Streamer 1

This, for some reason, was posted and then disappeared.

So who are you?  I mean, really?  When you stare into that zit-splattered bathroom mirror, who is that tiny being staring back at you in silent anguish? Are you your mother? Your father? Are you a special, unique individual or merely a tired amalgamation of genetic material, pre-assembled and punk-plopped upon planet Earth to replicate the mistakes of your pompous and porous elders?  Or maybe you’re here to MAKE UP for their mistakes. Oh yah! Maybe you’re the bonus they get, the extra chance to make everything OK again through you, their unwilling spawn. If you do well, they look good. Ole. Hot spit. Not so hotso, eh muchacha? Thought you were the only potato chip in the bag, but you’re really just another tasty but fattening piece of greasy junk food. Just another cliff-diver hurtling towards the bottom with a cell phone and a Game Boy and a Wii clutched in your French-tipped fingers and your emo pants down around your boxers. Hee hee!!  Gigglin’ and Googlin’ your way to happy oblivion, my precious widdle sweepy darlin’s. You’ll never see the short bus that hits ya, because you’re all stumbling the wrong way, and your iPod is plugged so deep into your fuzzy noggins you won’t hear anything except the homogenized corporate diarrhea music the Apple sells you until the bumper splat and then it’s too late. Yum. Entertainment for a prophet. Keepin’ the young’ns mesmerized while pickin’ their overworked Daddy’s pocket. Brainwash the plantation denizens into building and policing their own prison. Train ‘em to go to Home Depot to learn how to build a sturdier and more attractive cage so when they die the next batch will have to pay the banks more money to “live” there. Oo and ah. Serial servitude. Generational wage slavery. Social Darwinism for the New American Plantation. Ezekiel turns quickly in his grave and slaps Pontius Pilate on the back, shrieking “We’ll probably fool them all NEXT time, too!!”  Amen.


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