History consumes itself with a never ending quest to define, to understand, to know. Yet what is being defined and analyzed? If you were to ask a historian this question, you might be supplied with a plethora of verbose answers amounting to the simplistic idea that history repeats itself and understanding it is important to preventing future catastrophe. Take a look at this idea; engrain it into your memory because it is probably the dumbest thing anyone can say or think. What history is actually concerned with is identifying what cool really means. This seems almost self-explanatory, yet, for the sake of aiding my confused historical brethren, I will offer some examples. First of all, when presented with this issue, one should look back at the “great” generations and empires, which should be referred to as the cool eras to maintain a sense of accuracy. The Egyptians come to mind, along with the Romans and the Persians. Why were they so powerful and cool? Simple, they pushed the limits. Anyone could have built a large phallus in the desert, but it took some real pizzazz to call it an obelisk and pretend there was no double meaning. The Romans may not have been the first to build the arch, but they were the first to make it look good. The Persians were not the first to antagonize the mighty power of the Spartans, but they were the first to do it on the big screen in high definition.
With this new knowledge in hand, one may address the issue of determining the status of cool in modern society. It is along this vein that I wish to propose my thesis on the nature of cool in the twenty first century. As far as I can discern, today’s society defines cool through an innovative new personal style. This statement may seem somewhat unclear, but I hope to assuage that fear. To speak directly, the cool of the digital age can be seen in the new swagger and slang of the X generation. Of course one could argue that many generations before ours had obscure language practices and were capable of walking in a suggestive manner, but that would be ignoring the true nature of the essence of cool. Those previous generations just did not do it the same as today’s. To see the proof of this point, simply observe the behavior of any socially conscious high school student, particularly of the male persuasion. Notice the obsession the subject will hold with his pants, though he will deny this fixation when questioned about it. Note the peculiar ability of this group in keeping clothing aloft without the use of an accompanying device, ie a belt. Most importantly, do not over look the distinct musculature of the individual. Typically, the male will walk in somewhat of a lengthened shuffle, but movement will not be limited to the lower extremities, as other non-cool generations were apt to displaying. No, today’s suave male must needs move his shoulders in a forward side to side manner to illustrate superiority and a heightened feeling of sexual prowess. They walk as if steered by forces greater than themselves, not knowing where they will land next, but safe in the knowledge that they will look “kick ass” getting there. Moreover, upon arrival, they expect, and rightly so, that, wherever it is they have just docked at, the individuals present should thank their lucky stars, or charms for my Irish readers, that they are allowed to witness such a performance of sophistication. Yes, these are truly adept individuals who have mastered the intricate behaviors of modern society.
Still, walking alone cannot propel someone to the top of the social heap. Truly that would be an absurd idea. Put simply, you can’t just walk the walk, you have to talk the talk, and no society has been able to talk the talk like ours. Allow me to posit a personal example to demonstrate my point. While meandering through the halls of my local bastion of knowledge, I crossed paths with a young student who held profoundly cool characteristics. Shocked by such a specimen of the debonair, I enquired to discover his Christian and familial nomenae. To wit, in an impressive show of a mastery of the sarcastic arts, he replied, “My name is…everything.”
I’ll allow you to take a moment. Such high quality satire is rarely found, even in today’s era. But, now that you have collected yourselves, I must continue. The individual, who shall now be referred to as the self proclaimed “Everything,” continued on his merry way, with little mind to the great harm he had wrought upon me psychologically with his unforgiving witticism. No matter, I am recovering. However, I now, thanks to “Everything,” understand how far our society has come in establishing itself as the pinnacle of cool, the protector of pizzazz. This realization brings me to my final point. Obviously, one cannot define cool, one must be cool. Behaviors must be mastered and remastered, and wits must be quickened and quickened again. History can no more define the essence of cool than a historian can write an interesting and entertaining novel (I think they are limited by some defective gene). To place such a standard on the anals (Oh, I spelled it right) of academia, would be tantamount to asking for a more detailed answer from the world renowned artist Mims on the question as to why he is so hot. Simply put, “This is why I’m Hot” is the new maxim of the twentieth.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
The Man, The Legend, The Burger King
The Emperor sits atop
His throne of golden fries
As the children wait with anxious eyes.
The oven is warming,
And the deep fryer is glowing.
Today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
The sun illuminates the frame
Of the drive-thru,
While soldiers in blue
March into the castle
Unafraid of another day’s hassle
For today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
The glistening charbroiled meat
Saturated in morning dew
Gives off a brownish hue.
The chicken nuggets pop on the grill
While a bird sings on the window sill.
