group of disinterested friends.  It happens.  Try to believe me, dear reader, that I can be quite long-winded at times.

Wandering the boardwalk in Jersey, quickly decide that it is both the best and worst that I have ever seen.  The best in the sense that I had a large sum of money at my disposal with plenty of opportunity to spend it on booze.  The worst I’ve ever seen in the sense that, well, it’s Jersey.  I have no delusions. 

In the next casino we find we drink many car bombs, Guiness, and Jamesson’s, respectively.  We gamble and win back our bar tab in this particular instance.  It never happens when you need it to, but I like to think that I really needed it to happen then.  I do my stationary drunken-master sway while trying in vain, yet again, to understand any of the rules of craps.  Onward.

Looking down one of the side streets, we see a large sign that says “Irish Pub.”  It might as well have said “Promised Land.”  We stumble in to a quiet room filled with husky red-haired men punctuated with an attractive woman here and there.  All conversation stops, however the eerie silence is lost on the two of us.  We sit down and proceed as usual.  About three to five rounds later I recognise the reason for the strange group in this Irish Pub: An engraved wooden sign above the bar (very conspicuously I might add) that read “To Protect and Serve.”  Unbelievable.  What was my favorite bar in Atlantic City so far was, of course,  a cop hangout.  Thank god I don’t still have those two-foot dreadlocks that I loved so dearly.  We cut it short to only one more round of shots and the dark stuff.

The next casino was attached to a network of stores.  Walking towards the entrance I see another bench divided into three individual seats with a homeless man slumped over and sleeping on the end.  It is nice to see that a city which presumably is responsible for most of its homeless being homeless has spared no expense in making them feel uncomfortable and unwelcome.  Absolutely reprehensible predatory bastards.  Using people up, spitting them out onto its cold streets to rot, then the the coup de grace: ramming an iron bar up their asses for trying to lay down and rest.  Shameless.  But I know damn well that I’m no better really.

The first bar inside the mall is dim, like all good bars, with an attractive female bartending staff.  F Word leaves me alone to go ask if anyone knows where the strip club is.  The stereotypical Jersey Guido sits down two seats to my left.  He is alone.  His hair is spiked with Gucci sunglasses resting on top of his head, no matter that it has been dark for more than six hours.  He talks to a bartender for a few minutes, placing his hands on hers and other annoying tactics to take her home.  I call her over for another drink and ask her to pour two shots of her choice and throw them on my tab.  Jersey boy tried everything possible to take her home except buying her a drink and tipping her.  Nice job.  Haha I’m not even trying to get laid tonight, but stepping on douchebag’s game brought quite a shit-eating grin to my face.

I drunkenly navigate the dance floor towards the door, I can see F Word talking to the bouncer.  This is more difficult than it should be.  There isn’t even anyone dancing.  F Word is getting directions to the club as I stroll up.  The bouncer informs us that I”ll never get into the club “dressed like that.”  I assume he means my footwear; I didn’t even think of that.  Fuck.  Now that I think of it, a strip club in Jersey while wearing sandals sounds like the worst idea ever.

With a new addition to our to-do list (F Word has graciously agreed to sponsor me some strip club-grade shoes) we storm off into the mall to find an all night men’s apparell shop.  Turns out they don’t exist, even in the magical land of oompa loompas with spikey hair and anti-homeless technology.  We press on through the mall, which is annoyingly crowded for three in the morning, and try to find our way out.  At this point I am tip-toeing in and out of blackout party mode.  I look down and find that my drink is empty and vow to avenge it at the nearest bar.  F Word and I are separated and he finds me twenty minutes later bullshitting with a very pissed off bartender for shots and beer that have been poured, but for which he has received no money. 

F Word saves the day with his limitless supply of twenty dollar bills.  We make the long, sobering trek back to the hotel.  F Word begins gambling the roulette wheel again, which he promised himself not to do.  “Only sure bets at the bar after the first one,” he said.  Things changed I suppose.  He hits three bets on black upwards of 300$ apiece.  Then he lost four in a row for roughly the same amount.  He B-lines for the bar and I don’t see him for the rest of the night; I am forced to consume the consolation drink I bought for him during the latest spin.  Damn.

