Texas A&M Commencement Address

The students booed him off the stage; the faculty was deathly silent!


Noel Buntz is a Texan, a lawyer, a Texas Aggie (Texas A&M) graduate, a steer and a “six pack queer.”  He served as a Templar for seven years in the late eighties under the steamed cassock of Frater Blatz XOXO. You’ll find him listed in the rosters for those years as Lou Rothschild Beak.  Then, due to a number of public indiscretions and other even more embarrassing offences, he was forced into exile relocating to Del Rio, Texas, where he was reborn as Barlow Bins.  He claims this name came to him in a hung-over stupor after a night of drinking bourbon cream liqueur and Old Grand Dad 114.  With this quasi-identity established, he joined the Raelian movement and, if you know anything about them, they’re even more spaced out than the Neurosicrucians.  His tenure with them lasted scarcely six months before he found himself begging to be kidnapped by the Ampersand Divinity Baptist Church.  Once in their folds, he caused such distention in the ranks that he was forced to re-re-locate to Plano, Texas and change his name once again to Noel Buntz.  During this time he earned and lost his pilot’s license, his driver’s license, his real estate license, his CPR certification, his CDL certification and his membership to the Knights of Columbus.  It wasn’t long after that he was back at the Temple Affrontum Centro Accompli, Nacogdoches Chapter 555, knocking on their windows and doors, shouting in their air vents, to let him in (or at least let him crash in the narthex for a few nights).  After 23 straight days of this nonsense, they welcomed him back with an open cage.  Now, he’s in top form as a mechanically-separated, talking-trunk with a single-minded mission to douse the minds of America’s youth in the ice water of reality- a water so cold that it may just kill on contact.  He also sells pot and speed to college students part time. His commencetorial address to the graduates of a recent Texas A&M class is far different from what either the students or the faculty had hoped for. It will probably leave you sorely disappointed, as well.  Whether you agree or disagree, his views are vomited out into cyberspace for your disedification, anyway.


“I am honored by the invitation to address you on this august occasion. It’s about time. Be warned, however, that I am not here to impress you; I won’t.  I’m not here to compliment you, be your friend or warm your fuzzies.  You’ll have enough smoke blown upon your bits today. And you can bet your quivering tassels I’m not here to impress or commend the faculty and administration. You may not like much of what I have to say, and that’s fine.  After this speech, you may think I’m the biggest douche-canoe ever… and that’s totally cool.  You will remember me though.  Especially after about 10 years out there in the so-called real world, where attention whores and whore whores are all cash grabbing and product placing and elbowing you out of their way to get there first.  This, it goes without saying, does not apply to those of you who will seek your careers and your entitlements as maggot level government employees.  By the way, is there any other level of government employee? 

One of the loudest, most arrogant states, Texas is the true home of WTF.  On one hand, our state is ruggedly independent and maniacally reformist.  On the other hand, we rank last in mental health funding as well as last in the percentage of population that has a high school diploma.  We’re number one in carbon dioxide emissions, toxic chemical releases into the waterways and hazardous waste generation.  Then there’s the whole zoning thing- we don’t really bother with it.  I could build an outhouse condo out of Mountain Dew cans with 3 goats and call it home… it’d be OK.  Hell, only three presidents have come from Texas… but they really shook this baby, didn’t they?  We… and by ‘we’ I mean Texas… are pregnant, my friends and we’re hatching knob after knob of politician and political ass-pirant.  BOOYAH RICK PERRY!  WOOT WOOT, TED CRUZ!  Get ready y’all, we hope to fuck up the planet as much as Ohio and Virginia have in leading the free world.  Let’s hear it for Tejas!  Doing ourselves PROUD since 1836!

(Two or three people clap amid random shouts)

I figured as much.

(Turning to the staff behind him with a sweeping arm gesture)

This beshrouded klatch of corpses behind me is your faculty. You’ve heard the threadbare saying that “those who can – do. Those who can’t – teach.” That sounds lusciously insensitive and deliciously cliché.  By the way, I’m just getting started with the clichés.  Trust me, when you leave here you’ll be suffocating on ‘em.   There is often raw truth and beauty in clichés, a sharp-edged glamour to tactlessness, calloused bigotry, and outright war… just as you often find feel-good falsehoods and lies in compassion, charity or peace.  Is it a coincidence that CULT is the core of the word signifying your instructors?  Cults freak me out, so I’ll change it to fatCUNTy.  Fat cunts are something I’m used to, something I’m familiar with. By virtue of hundreds of hours of harsh exposure and training, I know how to deal with them.  Well anyway, say good-bye to them because now you’re getting ready to go out there and do.  And by do, I mean doo-doo.  Maybe 60.4 metric tons of B.M. will be your one and only legacy- but, that’s how it goes.  These stiffs behind me are going to stay right here— in this birthplace and graveyard of ideas.   Some of them may accidentally reproduce.  Some of them may… even more accidentally… teach someone something.  Yet they, themselves, will grow more tumescent, more poisonously embittered and grossly elitist without anything real to back it up.  And by real, I mean a competent set of knuckles, some sinew or a muscle of sorts.  Yeah… they’ll have a lot of wrinkles in their brains, but who gives a shit?  Gross, right?  These gurus of nomenclature don’t own guns, for goodness sake!  Not one of ‘em could toss a bale of hay.  Not a one of them does real work in a real world.  College is a lot like Hollywood in this way.  I’ll bet a lotta these humps have never fired a weapon, hunted or cleaned and dressed their own dinner.  Have they ever planted a seed?  God forbid.  Heck, they probably forget to pierce the plastic cover on their frozen replicated foodcrap before shoving it in the microwave half the time.   

Some of you might already be lost. 

 (Looking behind him)

Good Lordamighty… whatta buncha fluffer-nutters!  Especially these two in the front row…

(Indicating a smallish woman with a short, sensible cut and a nebbish, bespectacled man in a fedora)

Obviously, these were hatched, across the way, in Heep Lab.  Somebody should have seated them in the back row…. seriously.  Impressions, people.  Impressions.

(Addressing the graduates)  

Am I lying?

Before I go any further, I have some housekeeping to do here.  In the interest of political correction, and because you’re all highly educated folks who have developed overwhelming sensitivities to rhetoric, for the duration of my speech I’ve replaced the gender specific pronouns ‘he’ and ‘she’ with the ugly signifier ‘heesh,’ likewise with the pronouns ‘his’ and ‘hers,’ substituting ‘herm.’  You’re probably quacking with excitement over this so-called progressive change since it eliminates the tawdry distinctions between hotdogs and buns.  Wouldn’t you know that the Swedes have already developed a singular pronoun for both- being the neutral capitol of the world?  Most Netherlandrethals will schtup anything that moves, anyway, including Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.  So what’s the difference?

I’ve got to tell you, just because you’re leaving this place with a diploma doesn’t make you cool, worldly, superior or even smart.  You probably still won’t know Shiite from moonshine-ola. 

