And here we are! The vile present. This future may be unfamiliar to you. That's just fine, though. I'll walk you through it. I'll go with you all the way until we reach the shit river. Then, I'll hold your head under the putrefied effluvium for 30 seconds or so and when you coming up crying and gasping for air you'll call me Dad and I'll pat you on the back. You've learned how to swim! If the office printer was working I would print you a certificate of achievement. Of course, that printer hasn't work in well-nigh 15 years. You don't know it, but that's funny. Funny because I say so and funny because that's when all the trouble done began.
Before you were born shit was weird but stable. HORSE PUN! The world had fucked and panic attacked its way to a stilted equ(us)ilibrium. Guilt was assuaged and ignorance was feigned with uncommon industry. The perhaps brilliant, perhaps imbecilic performance artist of history had tricked us. We actually believed that the penis pills we were taking were increasing our girth, our length, our gift-wrapped big-dicked future. Feed yourself enough lies, read enough of those "______ hate him" internet ads, and you'll think they hate you too. Truth is, though, they always hated you, and you started hating yourself long before that. They actually probably started hating you when they saw the ad on the internet, and thought "Fuck, this guy thinks I hate him. Well, fuck him and his goddamn hate mongering! He can read, he's on the internet, and he thinks he's some kind of big shot pariah that deserves my hate!"
Anyway, we were trundling along shitting glitter and congratulating ourselves for all sorts of things we hadn't really accomplished yet. Full of intentions (so, so many intentions), it felt as if John Wayne himself had saddled us up, and spanked our horse off into the coruscated hinterland of possibility. By the time we got there, however, we were fucked. Turns out, we were fucked before we even left. John had filled our saddles with dog shampoo and the condescension of patriarchy. Poor building materials to be sure, though you could make a damn fine goo girl out of 'em. It's a poor craftsman that blames his tools, unless they're racist. So we consigned those bigoted implements to trial by tumblr. It was a mock trial presided over by teenage furries dressed as kangaroos. They didn't stand a chance and we gave ourselves a pat on the back for sound judgement, a job well done, and product placement.
Somewhere from here to there, things really went to shit. If memory serves (and it doesn't! It's not your fucking butler!) some meager and maligned white child got it in his head that no one wanted to listen to him. So, instead of doing the sensible thing and making like Fox sitcom and offending everyone so terribly right off the bat that it has absolutely no chance of success, this little fucker decided to purchase oppression. A fool and his money are soon parted, and thus the diminutive shit-kicker found himself destitute and down trodden. The object of prejudice both personal and institutional, Craig (let's call him) could no longer hang with the big dogs of privilege, so to speak. He lost everything: his family, his girlfriend, his job, his house, even his Pink Berry rewards card. Reduced to a poverty that his white guilt could only have dreamed of, Craig was beginning to think maybe that shit was a bad call. It was then in his darkest whitest hour that Craig was saved. During a routine nap on the memory foam mattress of throw-out Subway bread, Craig was spotted by a Fox news crew doing an expose on small business owner themed porn. The scene was hot and exploitative as usual but with no where near the frothy elan of the dejected Craig. Right then and there is when we licked the shit envelope, sealed it with cum, and mailed the suppurating dick of our destiny to ourselves in the future with no return address.
Craig was a hit. A televangelized martyr sniffed out and raised by the bloodhounds of consumerism. There he was suckling dog milk on national television and we all wanted a taste. Smoke 'em if you got 'em, unless you don't got 'em, in which case buy 'em. Thus it was that white men, so long excluded from bitchin' high rise of oppression, finally bought their way in. My dad always used say, "A man can't remunerate what he don't appropriate" and it's only now that I realize that he had absolutely no understanding of anything. Diligently white dudes the world over bought persecution; from the bargain bin "off color comment by distant acquaintance" to the designer "lifetime of institutional prejudice" oppression was all the rage. It was a status symbol, a designation of class mobility that casually gabbed "You see these boat shoes? If a cop sees me wearing them I'll be incarcerated! And not in the good way either. It's not so bad, though. I can say whatever I want now without repercussions. So why don't you shut the hell up while I explain phrenology to you."
Now we're getting closer to the bone, but it's going to take a lot more aggressive ignorance and willful delusion to endure this sack tap race. You better be up for it because no nameless child of mine is going to be losing to that fucking neighbor I've never mentioned! Anyway, humanity was humming along this timeline that not even JJ Abrams could contrive a more half-assed ending for. The social order remained as it always had been, except now those at the top claimed the oppression of those at the bottom, all the while spewing their privilege down upon their oppressors. As the expression goes, "An injustice anywhere is at least $10.99 before tax, but you can probably find a better deal if you go to the outlet mall." So that's where we went. Millions were trampled in the ensuing frenzy. Black Friday bled into Ecru Saturday and before we knew it it was Red Tape Wednesday. What happened next is a bit tricky, though I'm sure Run-DMC could explain it to you. Somewhere in that pecuniary passion pit, we got bored stiff. I mean literally...we had boners. All of us. Even the ladies? Especially them.