I make my way back to the room and pass out as hard as I fucking can.  I stir briefly to see F Word in a lewd act with an Atlantic City hooker named Allie.  She’s laughing at me for passing out so early.  I roll over and go back to sleep.  The next thing I know, it is 10am and F Word is calling my cell phone. He tells me he locked himself out of the room last night, hasn’t slept, and that I’m driving this shitshow home.  Oh, and we have to leave now.  I get up and I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I’m still dressed.  How convenient.  Memories of the hooker and the scene I never wanted to see last night rush back as I glance down to my left mid-stream to see the jellyfish of a condom F Word has left in the eight inches of water in the tub for the cleaning lady.  Classy.

“Fuck the doomed.” -Richard Milhouse Nixon

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on February 18, 2009 by feastofalvis

So I was looking at dinosaursfuckingrobots.com the other day and laughing loudly in the University of Delaware library for a lot longer than I’d care to admit, and it dawned on me that the mark of a doomed society may very well be the depravity of its humor.  If that is the case, then we are indeed quite doomed.  As I read the inspirational messages randomly paired with pictures of various dinosaurs viciously assaulting innocent robots, I could not help but think that I could be using my time more fruitfully.

The feeling quickly passed, as it always does.  Time spent laughing is never time wasted.  With so much to be angry about in modern society, why shouldn’t everyone simply choose to laugh instead?  It may be true that “if you’re not angry, you haven’t been paying attention” for most, but I pay attention to most current events.  I don’t see any hope for the future either, but I laugh about it.  I see the economy continue to plummet, even after the successful “yes we can/change” election.  People still fret about their money, or lack of it.  I laugh.  Their homes are depreciating in value.  I laugh.  Their cars eat up too much fuel.  I laugh.  Know why?  Because I just so happen to not own a damned thing. 

All of you sycophant chickenshit bastards with depraved indifference to those less fortunate than yourselves: this is how the other half lives.  The slightly more fortunate portion of the other half, but the other half nonetheless.  We work shit jobs we hate and survive paycheck to paycheck.  My only hope is that this most recent economic recession serves as a great equalizer of sorts; I hope that things get so bad that the Joneses start trying to keep up with ME.  We’re all in this sinking shitshow together people.  I already knew that we are all mere animals and thus equal.  I just hope I get to see the expression on your face when you realize it too.

I’ve had my share of philosophical discussions about the notion of saving humanity and the effects it would have.  These conversations were heavily influenced by alcohol and various other drugs, however some things ring true in my sober mind.  The short of it is that one person or small group would have to take such drastic action to change the world that all of humanity would unite against him/her/them.  Think introducing socialism to the US Government.  Or toppling the government and debt record altogether Fight Club style.  These people would be crucified overnight.  And for what?  The people you are supposedly trying to save to light their torches and come for you in the night?  One day fifty or one hundred years after you die that gruesome death under mob justice, if you’re lucky,  maybe some bold bookworm will read your footnote in the history book and utter the classic hero’s epitaph: “Huh.  Well maybe he wasn’t such a piece of shit after all.”

No thank you.  Good luck with your democracy people, if that’s what you want to call it here.  America is a capitalist republic, not a democracy-and a wise man once said that capitalism and democracy are not synonymous.  If you don’t believe me, go quote a socialist or communist manifesto at your local government meeting and see what happens.  You may as well preach the merits of the national socialist party during World War II.  After all, you’re dealing with people that genuinely think that steroid use in baseball is a pertinent issue (people are starving).

Speaking of crucifying socialists, kudos to Obama.  I think of the future and do not see him being well-liked or re-elected.  I see acres of red tape in front of him and impossible battles with nay-saying right wingers over petty bullshit that has little or no bearing on the real issues at hand.  He’s not taking absolutely drastic action as I mentioned above, but I think the result will be the same for that poor bastard.  There’s nothing like putting an icon of change and hope up on a high pedestal and then watching it smashed to bits like some poor old woman’s cherished snow globe on moving day.  And that’s the most hilarious, twisted joke of them all: hope. 

In the words of the late great Dr. Thompson, “Get familiar with cannibalism.”

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