Speaking of moonshine and diplomas, when my elderly, legally blind FAA flight examiner handed me my private pilot’s license years ago in that shit hole Plano, Texas, he said, ‘Pay attention, Buntz, because here’s your ticket to soar with turkeys.’  The look on my face then was like the look on a lot of your faces right now- the expression of the mongoloid, clueless and off target- in those chintzy robes and idiotic mortar boards… are those ever going away?  Tacky.  But, like you, I just didn’t get IT at first.  I might’ve felt confused or betrayed if I wasn’t distracted thinking about the night full of hard partying that lay ahead.  Boy, those were crazy times and that ‘night’ went on for a little over a week.  After all, I was a hot shot pilot and my best friend was my hot shot co-pilot.  Our TOP GUN dreams where nearly realized.  We had credentials: REAL LICENSES and SPARKLING PINS to prove it.  My co-pilot- who I’ll call John Doe- was 1) my Sigma Alpha Epsilon buddy: 2) a world class drunk: and 3) a flamboyant man-whore.  I might be mistaken, though, and world class drunk may be in first slot.  At any rate, did you notice that being a pilot, or co-pilot didn’t make herm top three?  Hell, as far as priorities go, I don’t think it even cracked the top twenty!  Then again, neither did being a good son, husband or father.   


No, I didn’t get IT until my fifty fifth flight, a whole five months after obtaining my license.  I’ll never forget that foggy evening.  I was positively delirious in hangover when I crashed my Cessna Skyhawk- which I lovingly named ‘Lady Finger’- into a real live, stinking turkey farm.  In the interest of full disclosure, I’m a bit of a recreational lush. 

(Crowd murmurs)

Listen, I don’t have to tell you any of this.  I get paid to stand before you today and sell you one mouldy chestnut after another… a steady pressurized stream of partisan pig guano until you turn blue from thought suffocation.  As the King of Kings is my copilot and witness, I’ll do my best to achieve this goal.  By Glory, I had some drinks before I got here today.  And I’m man enough to admit I took a little Hair O the Dog that fateful afternoon after waking up, bloodshot and tilted, late for my departure time.  Then I took another one, to smooth out the rough edges, right before I mounted Lady Finger.  Truth be told, I blame John Doe, who kept me out too late the night before at the Dollhouse, livin’ like there’s no tomorrow.  Little did we know then, that, for him, there wouldn’t be.  He was late and hungover that awful day, too, and the folks we were transporting were all over us like an ugly bicycling outfit.  They were bitching and moaning and threatening to sue.  I mean they were only going to a wedding!  What’s the big deal?  Definitely not life or death.  John calmed them down and told them we’d still have them to their destination on time.  Unfortunately,  however, they all died when Lady Finger plunged into that disgusting place.  I guess it took being the sole survivor of a plane crash, and the loss of the most satisfying homoerotic relationship I’d ever have, for me to finally understand the sage wisdom within that doddering flight examiner’s mumbled words.   After the tragedy, needless to say, I did some time and the authorities yanked every license they could away from me.   In an anxious attempt at salvation, I quickly filled my co-pilot vacancy with the King of Kings, whose manifestation is presaged by consumption of a toilet liquor alchemically derived using purloined apples and ketchup.  But the thing is, I expected him to ride shotgun… NOT ON MY FREAKIN’ BACK.  Nnnnnnot pleasant.   Man, what a buzz kill that guy is.  But, who can blame me?  I wasn’t thinking straight because I was desperately in search of the cosmic release that the Baptists weren’t giving me.  I borrowed Deacon Whittaker’s 1999 Chevy Cavalier late at night when he was fast asleep.  And, I’ll tell you, if I ever needed a co-pilot it was in those bleary months living in Deacon Whittaker’s root cellar while attending The Ampersand Divinity Baptist College.  Deacon Whittaker assaulted me daily with his stern counsel- long winded sermons and harsh, ten-finger punishments (which heesh almost gave hermself a heart attack administering to me).  But, in my turgid, youthful arrogance I wouldn’t listen to herm.  Heck… I wouldn’t even listen to the disembodied voices that continued to plague me since my early childhood.  Then late one spring night, The KOK and I once again hijacked Whittaker’s car and made a goon-run to the convenience store.  There we loaded up on Dill Pickle Pringles (the KOK loves those), cigarettes, Wild Irish Rose and prepackaged foam sandwiches and horse patty hamburgers.  Long story made longer by me saying this: I rear-ended someone who stopped short while I was smoking a cigarette and eating my horseburger.  The bottle of Irish Rose slipped from between my legs and rolled under the seat, spilling the entire contents but a swig.  That’s when KOK sighed and pointed to the sticker affixed to the badly crumpled bumper of the car before us.  It said, ‘It’s hard to soar with eagles when you work with turkeys.’  Well… heesh looked at me and said, ’I guess MY pilot’s just another jive turkey.’   Then heesh got out of the car ‘I’m outta here.’  Why… I nearly collapsed as the weight of this new reality fell on me like an avalanche of Grade-A Posterior Pudding.  ‘This movie blows.’  he said before finally walking out of my life forever leaving me to deal with the cops.  The picture was completed, the riddle was finally put to rest in a mass grave with all the other solved puzzles like the godawful Rubiks’ cube.  What does this have to do with your futures?  Simple: Keep your eyes on the bouncing turkeys. 

Believe me… the turkeys have just begun. 

Now, I realize that most of you consider yourselves liberals of the pinkest, mushiest, most suggestive and suggestible variety. In fact, you’re probably very proud of your lukewarm, atheistic, liberal views. Why… with no Gods to watch you, you can pretty much do whatever you want now, can’t you?  At that point, you can pick and choose your morals like candy in a dish.  Hey, we all cut corners sometimes.  Deep down you probably consider yourself a nice person, a good person.  You care so much your heart is gushing. You feel so much your testes are ascending.  You want to help so much your fingers are filthy and smelly.  After all, you’re compassionate and caring, aren’t you now?  Well, isn’t that just sooooo extraordinarily special?  At this age, you can be one of those double yellow bar Equal Rights bumper sticker fags and not even be ashamed.  I just have to throw that in there because- as science has proven- bumper stickers encourage human growth hormones.  Yes… really… I’m living proof that bumper stickers can change lives.  Now, at your age, it’s as good a time as any to be liberal; as good a time as any to give and love and enjoy the sun and kiss the sky and all of that crappola.  You’ll have plenty of time, starting tomorrow, to start taking things for granted and for the grim truth to set in.  And set in it will, unless you become a professional student living in a land of eternal, irresponsible bliss and succulent, vivacious college co-eds.  Hold on a second… that… that sounds great doesn’t it?  For a real man, it’d be like placing a starving silver fox in the hen house.  Let this be truth number one.

Over the next few years, as you begin to feel the cold, stinking breath of reality down your neck, things are going to start changing pretty fast, including your looks.  They’re usually the first to go, so batten down yer poophatch, girls and boys.  It’s gonna get ugly quick up in this bitch.  Regular employment in your area of expertise is the objective in this game of life after all.  Right?  Huh?  Ok.  Well I’ll just fling an Irish proverb at you and hope for the best.  Because, really and truly, you’ll probably have to move back in with your parents after being forced to take a minimum wage McJob owing to the job market being as shrunken as that hack’s sack…

(Indicating the nebbish male faculty member in the front row)

… or your field has changed its minimum quals, so you need additional schooling and certification… blah… blah… blah.  It’s a never ending freakin’ cycle… a big money maker for someone you can bet.  Meanwhile, there’s no more money in your account and the sharks at the bank already own the deed to your exceedingly sore aperture, so you have no other choice but to get a high-interest loan to pay for your bus pass from some schmuck with another useleas MBA, just like you, who’s forced to work at Checksmart.  You might even find yourself asking him if they’re hiring!  This is when you begin to question everything: how much you really know or how open your heart really is… or why you ever left your old bed back at the family home.  A lot of good that wide-open mind is doing you now!  Always remember, if your doors hang open too long, all kinds of vermin can just roll right in.  That’s when the trouble starts… when you have to start spraying a bunch of poison around or hanging those ugly strips.  Before you know it you’ve got SIDS or SARS or start having seizures or some other awful thing and your strips are fulla horrible karmic reminders.