Today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
The Crusades are over,
And the Holy Bun is lost.
The Salty Sovereign paid a great cost
To keep his home level
Free of the McDevil.
Today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
Lost in a dream,
The Whopper Ruler lingers
While passing some chicken fingers.
A smile crosses his face
As he changes pace
For today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
The Mustard Monarch recollects
The times of old
When greasy burgers sold like gold
And small sized cokes
Were seen as jokes.
Today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
He remembers Wendy,
His one true love,
As a goddess sent from above.
Now she gives her fries away
To anyone with the time of day.
Still, today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
He will rise up against the two golden arches
And defeat the War McMonger.
This Ketchup King will sit by no longer
While others steal
His tasty kid’s meal.
Today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
His throne of golden fries
As the children wait with anxious eyes.
The oven is warming,
And the deep fryer is glowing.
Today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
The sun illuminates the frame
Of the drive-thru,
While soldiers in blue
March into the castle
Unafraid of another day’s hassle
For today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
The glistening charbroiled meat
Saturated in morning dew
Gives off a brownish hue.
The chicken nuggets pop on the grill
While a bird sings on the window sill.
Today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
The Crusades are over,
And the Holy Bun is lost.
The Salty Sovereign paid a great cost
To keep his home level
Free of the McDevil.
Today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
Lost in a dream,
The Whopper Ruler lingers
While passing some chicken fingers.
A smile crosses his face
As he changes pace
For today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
The Mustard Monarch recollects
The times of old
When greasy burgers sold like gold
And small sized cokes
Were seen as jokes.
Today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
He remembers Wendy,
His one true love,
As a goddess sent from above.
Now she gives her fries away
To anyone with the time of day.
Still, today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
He will rise up against the two golden arches
And defeat the War McMonger.
This Ketchup King will sit by no longer
While others steal
His tasty kid’s meal.
Today is the day the BK
Will have it his way.
A Rage Unfettered
Introduction: Over the course of history, many nations have thought themselves forsaken by their chosen God: the Israelites, the Carthaginians, etc. Hidden amongst the names on this prestigious list is the small town of Waters Head, Alabama. This sleepy community was once a bustling village situated at the point where Mullen’s Creek met the Poosa River. Cut off from the world by a labyrinth of swamps and dead rivers, the natives of Waters Head lived quietly, stuck in a time not quite backwards but perpendicular to the present.
But, as modern environmentalists will attest, natural landscapes have little in the way of defenses against the progress of an industrializing society. Waters Head’s destruction was tied to the bridges that began to dot the river bottoms of the south. Huge bridges of steel, concrete, iron and rock. Bridges spanning swamps, creeks, rivers, lakes and even ideas, for with the progress of a developing nation came the infant mentality of a new capitalist world.
Visions of the power of science and engineering first infected the minds of the youths, spreading like a virus through the generations. Soon, these new ideas mutated into an alien form as a skeptic mentality took hold. Time honored traditions became widely criticized scandals. An entire generation and its culture had fallen out of vogue.
Change, that glorious and destructive word, was in the air and in the hearts of an entire nation. Yet, the strongest currents of the critical revolution ran beneath the surface as undertows of emotion and the subconscious that went mainly unexpressed. When, however, these elements of change were unleashed, great deeds could be accomplished or terrible acts committed.
Chapter 1: The mist of the early morning descended upon the swamp bottom like so many falling grains of sand. The back water was cool, quiet with the break of dawn as the old river, reminiscent of the trek of time itself, snaked its way south. A small spurt of land separated moving water from stagnant filth, life from death. Along this thin peninsula, several lanky, skeletons of oaks and cypress trees had taken root. Amongst these dead and dying branches, the fog stretched its tentacles, seeming to follow a path known only to the river from which this ghostly presence was born. A shot reverberated in the humid air.
“6 A.M. and already hot as hell,” George said with a degree of pride for his newly acquired vile vocabulary.
“Shutup, George,” was the only response Johnny could give while stuck in the mire of the far shore of Green Taylor Swamp. “I’m tired ‘nouf without you makin’ it worse with your blabbin’.” Exhausted from the long night chasing coons and blood hounds around a veritable mosquito heaven, the twin brothers rested on the red clay bank. George checked his game pouch again only to turn away, embarrassed by the two measly coons representing a night’s work. But that didn’t stop George; at fifteen, he was too stubborn and oblivious to care about losing his energy. Johnny was of a different vein; always silent and contemplative, he rarely seemed interested in anything for long.