So, there we were all milling about the outlet mall of our doom, dicks in hands and dignities in god knows where. The fetishistic frenzy was so intense that all anyone could hear anymore was the fap, fap, fap of masturbation. It must have occurred to some depraved specimen that the oppression was ancillary at this point. What we really wanted was the rush, a bacchanalian speed ball main-veined right into our fucking eyes. Even the thought of buying oppression was enough for some folks. As any goddamned junkie will tell you, it's not all the withered veins that get you in the end, but your overwrought junkie buddy who extemporizes an epic poem about that first high. That's what pushes you over the edge. This is especially true when you're blind and we might as well have been a colony of geriatric bats. Fap bats even. So, when that big-tittied demagogue Amelia came, with Craig leashed up and humping her leg, whispering oppressive little slurs in our ears, well, our goose was cooked.
That's where you come in. Literally, I jizzed in that goose and you popped out 9-14 months later. You were a healthy eight pounds six ounces, but also a demon spawn birthed from the fetid remains of a fowl. Some people are calling you the Chosen One. They say you'll lead us out from the tyranny of our slutty suzerain, Amelia. Me? I don't buy it. You're half goose, don't have vocal cords, and really mean to children. Not to mention you're a drunk and you're not even ten yet. Yep, it doesn't look good. Amelia's got a grip so tight around our balls we can't even place a Scabble tile without wincing. Worse still, we like it. Hell, this is probably the best governance the world has ever seen. Enlightened despotism at its sexiest. Fetish is the only currency we know and the old hoi polloi just love getting their rocks off. Poverty is unknown and nobody but the biggest dingus still uses twitter. It's the proverbial gravy train on biscuit wheels driven by Casey Jones and Ozzy themselves. Ha ha yeah, we're Cruis'n USA! I'm sorry...that was before your time.
Craig was a hit. A televangelized martyr sniffed out and raised by the bloodhounds of consumerism. There he was suckling dog milk on national television and we all wanted a taste. Smoke 'em if you got 'em, unless you don't got 'em, in which case buy 'em. Thus it was that white men, so long excluded from bitchin' high rise of oppression, finally bought their way in. My dad always used say, "A man can't remunerate what he don't appropriate" and it's only now that I realize that he had absolutely no understanding of anything. Diligently white dudes the world over bought persecution; from the bargain bin "off color comment by distant acquaintance" to the designer "lifetime of institutional prejudice" oppression was all the rage. It was a status symbol, a designation of class mobility that casually gabbed "You see these boat shoes? If a cop sees me wearing them I'll be incarcerated! And not in the good way either. It's not so bad, though. I can say whatever I want now without repercussions. So why don't you shut the hell up while I explain phrenology to you."
Now we're getting closer to the bone, but it's going to take a lot more aggressive ignorance and willful delusion to endure this sack tap race. You better be up for it because no nameless child of mine is going to be losing to that fucking neighbor I've never mentioned! Anyway, humanity was humming along this timeline that not even JJ Abrams could contrive a more half-assed ending for. The social order remained as it always had been, except now those at the top claimed the oppression of those at the bottom, all the while spewing their privilege down upon their oppressors. As the expression goes, "An injustice anywhere is at least $10.99 before tax, but you can probably find a better deal if you go to the outlet mall." So that's where we went. Millions were trampled in the ensuing frenzy. Black Friday bled into Ecru Saturday and before we knew it it was Red Tape Wednesday. What happened next is a bit tricky, though I'm sure Run-DMC could explain it to you. Somewhere in that pecuniary passion pit, we got bored stiff. I mean literally...we had boners. All of us. Even the ladies? Especially them.
So, there we were all milling about the outlet mall of our doom, dicks in hands and dignities in god knows where. The fetishistic frenzy was so intense that all anyone could hear anymore was the fap, fap, fap of masturbation. It must have occurred to some depraved specimen that the oppression was ancillary at this point. What we really wanted was the rush, a bacchanalian speed ball main-veined right into our fucking eyes. Even the thought of buying oppression was enough for some folks. As any goddamned junkie will tell you, it's not all the withered veins that get you in the end, but your overwrought junkie buddy who extemporizes an epic poem about that first high. That's what pushes you over the edge. This is especially true when you're blind and we might as well have been a colony of geriatric bats. Fap bats even. So, when that big-tittied demagogue Amelia came, with Craig leashed up and humping her leg, whispering oppressive little slurs in our ears, well, our goose was cooked.
That's where you come in. Literally, I jizzed in that goose and you popped out 9-14 months later. You were a healthy eight pounds six ounces, but also a demon spawn birthed from the fetid remains of a fowl. Some people are calling you the Chosen One. They say you'll lead us out from the tyranny of our slutty suzerain, Amelia. Me? I don't buy it. You're half goose, don't have vocal cords, and really mean to children. Not to mention you're a drunk and you're not even ten yet. Yep, it doesn't look good. Amelia's got a grip so tight around our balls we can't even place a Scabble tile without wincing. Worse still, we like it. Hell, this is probably the best governance the world has ever seen. Enlightened despotism at its sexiest. Fetish is the only currency we know and the old hoi polloi just love getting their rocks off. Poverty is unknown and nobody but the biggest dingus still uses twitter. It's the proverbial gravy train on biscuit wheels driven by Casey Jones and Ozzy themselves. Ha ha yeah, we're Cruis'n USA! I'm sorry...that was before your time.
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