So here are the first assignments for your initial class in reality: Listen to the news, read newspapers, gorge yourself stupid on news feeds and AM talk radio.  Listen to the words and phrases that abound in the common vernacular.  Listen to them in your workplace culture.  You’ll hear ‘reaching out,’ ‘interrupted workflow,’ or ‘that’s harassment.’  Then listen on the street. You’ll probably notice the word ‘fuck’ popping up a lot among the great washed and scented as well as the gritty and malodorous.  You’ll most assuredly hear utterances of ‘dickhead.’  And also, ‘end times.’  This will help you to maintain a base line of stress that will motivate you through your days.  It’s important to never let yourself relax.  Relaxation is for animals and heathens.  Among your peers, stir up sensational conversation using sex, religion or politics as a reference point every chance you get.  Record yourself doing this and replay the results at day’s end.  Are you so different from a commercial?  Or, god forbid, your parents?  Are any of us: liberal, moderate, conservative or insignificant other?  When you really break it down, does any of it make sense? If so, consult a psychiatrist- or better yet a witch doctor- and get back to me.  Look who’s in charge, who’s been in charge and who’s gotten the shaft in the deals.  When you’ve finally reached your true saturation level, YOU’RE NOT FINISHED YET!  Add to this the current top forty radio hits and all the stock phrases and pat answers given to the tough questions from all your friends and neighbors. Then go out and buy a DeWalt DCD790D2 20 volt cordless drill.  Carefully read the instructions cover to cover when you get it home and set it aside.  I warn you that, after these exercises, you’ll be dizzy from confusion.  But, alas!  Congratulations!  You’ve finally made it!  This dizziness is what folks generally refer to as “reality.”  Get used to it.  There’re pills for it.  If the pills don’t ameliorate the avalanche of bullshit you’ve taken on, you should be able to bore some weep-holes into your head using the DeWalt.  This’ll allow any toxic build up to finally escape.  But here’s the caveat: this is a final solution and not for wimps.

If you don’t resort to the drill, the next thing you’ll want to do is everything the television- or your Maxi-Windows Pad- suggests to you.  Oh wait… you’re already doing that!  Well then, do something totally unnatural and DO THE OPPOSITE of what your screens tell you.  See how that shakes out.  Write down your results for posteriority.  Maybe turn your phone off or shut your laptop for a minute and really look at the world around you… I don’t know.

Since people never shut the fuck up, you’re subject to constant streams of fallacious rhetoric.  From the Left you’ll hear ‘I feel rightly without acting rightly.’  From the Right you will hear ‘I act wrongly without thinking rightly.’  From the fringe groups you hear, ‘Let’s smoke some weed and establish ourselves a gender for tonight’s orgy.’  From the Liberals you will hear references to groups – The Melanin People, The Chronologically Advantaged, the Amerecessives of European Descent, the Developmentally Immobilized, the Economically Oblique, the Bureaucratically Advanced, and the Handicapable.  There are just too many special interests to even keep track of.  From the Conservatives you’ll hear gun shots in the background accompanied by thinly veiled references to a master race preordained to dominate and subdue all lesser beings.  From the Alternatives you get the mad ramblings of some dude living in a shack on a mountain who sucks herms breakfast from a goat’s teat.  The Left wants to serve you a sandwich of group rights for the diseased, feeble and ambiguous tucked between two very dry slabs of sprouted apologia.  From the margins you also hear the sound of gun shots but instead of rhetoric you’ll hear chickens and power generators; on the Right, you hear muffled sex sounds coming from utility closets and public restrooms.

This about sums it up, really: Liberals feel.  Liberals care. They are pack animals whose identity is tied up in the well-being of the group due to some misguided belief in interconnectedness.  Conservatives think for the minute it takes to come up with a plan just crazy enough to work — and, with a gun in one hand, a holy meat stick in the other and their buzzarinos neatly tucked ‘tween their legs — play out their identity on the Grand Ole Opry stage of the Republic with a pocket fulla pills and cannons blowin’ glowin’ goo.

Liberals feel that their favored groups have enforceable rights to the property and services… even the organs… of productive individuals.  Conservatives think that individuals have the right to protect their lives and their property from darkheads, ragheads, cheeseheads, zipperheads, fucktards and fairies while still having the ability to rule over these animals’ affairs.  The fringe is thinking about the best way to get protein stains out of leather or how to make their cars run on turds.

In college you developed a group mentality, a socialist point of view.  Heck, you may have even liked dormitory living.  But, really and truly, only perverts like dormitory living.  These are the types of people that fail to nurture the personal and cultural narcissism necessary to REALLY succeed in this nation of grabbers. You may think we were all created equal, deserve health care and equal rights with all the perks.  You’ve got a snatch fulla sundrops and rainbows; it breaks my heart and gives me a hard-on.  It’s not entirely your fault, though- folklore and insidious advertising have led you to these conclusions.  But we’re talking about reality here remember?  It’s every MAN for hermself.  Kill or be killed.  Eat or be eaten.  You all… EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU… will be slaves to some sort of system unless you are mercenary enough to rise above the masses by trampling over them and buying yourself an island in the middle of Fuck-Off Ocean: dropping completely out.  Just like that liberal scum bag Johnny Depp.  Or that Brit bastard Richard Branson.  Oh yeah… they play like they’re nice guys, but they’re both immature creeps with bad breath.  Johnny Depp won’t even fix herm rotting mouth with herm gazillions of dollars, that’s how much of a stool-bag heesh is.  And we’ve all heard stories about how sleazy David Geffen is.  Oh yeah.  Heesh is a tastemaker.  You love herms boy-toy-band hits as they murder your mind softly with their moronic ideals.   You’ve heard the saying “everything you know is wrong?”  Well… that’s very true… but I’d like to auto-correct it to, ‘everything you know is advertising.’   Lesson number 2: scum bags become powerful 80% more often than nice guys.  Why be a man when you can be a success?  Lesson number 2.1: the number one obstacle to your success is integrity.  Looking out over the tops of your heads- because most of you are playing with your phones- I can see that none of you will have to worry about entering that rarefied echelon.  Oh yeah… you’ll make some bucks and start thinking a lot of yourselves, but you won’t have the cajones to do what it takes to live scott free on Blow Me Isle located smack in the middle of the Suck It Triangle.  A bit of trivia: this IS the G-Spot of Mother Earth… good luck finding it.  Otherwise, I’m sure you’ll end up contentedly bored and working and breeding and that’s good enough right?  This is as good as it gets.  Huh? 

