My Earth has become too dicey to speak of in material terms. Fables have been written to throw some pillows and blankies over the facts too warty and gruesome to articulate like a normal human being might. So all this shit takes place in an imaginary world called Upchuckia.
There was this candidate for Presidio Poobah, up here, down here, our position is so fucking relative to other shit, and peons were given pause at the behavior of the candidate. Everyone has the right to vote for the prick, or not to, yet there has been broadening unease about this liberty. Tronald, of East Upchuckia was running for top slot in government, which is just one wrung under Plutomatic, the Fat Intangible, or invisible personage to whom people pay their fattest, most emphatic respects. Everyone in Upchuckia knows that the Presidio Staff Poobah talks directly to Plutomatic, soon as he gets voted in, once he is handed over the Red Plastic Smart Phone.
So I was watching this garbage transpire in words as I viewed Meet the Press this overcast pre-vernal morning. Right the fuck now, all is fine in Upchuckia. We peon motherfuckers wait the outcome of the free election process that could cause any of us to get beat to bloody pulp. If Tronald wins the election, he may lay waste on vassels who piss his People's Ass off, so I'm trying to be politic about this load of horse puckey.
So nothing to heinous happened yet. A few peasant cretins got drummed on. At Tronald's behest. No worries. One metaphysical buggaboo. Tronald looks like a space alien in a copper toned humanoid mask. His eyes sink into the softest, whitest Silly Putty, while his make-up people did a bang up job spray painting the rest of his smug, vicious puss. Is a hair's tendency to grow into a helmet a sign that someone is violent by nature? As if the very hairs on the head pose for combat against a benign, creative, social antagonist? Tiresome. This space-election process is draining my corpuscles something awful.
There was this candidate for Presidio Poobah, up here, down here, our position is so fucking relative to other shit, and peons were given pause at the behavior of the candidate. Everyone has the right to vote for the prick, or not to, yet there has been broadening unease about this liberty. Tronald, of East Upchuckia was running for top slot in government, which is just one wrung under Plutomatic, the Fat Intangible, or invisible personage to whom people pay their fattest, most emphatic respects. Everyone in Upchuckia knows that the Presidio Staff Poobah talks directly to Plutomatic, soon as he gets voted in, once he is handed over the Red Plastic Smart Phone.
So I was watching this garbage transpire in words as I viewed Meet the Press this overcast pre-vernal morning. Right the fuck now, all is fine in Upchuckia. We peon motherfuckers wait the outcome of the free election process that could cause any of us to get beat to bloody pulp. If Tronald wins the election, he may lay waste on vassels who piss his People's Ass off, so I'm trying to be politic about this load of horse puckey.
So nothing to heinous happened yet. A few peasant cretins got drummed on. At Tronald's behest. No worries. One metaphysical buggaboo. Tronald looks like a space alien in a copper toned humanoid mask. His eyes sink into the softest, whitest Silly Putty, while his make-up people did a bang up job spray painting the rest of his smug, vicious puss. Is a hair's tendency to grow into a helmet a sign that someone is violent by nature? As if the very hairs on the head pose for combat against a benign, creative, social antagonist? Tiresome. This space-election process is draining my corpuscles something awful.
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