Reparation

Great minds think alike…

unfortunately so do stupid ones.

 

Jobs are jails.

Society is hole.

If the shoe fits.

Cash n carry.

Smoke em if you got em.

Follow the prescription.

 

But never forget: you vote with your dollar: you get what you pay for.  Pay as you go or pay in a lump sum.  Nature runs a zero sum game.

 

 

Tunnel of Rove
Lover’s Lane, oil on wood, 1993 copyright GPD

 

HARI KARI FOR THE CURE.

Scores of young Caucasian couples, have made the commitment.  Standing upon the banks of Cemetery Shores, scads of media vipers circulate to catch their bold mass action-item.  A varied crowd assemble at the periphery, all holding up their cell phones.  On Cigarette Butt Beach, there must be 10,000 of others.  More arriving in their vans, beat up sedans or smart cars each second.  There are even a few Historical vehicles in the lot, keys left in the ignition.  With nothing else more interesting to do, already tired of TV and the day to day, suffering loneliness and sex dysfunction in their late twenties and early thirties, they realize they’ve been living Life Lite with all the bullshit and calories a confused body could never need.  They don’t want to have to ‘make love’ anymore.  Their eyes have been burned out by devices.  Their pineal glands and hemispheres are shrinking, smoothing.  They don’t have any loyalty to anyone… even to themselves.  Besides, this will all be on TV and they can fast forward through the boring parts.

They chant something that sounds like “Child Birth is Sin.”  Their voices are soulless, tuneless and rhythmless.

A newscaster, a man, acts stuffy and indignant in his raincoat (and many other newscaster stereotypes).  The Hari Kari for the Cure spokesmodel is a good example of a youthful, hopelessly recessive every-woman.  She’s in workout spandex:

We, White Couples Untied, do this in sacrifice- and in the spirit of truest apologia- for our race’s past, present and future greeds.  Our hypocritical inhumanities.  But, in our defense, if there’s any defense at all, it’s been sanctioned by and forced deeply down our throats enough by our creepy, olde, white Grand Dad.  This doesn’t excuse anything.  And we’re sorry we continue to perpetuate it every gogdamned day by defending the indefensible and by perpetuating Old Grand-Dad’s stupidities.  We’re sorry we’ve ensconsed Grand-Dad Dragon to lord over us all, forever.  Hey… it sucks for us too… we just don’t quite realize it yet.  

We’re sorry he’ll never go away.  

But, to make up for it, WE can.  Without the money of the young and highly potentialed- namely us- how will our dear olde, skeezy Grand-Dad continue to stay up?  Why… HE needs us… the snot sodden, wicked, white working class… to support his scurrilous flimflam, only because it’s all we know, comfortable as old underwear.

 The newscastor cannot contain his need to interject:  “But, isn’t this, well, isn’t this against the very word of God to multiply your seeds?  To not kill yourself?  And isn’t everyone really responsible for the state of things… even the oppressed?  Not just young, white, ideal-types like all of you?”  Then he looks around.  “Some of you, anyway?  Can anyone really ever be oppressed?  Really?  Isn’t this just another crass publicity stunt, really?”

Do your viewing audience a favor!  Join us as we continue to drag ourselves and our children into this horrible, lab wasted river until our big, WHITE DADDY finds cures for ALL the things HE’S created and that all people regardless of toilet training or genetics must now endure without relief or end.  I’ll kill my children before he does it for me.  All this so I don’t have to mourn their loss to a DADDY who doesn’t care for his children at all.  We, in our legions, will annihilate ourselves in your filthy river of commerce until you release the cure you’ve known about for all these years. The cure your dangle like a carrot before a vegan who’s going to die soon anyway… because she’s a vegan. 

Obviously, she has got something to say.  The newscaster’s attention never strays from her breasts.  He is fumbling in his slicker pockets.

We will continue to drown ourselves in this polluted river- itself a symbol of their false philanthropy- until Big Pharma and the calcified, white turds of Congress remove their dirty, bright fingers out of our pies.  We’ll continue to diminish your pool of slave labor and kiddie porn until they remove us from captivity.  Until they remove us from the sights of their great dripping appendages.” ETC.

Before the hyper-coiffed reporter can sling anymore flaccid ball questions, the hardbodied, leather-skinned alligator of a woman turns and joins her 3 daughters & husband, still in his corporate casual officewear holding their six month old son, Skype.  She joins the scads of others draping chains and weighted jackets over their loved ones. Some pasty-faced gingerman apparently has stolen and claimed the rights to the Constitution, he holds its fragile sheaf above his head in a muddy mitt.  The parchment is cracking, the document is almost in half.  Bits of it flutter and twist on the breeze coming over the water.  He is the first to lead this flock into the dingy, foamed waters.  A quartet of businessmen ex-fraternity brothers jump and swipe at the parchment as if it’s a basketball.  They do this until all the gingerman clutches is a fragment the size of his hand.  All manner of chains, ropes, bowling balls and blocks are lashed to each member of the multitude- some are in rows holding hands, moving like a legion of somnabular chain gangs.  A number of them have their heads covered, as if in shame.  These determined, yet oddly half-hearted, Caucasian families bravely face the expanse of fouled lake one last time reflecting on whatever they may or praying to the God that has forsaken them.  Then heaving a collective sigh, in great surge, they pull themselves forward, going ever forward, until the last one disappears under the mushy surface.

 

 

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