If you look closely at your diplomas you’ll see that they have your individualized slave names on them. Not the name of your school mascot, or of your fraternity or sorority, but your own personal slave name.  You believe it was given to you, in free will, by your parents.  But, if you think about it, your name was chosen off a short-list approved by your master and tied to your social security number.  Your slave name becomes you, unless you’re extremely clever and can outrun it.  You can’t go to school without a social security number or a fixed name in this great country and that’s what we call freedom!  It’s only right.  Your group identity is going away. Your recognition and appreciation of your lonely individual identity starts now as does YOUR SADDLE.  It is the beginning of your enslavement where the right thing to do, ne THE ONLY THING TO DO, is to start collecting: marriages, critters, material, property and most importantly debt… for debt is the sacred turkey lacer that keeps the guts inside this big dumb bird.  All the consumer giblets keep your feet firmly planted in the ground and your eyes either coveting your neighbor or strictly in the mirror.  Of course, now you’ll be looking at a crumbling surface.  See, and that’s more evidence of ‘reality’ at work on a body.  You start out all supple and pliant but then, REALITY hits… BAM.  You get sagged out… I mean look at my face. 

(Tugs at a flaccid jowl)

I mean REALLY look at it. 

Is this the face of a romantic? An optimist?  A lover? 

Fuck no! 

But I’m prideful to say, I’ve earned every discoloration, every goddamned line and empty follicle.  The lack of sleep, the short fuse, the undernourishment from a feculent diet… I mean, with my clothes off, I look like a melted Ethiopian albino. 

(Stepping out from behind his podium and pointing below his waist)

These things shouldn’t even qualify as legs.  My wife’ll tell ya- nnnnot great.  But that’s what should happen to you when you play by the rules.  Those deep creases and bulging crocodile bags under your eyes will show others your dedication to the process of achieving your goals of multiplication and individual aggrandizement above all else.  If by the time you reach age 30 and you don’t look at least 45 from carrying around the weight of the world, then you’re doing something wrong!  This is why, when you’re facing your “self” in the mirror, you’ll choose to focus on YOUR SADDLE.  Every individual develops an ornate and rigorously tended SADDLE all their own.  It’s made up of the clutter and trappings of your life… you know… all the stuff that eventually OWNS YOU?  It’s the crap that you carry around in your head, heart and on your shoulders that rides you like a morbidly obese jockey through your days.  Ideally, this will claim most of your adult attention, and, at some point, the SADDLE will be the only thing you see when you look in the mirror.   Your shoulders’ll wilt and sag under the weight of the script you’re following, written with slaves just like you in mind, long ago.  At age thirty, if you don’t consider yourself to be a conservative, rush right back here as quickly as you can and apply for a fatCUNTy position.  These highbrow intellectuals will welcome you with open arms, I’m sure.  They’ll be glad to see your ‘progress.’  It’s true, misery loves a good spooning.  But, be careful they don’t crush you when they fall over from being top heavy with all those big ideas.  Oh yeah… they’ll welcome you alright… as long as you don’t threaten their state-us.  Because, when the strategically disheveled accoutrements are strrrrripped away, they aren’t any different than anyone else milking a messiah complex or fighting their own holy war.  By the same token, if by thirty you don’t consider yourself a liberal you might just be a conservative or a basket case.  Conservatives usually know they’re conservative, so if you’re questioning it you are undoubtedly a basket case.  More than likely you’re probably just a misfit that would be better suited to the libertarian platform.  Here’s fair warning though: joining the libertarian party is like going to live in a compound of old men with moonshine stills and hidden caches of kiddy porn, Perc 30s, seventies rock vinyl and semi-automatic weapons.  Seriously, these guys use cross bows and blow guns for hunting.  They target practice using stand-up cut-outs of political figures.  If that’s your thing, go for it.  Listen kids, I know I’m not doing you any favors now, but I could’ve saved you tons of time and even more money by telling you this stuff before you ever passed through the gates of this predictable institution.  The only thing you need to know is that everything that seems new is really just the same old garbage, recycled, in increasingly sophisticated packaging.  The point is: get used to the main course because it never changes.  You might as well just jump to desert, skip to the end of the story where you’ve developed into a blood pudding of individuated identity: a a first rate collector and champion waste generator.  Now that’s a thick, rich pudding worth its weight on skin!  As they say in Rome, “The road’s all over the place- can y’all handle it?”

If everything lines up just so- something might happen that’ll really open your eyes. But, odds are, you’ll simply get a full time job.  You may or may not move out of your parent’s house.  Hooray!  Right?  Hold on.  Not so fast.  So… you finally get that real job.  You graduate from McDonalds and Checksmart, right?  You go into your entry level position all chipper, smiling like a simpleton, brimming with so-called fresh ideas and enthusiasms because you’ve got it all figured out and you believe that people, no matter their politics or sexual identities, are basically good, fair and have the same goals and needs.  But you’re only partially right.  Then Reality comes to lunch and eats yours for you.  You find that, in the American workforce like every other Homeland Institution, it’s every man for hermself, turkey eat turkey.   No one cares about your fresh ideas… that is, until a more respected, tenured colleague presents them as their original idea.  Then, there are the other slave behaviors you’ll have to learn and adopt.  Like fighting for a day off- even if you’re deathly ill.  You’ll be put on a salary and find yourself working seventy plus hours a week.  Ultimately, you’ll realize YOU won’t be part of making the big decisions regarding your future.  UNLESS you decide to go back to school thereby increasing your indebtedness.  Bully for the Bull Market, bad for you.  You can’t even meet someone to shag because you’re basically YOUR JOB.  You’ll do this thinking that someday you’ll get something that satisfies and everything will just fall into place.  Like you’re living in a goddamned snow globe or something.  But, by Golly, this Nation wouldn’t be a Super (Asshole) Power if we were satisfied, well-adjusted citizens, now would we?  No way!  We’d be like that collection of certifried misfits called the Netherlands (or Canada) who do fuck-all for anybody but themselves and have the actual audacity to be insular.  WE’RE actually shouldering THEIR burden by taking on the dregs of the world with open arms (holding handcuffs and stun guns respectively).  Too bad we can’t illegally dump our illegals over their grandiose fences.  They’ll probably be the first ones to come sniveling to the big shots at the U.N. when the dirty bombs start flying their direction.

