As said recently, I'm in foul spirits, largely from the weather. "April is the cruelest month." T. S. Elliot was aces in his poem The Wasteland. The SOB was right about it this time.
He was a smart fuck about man's ass-wiping relationship with nature, and about man's grubby impact on it. And man's impact on it's own quasi-comrades. Intangibly, as well as materially, communities transform into wastelands from the process of dumbing down and rendering people morally spineless. The drive to gentrify the 'Burgh has added ugliness to the visage. To gentrify is to stretch the elastic human tolerance till you hear threads of jockey shorts breaking. Soon there is a hole in the collective seat of the pants. Nearly everyone's ass is flapping in the wind. But it doesn't bother anyone too awfully, and this is because the forces of waste and poor taste have made people different than they might otherwise be. People are more like ants.
Left no great care package of options, people have been forced into a condition of programatic conformity. The commies won. People are a product of enforced social science. It's a frigging police state, and people can't do much aside from working and tending a domicile. We are political hot air balloons. And we are trapped in one big fucking ant farm. But it's more fucked up than that.
If communist theory worked, everyone would be getting along famously right now, forced as they are into a collectivized dependence on government. Add to this the new forced complicity, case in point Obamacare, and we are all more like ants. But ants are famous for coordinating the efforts to sustain their colonies. People are still too fucked in the head to do that. We are ants, minus the superior strength and flawless precise unity. We are an ant farm full of narcissists, and we can't seem to hack it. We're fucked.
Not really. Soon as the weather gets good, all this shit will evaporate. People will seem less horrible. Places won't seem so disgusting. Somewhere. Somehow. All and everyone. Over the Rainbow. Simpering and blithering like a fool. No matter. I think it's going to be a fine summer.
He was a smart fuck about man's ass-wiping relationship with nature, and about man's grubby impact on it. And man's impact on it's own quasi-comrades. Intangibly, as well as materially, communities transform into wastelands from the process of dumbing down and rendering people morally spineless. The drive to gentrify the 'Burgh has added ugliness to the visage. To gentrify is to stretch the elastic human tolerance till you hear threads of jockey shorts breaking. Soon there is a hole in the collective seat of the pants. Nearly everyone's ass is flapping in the wind. But it doesn't bother anyone too awfully, and this is because the forces of waste and poor taste have made people different than they might otherwise be. People are more like ants.
Left no great care package of options, people have been forced into a condition of programatic conformity. The commies won. People are a product of enforced social science. It's a frigging police state, and people can't do much aside from working and tending a domicile. We are political hot air balloons. And we are trapped in one big fucking ant farm. But it's more fucked up than that.
If communist theory worked, everyone would be getting along famously right now, forced as they are into a collectivized dependence on government. Add to this the new forced complicity, case in point Obamacare, and we are all more like ants. But ants are famous for coordinating the efforts to sustain their colonies. People are still too fucked in the head to do that. We are ants, minus the superior strength and flawless precise unity. We are an ant farm full of narcissists, and we can't seem to hack it. We're fucked.
Not really. Soon as the weather gets good, all this shit will evaporate. People will seem less horrible. Places won't seem so disgusting. Somewhere. Somehow. All and everyone. Over the Rainbow. Simpering and blithering like a fool. No matter. I think it's going to be a fine summer.
No comments:
Post a Comment