But… back to YOUR future: on the domestic event horizon, your odds of finding an appropriate mate seem even grimmer in the current shallow, narcissistic culture of Side Kick Vampires.  Despite your loftiest goals regarding love, dating and marital bliss, most of you are probably going to be knee deep in STIs before you find your particular lifelong pain in the ass.  But take heart, th pain in the ass will probably kill you before any STIs will.  What’s the lesser of these evils?  Who knows?  If you’re one of the lucky ones, maybe you’ll fasten your hitch to someone who’s already made.  Good for you.  That anomalous situation aside, hopefully you’ll partner with a pain in the ass who at least mitigates that quality by going down-town——- and I ain’t talkin’ about a Segway tour of the city.  These are MINIMUM QUALS, as they’re fond of saying in the land of reality.  But let’s face it, by then, the time you’ll have spent with the ever-proliferating, pin-headed paper-pushers in the educational system compounded by subsequent desk-mole work will have taken its toll.  Your retracted genitalia will fail to impress anyone but the sleaziest of fetishists.  If there’s any comfort, at least you won’t be able to see your shameful ‘pea’ due to the mountain of visceral fat you’ve got draping it.  This is not a silver lining.  Frankly, your partner isn’t going to help you with much of anything that doesn’t fit easily into their own SADDLE BAGS, either.  Especially once the baby factory kicks into high production.  This partner is either going to sit back and wait for payday or be too busy making their own payday happen to pay attention to you or those irksome biological droppings.  Maybe they’ll be working a hundred hours just like you and too exhausted to have sex for the five seconds you’re alone together in the middle of the night.  This partner may not want to share in your efforts or life dreams, but… I’d be willing to bet… will certainly help you spend your earnings.  In the long run, you must never forget any potential spouse is actually an agent; an agent representing a fable reflecting a myth described in the papyri found on that flaming mountain in the ancient books.  Be careful!  Heesh may also be another darker type of agent.  For example, by day heesh may pose as Director of Customer Service at NCB but at night, under cover of darkness and the dim eyes of hillbillies, locks herm secret bastard child in a closet while heesh takes some well-deserved “me time” at the local tavern.   You may find yourself swept up in a wave of intrigue by a research scientist who is an unreliable, money grubbing whore.  Not that this makes herm bad, per se.  Whores come in all flavors.  Some give round the world and rusty trombones, while others make cash writing grants for projects researching ridiculous questions like “is space really a bottomless dumpster?”  There seems to be a lot of those grant-money whores coming out of places like Texas A & M.  Scariest of all, you might get dragged down by some poor demented hippie who considers hermself to be a meaningful and talented artist, but who just can’t manage to sell any of herm artwork on the open market because my dog could hunch out a more artistically inspired statement.  ‘But,’ heesh whines, ‘I can’t have a regular job because I’m a sensitive ARTISTE, who shouldn’t be forced to do something so mundane, so beneath my station as an ARTISTE.’  Yeah.  I get it.  I’d like to sit around all day in my chonies making mud pies too.  

(Rolls eyes)

But, there’s nothing worse than a spouse with NO earning potential OR creativity.  Is the best you can hope for a steady pay check which barely keeps you afloat as you try to navigate these choppy economic waters with that ball, chain and anchor clamped to your legs?  Yes.  These manacles (part of your own personalized SADDLE) are your fictionally mandated prescription requiring a lifetime of intensive upgrades and maintenance.  But don’t worry; your place on the food chain will be sealed by then.  By the time you’re allowed to retire, you’ll be more than ready to fall into your grave, which, by the way, happens more often than you’d care to think about.  Dying within ten years of retirement is a common occurrence, especially if you think you’re beating the odds by retiring early.  Statistics show that people that hold off on retiring live longer.  Are you kidding me?  Does anyone else smell a conspiracy?  Let’s just ask Daddy.  Oh… wait… Daddy won’t tell you herms secrets.  Heesh keeps those for hermself.  Heesh will, however, whup your ass for being impudent and send you to your room without any Wendy’s.

And who’s your Daddy?  


Seriously… who is this Slave Master I speak of?  The director of your reality?  It isn’t Jesus.  

I’ve got a hint: He is part of the one percent and he is, more than likely, an enormous prick… figuratively speaking of course.  On the literal genitalia scale, these individuals are either shouldering the burden of microparts or- conversely- elephantine attachments.  In the case of the latter, many of these specimens are literally falling apart from abuse.  Nonetheless, the one-percenters are in that socio-economic bracket of pricks living in the Suck It Triangle.  Your Masters are usually male… although androgynes are over-developing in disquieting numbers.  And I have got news for you: they’re formidable.  These XX mutants yearn to strap on THE POWER as much (if not more so) than their XY counterparts, which makes them very dangerous indeed.  The Illuminati were right when they blamed it on the milk and meat, but that’s beside the point.  Generally speaking, Masters are persons with limited, if any, practical job skills, but who were able to make this work to their advantage.  They’ve figured out how to shape their personality flaws into a huge dollar sign and are now beating you to death with it.  These major manipulators don’t simply want a job at City Hall… they want to OWN City hall, and they have the mania and connections to make it so.  Firmly in the seats of power, they may then establish their own unusual laws and customs as sovereign entities unto themselves.  They’re the tin-horn dictators you’ve all come to know and love to hate, leading you like a parade of shoe horn soldiers in ill-fitting military uniforms.  MasterDaddy trains herms action figures using your military’s finest personnel and furnishes them your outdated arms.  This’ll make it easier to blow you AND them up.  How’s that sound?  Hmmmm?  Your MasterDaddies are multi-Billion Dollar companies who manipulate your perceptions and opinions until they become irreconcilable.  When this happens, mass perception shorts out causing everything to turn brown. That’s when the masses just throw up their hands and head over to Chili’s Happy Hour.  Further brain melt is only accelerated as a side effect of the overabundance of cheap, cruddy labfoods.  Make no mistake, this is the desired outcome. Daddy only uses herm unimaginable power for personal enrichment and benefit while you bicker about abortion, leisure time activities and who marries who- issues that should’ve never been issues in the first place.  Oh well.  It’s all good, right?  As long as you get your scraps… however insignificant… you’ll quietly watch the decay set in.  Because this pork boofay doesn’t look spoiled…


I’m not going to lie to you, I think it looks spoiled as hell personally.  But what do I know?  I’m only paid huge dollars to spew over your ceremony.  And your ceremony isn’t the only one I’m scheduled to desecrate this week.  It may not look like it, but this is hard work having to stand up here and look at some of you, so pure, so wide-eyed.  Especially when I didn’t get any action last night.  Lecturing is easy.  Hell, I can talk Helen Keller’s ears off, no problem.  But, the sight of all the inevitable wasted potential drooling out of this collegiate spigot leaves me, at times, damn near suicidally horny.  However, dear student corpus, don’t cry for me.  Let me set your mind at ease by saying this: I’ll be sittin’ pretty by month’s end while you’re leavin’ streaks in your undies over whether or not you even have a future.  Now serving REALITY… ice cold… party of ONE.

I guess I know a little something after all. 

(Pauses and drinks from a red Solo cup)

This is the reality that we’ve been sold.  Do you dare fight the iron-clad illusion?   Do you dare act as something more than the chimp you are deep in your heart and mind?  Believe me, you will be awed by the unimaginable power your Master has… power that you do not have… a power that no commoner could ever hold. This agent has the legal power to use deadly force to accomplish its goals and maybe that’s just what we need.  I can see by the look in your eyes that, really and truly, a lot of you could use that good ass-whipping you never got… right now.  As much as you may protest, you made this beast: your Master with Many Barking Heads.  He will force himself unceremoniously into your grill, boys and girls.  You have no choice in this as you are being molded by your beloved institutions into prepaid, pre-programmed ro-butts.  Your new Daddy is just going to pull up to you, gruffly introduce hermself, hand you a ream of forms to complete, and roll right over you with his decadently rimmed SUV tires.  Say hello to your own personal one ton gorilla in his own personal tank.  Heesh will sleep anywhere, lighten your wallet, drink all your beer and take you from behind if heesh wants to.

Now, let me tell you, your Daddy, like most credible whoremongers, isn’t cheap.  As you become successful heesh will seize about 60% of everything you earn.  And no, I’m sorry, there just isn’t any way you can fire this agent of plunder, and you can’t decrease herms share of your income without mortally harming yourself in the process.  That power rests with herm, not you.  But you’re pretty used to assuming the position now, aren’t you?  This is your life… being spit roasted daily by MasterDaddy, WifeyMommy and an adorable collection of lampreys.  What now?  Nothing left to do but enjoy. 

So, here I am saying negative things to you about American culture, family and government. Well, let’s be clear on this: it’s not wrong to distrust these institutions.  The fact that they’re even called institutions should be unnerving.  It is not wrong to fear these hideous realities because they’re the stuff that real nightmares are made of.  In certain cases it is not even wrong to despise institutions for institutions are inherently evil.  Yes, a necessary evil because people would devolve even more than they have already if left to their own devices.  Without a big strong Master to push them around and fill their time, they’d get up to all sorts of trifling.  Instead, we wisely leave the majority of the trifling to our beloved social leaders and institutions.  Institutions are somewhat like drugs.  Just as drugs- that in their proper dosages- make your life a lot of fun, an overdose of family, government or Direct TV can be fatal to mind, body and soul.

Now let’s address a few things that have been fisted into your gaping skulls by this university.  There are some ideas you need to expunge as soon as possible.  These ideas may work well in school, but they fail miserably out there in the real world, i.e., the home of the bored and flayed.  Now… be warned… I’m going to be extremely long winded with more dense cliché clusters than you can shake your stick at.  But this is a graduation address, so whatdya expect?  If it’s boring, tough!  You should be well used to that by now because the only thing a protracted matriculation exemplifies is a tolerance for tedium.  Hear ye!  Hear ye!  Be it heretofore acknowledged that you are finally certifried as good enough for the ennui and backbiting within the dungeons and administrations of the REAL WORLD.  It is, in fact, a lot like that TV show with the same amount of drinking but a lot less sex.  If you can imagine.  But, you won’t have to imagine for long… you’ll be LIVING THE DRAMAMINE soon enough.

Now… let’s talk about that favorite buzz word of fuffets, especially those of the academic variety: Diversity!  You have been taught that the real value of any group of people – be it a social group, an employee group, a management group (whatever the hell THAT is) is based on diversity. You gotta dip a little chocolate into that peanut butter, right?  You gotta add a little Neopolitan Action to your swerve, as they say in the vernacular.  But, I’m here to ax you… DO YOU REALLY?  Or have you just been programmed to think that this big gooey melting pot is cooking like it should?  Remember the first assignment I gave you?  Of course you don’t.  But if you do, I can’t stress enough that after that exercise is over you should stop doing all the things the screens and amateur pundits tell you to.  Otherwise, you’ll wake up one day to find you’ve been living a Groundhog’s Day life as a walking infomercial somnambulating through rote tasks relative to your level of incompetence.  You’d be better served by taking your dog’s advice.  Are you even alive in there?  Oh… yeah… you may be now… while that blush of youth is still high in your cheeks.  But trust me, goody-two-shoes, time will smack that hormonal rouge into the garbage can in 168,192,897 blinks of an eye.  This treasured liberal ideal of diversity is based not on an individual’s abilities or character, but on how weird they are (in layman’s terms).  While this sounds like a good idea, trust me… it isn’t.  Not when you’re trying to run a business or a country, for Bob Evan’s sake.  

Don’t believe what I’m telling you is true?  Think I’m just trying to ‘bum you out, man?’  Look around you for proof; it’s there you’ll find the real bummer.  Who does this mess anyway?

Within the great diversity gender erasure group misidentification movement type thing- be it racially enfolded, gender defocalized, or some other wingnut minority status – there is confusion of the most degraded class.  Does anything mean more than an individual’s ability to conform to a standard created by and for Europeans with poopy problems?  This is America.  Speak English.  Wash that ass.  Go to work.  Be like your neighbors.  Get with the program.  Boring, but predictable.  Predictability good.  Liberals and Fringe groups, like the Green Party, thrive on chaos and drug-fueled theories (even if the drugs are only Prozac and Viagra) meanwhile the trash still piles up.  It’s true; they wouldn’t have a clue what to do with this monkey if they ever… in a gazillion years… got a real chance to fuck it!

Lesson number five: Integrity, character or other qualifications are secondary to how loud you can talk, the company you keep and how showy your car is.  Either accept this or go back to your homeland where they, more than likely, run around half naked, smelling of onions and crapping in holes.  Do you want to crap in a hole?  Our restrooms in the US of A are top rate.  Don’t let anyone tell you different.

Brace yourself. You are about to move from this academic slurry tank where this phony kind of diversity rules, to a workplace and artless culture where ignorance rules and brain farts become policy.  No matter what your so-called teachers have taught you over the last fifteen years, you are about to learn that diversity is absolutely no replacement for tunnel vision and discrimination.  From this day on, every single time you hear the word “diversity” you can rest assured that there is someone close by who’s determined to outsource your life and turn out your wife.  Do you want to lose your squeeze- along with a hefty chunk of your income- to some swarthy, hairy beast with a panty-melting accent?  If that’s your idea of a good time, diversify away!

We also need to address this thing you seem to have about ‘rights.’  We have witnessed an obscene buttsplosion of so-called ‘rights’ in the last few decades, usually emanating from the a-holes and their ro-buttic sycophants that swarm out of college campuses and into our lives.  You know the mantra: You have the right to a job.  The right to a place to live.  The right to a living wage.  The right to health care.  The right to an education.  You probably even have your own ‘pet’ right – the right to a Beemer for instance, or the right to amass a stockpile of arms and ammunition that could bring down a nation state, or the right to tell others what’s right.

Forget it.  Forget those rights!  I’ll tell you what your rights are: you have a right to die. You have a right to dig a hole and crawl into it, if it’s on your own property of course.  You have the inalienable right to build up and, alternately, destroy your body.  Some of the lucky ones have the rights to the results of 30% -40% of their labor.  You have no right to any portion of the life, loves or labors of another (unless they are your kids or elderly family members, but have your paperwork in order for nothing feels quite like a screwing kept in the family).  IF you decide to grift, which has become a nationally accredited occupation at this time, you better make sure you have air tight alibis and the right documentation.  Forgeries are easier than ever to come by.  Successful grifting takes a Donald Trump caliber business acumen. 

You may, for instance, think that you have a right to health care. After all, President Obama said so, didn’t heesh?  But you cannot receive health-care unless some doctor or health practitioner surrenders some of herms time – herms life essence – unto you.  Sometimes heesh’ll do this while you’re under the gas, conducting byzantine rituals upon you as you lay in herm chair like some pinned up worm in a middle school biology class.  If you were smart, you wouldn’t need a doctor anyway.  Most of them are greedy, narcissistic hacks who ply their trades with intent bordering on criminal if not outright psychopathic.  A physician is always willing to experiment on a guinea pig for compensation, but that’s herm choice… and if you’re willing to go along with it… well then…  thank the KOK for malpractice insurance!  Have pity on your physician, after all heesh’s gone into great debt to wear the badge of doctor and heesh’s got the right to play that god-like card any time heesh wants to.  The saddest part is that, really and truly, your doctor will often be MORE SICK THAN YOU ARE.  Or maybe that’s more comforting.  When you get right down to it, you have no ‘right’ to herm time or even the candy in herm waiting room.  Don’t believe me?  Just try going into a doctor’s office without an appointment and helping yourself to some coffee, kleenex or candy.   If you are good, you can have free coffee and kleenex every day by doing this.  That’s rugged individualism there. The caveat?  There’s nothing more dishonorable than being caught in your transgressions, but, if you are, be righteously indignant.  This is also part of the predominant business acumen I’ve spoken of.

You may think you have some ‘right’ to a job; a job with a ‘living wage’ (a concept which is as much an urban myth as the ‘Hippocratic Oath’).  Do you mean to tell me that you have a right to force your services on another person, and then the right to demand that this person compensate you with their hardly earned money?  Sorry, forget it.  I’m sure you would scream if some parasitic prostitute came to you, rubbed herm oozy parts upon you, then demanded money.  If it was worth it to you, you might drop some change on the sidewalk for them after the deed was done.  But, you could also choose to kick them in the face when they go to pick it up, reclaim your currency and be on your way.  That’d teach ‘em a thing or two about rights!  Heck, I think it teaches us all a little something about rights.  For those of you playing Candy Fucking Crush here’s the moral: The rights belong to those with the money and the upper hand.  Let this serve as lesson number four… er… is it three?  Six?  So many good points.  It doesn’t matter.  You’re college graduates now… YOU KNOW EVERYTHING.  Right?  Well… let me be the first to tell you… YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT.

The people who have been telling you about all the rights you have are simply exercising one of theirs – the right to be blathering imbeciles.  Imbeciles cost everyone time… and time is money.  How much did your stupidity-dressed-up-like-civility cost society today?  How much is this lecture costing your alma mater?  I could probably write a doctorate on this principle, if I sucked at life and turned to mental masturbation to fill the vacuum where life experience should be.   Personally, I’ll just stick to touring college campuses and chasing barely legal party-poon.

To imply that one person working two jobs in a small town to provide for his family (and maintaining herm national standard of dull misery) because heesh is ‘less fortunate’ is to imply that a successful person – one with tons of free time, access to the highest quality pharmaceuticals, living a semi-nomadic existence with no legal or moral parameters holding herm back- is in that position because heesh was ‘fortunate.’  The dictionary says that fortunate means ‘having derived good from an unexpected place.’ There IS something unexpected about deriving good from work, as what we call ‘work’ typically erodes physical and mental health.  The smartest people get others to do the heavy lifting while they spout off ideas and howl directions.  If they exert their force in the right direction for long enough, success happens and they can then hire people to count their money.  It’s kind of like pissing your name in the snow.

If the Liberal Left can create the common perception that success and failure are simple matters of ‘fortune,’ ‘just desserts’ or ‘luck,’ then it is easy for the other parties to promote and justify their various income redistribution schemes.  After all, the spoils belong to the victor and the victor must have won fair and square.  This ‘success equals luck’ idea the liberals like to push is seen everywhere. Former Democratic presidential candidate Richard Gephardt refers to high-achievers as ‘people who have won life’s lottery.’  Heesh wants you to believe they are making the big bucks because they are lucky.  It’s not luck, my friends.  It’s cronies, nepotism and connections.  It’s taking a solid beating and a rough-fucking and treating your self-esteem like a cum rag- something you simultaneously need and are ashamed of.  One of the greatest lessons I ever learned was in a book by Neurocratic author Bogg Mandingo, entitled, ‘The Greatest Sucker in the World.’  The lesson? Very simple: ‘Choose wisely your weapon of power: cover your failings in mountains of rubbish.’

That pant-less bum sitting on a sewer grate, smelling like a wharf-rat dusted in dookie?  Heesh is there by choice.  Heesh ostensibly rejects the world of ‘The Suckers,’ either consciously or subconsciously.  Heesh is there because of the sum total of the choices heesh’s made which run counter to this stifling and subordinary culture.  Heesh knows that heesh’ll die a boozy, drug sodden death faster if heesh held down a nine to five job than if heesh were simply free all day to drink and drug.  This truism is absolutely the hardest thing for some people to swallow, especially those who consider themselves to be heroic victims of the workaday world.  You can just join the line with the hoardes of other heroic victims waiting for their hand outs: people who have fallen prey to corporate advertising, arbitrary discrimination, bad genes, the proliferation of wacko professionals, capitalism, high level banking schemes, a brick in the back of the head, whatever.  At the end of the day, a person with power and money never has to accept the blame when things go south.  Not when it is so much easier to point and say, ‘Make this go away,’ to a team of professional fixers followed by, ‘I will offer a cash reward to anyone who finds the S. O. B. who did this to me!’  The key to accepting responsibility for your life is to accept the fact that your choices, every one of them, are leading you inexorably to either dollars or donuts.  Remember, regardless of anything else, you will always wear a label… so wear it proudly.

Some choices an individual faces are obvious. Like, drop out of public school and teach yourself.  Don’t get pregnant… ever.  Hit the bottle just enough to keep your wheels greased.  Only enter the legitimate job market as a last resort.  Save some of your money in a water tight box buried in a secret place.   Avoid credit cards like you would a wart riddled crotch.  Never invest in two of the most diabolical enterprises ever created: the entertainment or automobile industries.  I could go on and on.

Some of the choices are seemingly insignificant: whom not to attend the movies with, which stranger’s car is safe to ride home in, what size plasma screen will effectively bolster your drooping self-worth and block out your pain in the ass at the same time, etc.   But- and you can be sure of this- each choice is insignificant in the eyes of nature.  Nature doesn’t give two farts what you do, because heesh knows heesh will always win.  Each choice is a gear in the machinery of destruction – some cogs large, some small.  But each one is part of the deadly clockwork of your life.  If you make choices, any choices at all, something absolutely terrible may happen to you.  Something unthinkable.  You, my friend, may discover you’re alive… at which point, the true reality- stripped of all its advertising- may  threaten to crush you upon impact.

But back to rich people.  The rich basically serve two purposes in this country.  First, they maintain the essential tensions between the castes.  Without class antagonism, a culture becomes stale and stagnant.  Just ask any third world nation.  Too much peace, harmony and love makes a people flabby with shamefully engorged bits and nothing gets done.  Look at Denmark- they’re more than happy to wither away in their trippy national prostitute gang bang, not giving two fucks about who’s got the oil or having a Walmart on every block.  If it were up to them, the world market would collapse along with the necrotic morality of Christendom… 

I guess it doesn’t sound so bad if I put it like that.  Hmmmmm. 

(He pauses, drinking, looking at the student body over the rim of the Solo cup.  He sets it down and continues)

Second, the rich and famous make good targets.  They are above it all most of the time so- whenever you can- why not make them the recipients of your 21st century frustrations.  Even if it only slightly hinders their day, the agitation is worthwhile.  It can be as major or as minor as you want it to be.  Just like everything else.  ‘But, Señor Boortz, isn’t that a bit extreme?’  You ax.  ‘After all, they’re people just like us.’  You say.  NO THEY’RE NOT!  They have evolved beyond caste, beyond dogma.  They have mutated to dangerous levels.  They no longer have the same worries as you, the same illnesses as you or the same sex life as you.  They no longer wait in lines or pay for their shoes.  They get baby-blood transfusions and sleep in hyperbaric chambers.  They go out with supermodels and get it on with groups of Latino bus-boys.  They remind us of how un-free we really are because, by virtue of their fortunes, they can do anything… ANYTHING… and get away with it.  Your silly social morays and trivial legal edicts hold no sway over them.  Few things are more valuable to a politician than the envy most Americans feel for the leisure class. 

Envy is a powerful motivator, as are all the so-called deadly sins.  Politicians use envy, pride, wrath and gluttony in a spectacular array of combinations to get votes and power.  And they keep that power by promising the envious that the envied will be punished by being made richer thereby being forced to evolve to further reaches of madness.  Blood sacrifice is part of their secret.  Donald Trump won’t tell you this, but heesh keeps the hand of a former employee suicide under lock and key in herm luxe Trump Tower penthouse.  The raw truth is that the top 10% of income earners in the 1% have killed at least one person through their own free expression of deadly sin.  

You have heard, no doubt, that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer.  Interestingly enough, our government’s own numbers show that American homeless have a higher standard of living than most of the population in Latin America.  But for the rich who do actually get richer, and the poor who remain poor… there’s an explanation — a reason.  The rich, you see, keep doing the things that make them rich  (insider trading, collusion, outsourcing, outright swindling); while the poor keep doing the things that make them poor (working dead end jobs, fighting industrial diseases and having kids).

Speaking of the poor, during your adult life you’re going to hear an endless string of politicians bemoaning the plight of the poor.  Most of them don’t care and this is just a string of platitudes written by some coked-up speechwriter.  But, you need to know that under our government’s definition of ‘poor’ you can have a $5 million net worth, a $300,000 home, a $750.00 ultra-commercial inflatable bouncer combo in the back yard and a new $90,000 Mercedes, all completely paid for.  This accounts for the newly assessed $50,000 poverty level.  You can also have a maid, cook, valet, and a million in your checking account, and you can still be officially defined by our government as ‘living in poverty.’  I see some your mouths falling open… and, well, some of your mouths have been hanging open since I stepped up here… heck, since you were born probably.  How does the government pull this off you might ax?  Very simple, really.  The same way it pulls everything off: by folding ‘the issue’ over itself, cutting it into very tiny pieces and then dropping these meaningless snippets in a can of Diet Coke and letting them marinade for a month.  To determine whether or not some poor soul is ‘living in poverty,’ the government measures one thing — just one thing.  Documentation.  A good enough lawyer and accountant can make you look positively indigent on paper.  After your money is laundered and stuffed through enough loopholes, you’ll be able to spend your time bumming around hostels in France for a few years (or anywhere in South America for A DECADE) without a care in the world, living the life of an eternal adolescent all the while looking dead broke on paper.  Doesn’t that sound grand?  Sure does. 

Daddy’s set the bar really high in hopes that many of you fail to varying degrees or that those of you with any cognitive ability whatsoever will turn into dumb workaholics and annoying overachievers.  That way you’ll be so focused on your personal goals you won’t be paying attention to what’s really going down, man.  You’ll be a good consumer, dude, slaving away to fulfill the goals Daddy set for you.  Goals which, by the way, only benefit Daddy, homie.  Many of you were born in debt and the ticker’s been counting backwards ever since.  How can you possibly hope to climb out unless you cut the heart out of an innocent and vow to never relax again?  Are you a gambler?  If you ask me, life’s too short to spend it working.  Cutting out hearts gets to be a lot of work, too.  Don’t believe me?  Just trying doing it without breaking a sweat.  Trump has someone else do it for him.

Ahhhh freedom.

It doesn’t matter one bit how much you have, how many people you own, how fast you can drive with a blood alcohol content of .10%, whether or not your pool is mostly urine, whether you winter in Haiti, summer in Youngstown, or how much is in your underwear.  It only matters how much you can pull off.  This means that if you’re clever and connected enough, you might be able to take a one-year leave of absence from that high-paying job that you fucked your way into and decide to live off the money in your savings and checking accounts while you write the next Great American Financial Scam.  This bears repetition… on paper, your numbers can say you are living in poverty.  An insolvent commoner, operating well below the $50,000 poverty level, can achieve the same goal by getting fired and collecting unemployment and pan handling. You can live well on the stuff the stupid crackers around you throw out.  Are these approaches really so different?  You pay for each of these Classic American Lifestyles in one way or another.  Don’t fool yourselves.  But, that’s what America’s all about, kids…  CONSUMING.  This isn’t exactly what you had in mind when you heard these gloomy statistics, is it?  Do you need more convincing?  Consider this: no amount of money can compensate for an impoverished soul.

Want to talk about soul crushing?  Let’s talk about the standard work week.  The work week is just that: WEAK!  It’s for losers.  In a world where forty hours is the minimum, not the maximum – because you don’t see highly successful people clocking out of the office every afternoon at five—the ones who can make their way in spite of this dreary system while having the most fun along the way are the true winners. The losers are the ones caught up in that a.m. rush hour leading to that national treasure, ‘the Monday Morning Heart Attack.”  The winners operate and flourish in darkness and sleep the day away. The winners grow victory gardens in their brains and britches spreading their spoor to whomever and whatever.

I’m about to be assaulted by the stoned fatcunty here. They’ve already changed their minds about that honorary Glass Bottom Boat I was going to get.  That’s OK, though. I still have my PhD. in Insensitivity from the Noel Buntz Institute for Insensitivity Training. I learned that, in short, sensitivity sucks.  It’s a trap.  Think about it – the truth knows no sensitivity.  Nature hermself is insensitive.  Wallow too much in sensitivity and you’ll be like all the other lame drama queens, unable to deal with life, or the truth, so go kick a pregnant basset-hound and get over it.

Now, since the dean hasn’t hooked me off the stage yet, I have a few random thoughts that might provide herm the extra motivation:

* Don’t bother registering to vote until the Electoral College is disbanded.  They’re just getting in the way of the process.  Demand its dissolution with random protests involving C4 charges, nudity, gun play, and thrown fecal matter.

* If you are a day-trader, a pharmaceutical  or insurance CEO, profiting off of natural disasters, manufactured diseases and the misfortunes of others, please do us the favor of shooting yourself in the face.

* If you absolutely must vote, vote with bullets.  Aim for members of the House and the Senate because they hold more power, and are therefore more worthy of your “vote,” than the President.  The House controls the purse strings, so focus your ballots there.

* Liars cannot be trusted, even, and especially, when they are your parents!  If someone can’t deal honestly with you, send them packing.  Or pack up yourself and GET THE HELL OUT.

* Always bow to the temptation to plunder an instrument of government.  

* Don’t look in other people’s phones. You have no business there.  That shit’ll get you killed.  

*What you earn is yours.  Keep it that way.  

*Be self-centered and material oriented. 

*Maximize artifice and pretension. 

*Nobody owes you anything, except to respect your privacy and your rights (as you whittle away theirs) and leave you the hell alone (as you spy on them).

* Free speech was the worst idea ever because it gives even the lowliest ignoramuses the motivation to burble on.  Popular speech, by definition, comes from the encyclopaedia of the ignoramus.  I am living proof.

(Booing from several people in the audience)

* As Bogg Mandingo wrote,

  1. Proclaim your parity. Fitting in is important.  Until after dark.
  2. Choose wisely your weapon of power; cover your failings in mountains of rubbish.
  3. Avoid regular schedules. Sleep during the day. Create intrigue and gather supplies in the dark.
  4. Men of power generate the most waste. HE WHO THROWS AWAY THE MOST UN-PLAYED-WITH TOYS WINS.

* Finallilllillilily (and aren’t you glad to hear that word), Keep your eyes on the bouncing turkeys.

(A swarm of officials invade the dais, closing in on him amid the growing audience discontent)

Now, if you have any idea at all what’s good for you, you will get the hell out of here and build a tent city in the middle of some KOK forsaken South-American jungle and never look back. 

 (Two stocky officers handcuff him behind his back and the group of officers lead him off, stage right)

Class dismissed.”

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