“Hell, the Poosa sure is low for this time of year,” commented George as he looked reverently at the mighty waterway. He lowered his gaze to meet his brother’s dark blue eyes nearly covered by a thick, shaggy black hair. With a furtive motion, both boys turned away back toward the swamp. After all these years, they still could not accustom themselves to being so similar in physical appearance, as if their spiritual differences were betrayed by some sort of reflective perversion of their physical reality.
Another shot. This time much closer. The boys sprang up with an air of expectancy as they listened to the far off whine of the coon dogs. The gamble had paid off. Coons were on this spit of land. In the distance, a small orange cap could be seen bobbing through the branches. Papa Wilcutt was never one to hurry except when he was after coons or whiskey.
“Here comes Papa and Sissy,” George yelled over the sound of the dogs while pointing towards his favorite of the litter.
“What did I tell you about shuttin’ up. Don’t make me tell on you to Pa.”
“Listen, Johnny, listen quietly.”
“What do you hear—.”
It was only a small crack and subsequent rustle, but it was enough. The twins were off like a flash. Through the brambles they caught sight of their prey: two of the largest boar coons ever seen in that part of central Alabama. These beasts had become quite the tall tale in this small region. The locals had even named them. The one with the limp and scarred cheek was called Mars, a fitting title for such a temperamental creature. The other coon was quieter and arguably smarter. He had earned the name Homer. But all the slyness was ought for not now that the famed Wilcutt hounds were on them. The twins began envisioning a grandiose scene where they would tell the girls in town about their role in killing these two legends. They might even claim they killed the two behemoths, but that would come later. Now they had blocked the coons route at the farthest tree on the little jut of land. No escape.
“Boys, Boys. You seen ‘em. You got ‘em boys,” Papa yelled encouragingly as he arrived with the hounds. “Now we can flush them out.” Papa began to gather small brushwood, piling it at the base of the tree’s trunk. He lit a fire and watched as the flames climbed the old masthead of the shore. Johnny looked at his brother fearfully, waiting for his eyes to glaze over, the sign of his anger. George always reacted at such moments with great confusion followed by a chaotic fury. Johnny saw the gleam leave his brother’s eyes just before Mars fell from his perch in the sky.
A screech went through the night air. Before Johnny even knew what had happened, George had ripped a sapling from its roots and gone after the coon as if he were a rabid hound. Nothing could stop the fury now; the whirlwind had been unleashed. George’s muscular arms rained blows down upon the helpless ball of fur as though they were the tools of a blacksmith brutally shaping a chunk of iron. Johnny heard a distinct cracking sound as bone turned to splinter. He turned away, afraid to look at the destruction.
“Get him, George, hell ya, get that coon,” Papa yelled encouragingly as he slipped from the log he had taken seat on. His smell belied a long career spent drinking. Johnny reached for the gun, snatched it away, and sent a shot up into the air. George whipped around, a changed look on his face.
“Don’t be wastin’ bullets I paid for with my own money.”
Johnny was stunned to see his brother revert to his old form so quickly.
“You crazy or somethin’. What’d that coon do to you? Papa had it cornered in the fire, weren’t no way out.” But Johnny could see that George did not understand.
“What you talkin’ about. I killed the coon, weren’t I supposed to do that?”
“That’s right, son. Don’t you be listenin’ to your no count brother, he don’t understand the glory of the hunt,” Papa chimed in drunkenly.
“If by glory, you mean drunken fury, then yes, I don’t understand ya.” But before Johnny could go further, Papa had taken the gun and shot Homer down from the tree. A truly unfitting end to such a noble and respected denizen of the swamp.
“Now we got two biggun’s to take home. One to eat and the other for show. Course there won’t be much to show with Mars. You done good, boy, real good,” said Papa as he turned with George to wade back across the swamp, the blood trickling from the game pouch into the murky water.
Johnny kept his distance as they zigzagged through the reeds and cypress knees. With his eyes towards the shore constantly wary of moccasins, his mind trailed back to the terrible event he just witnessed. Once again his brother had taken a life without any regard or reverence; he simply snubbed it out as he if it were a particularly unsatisfactory cigarette. Even now, George walked with a lighter step fed by his heightened adrenalin from the kill, an action he had probably already forgotten. Moreover, Papa encouraged the violence. Unable to take the coon’s life in a respectful manner with his shotgun, he proudly left the job up to his son, absent of all feelings of shame, a side effect of the liquor…
But, as modern environmentalists will attest, natural landscapes have little in the way of defenses against the progress of an industrializing society. Waters Head’s destruction was tied to the bridges that began to dot the river bottoms of the south. Huge bridges of steel, concrete, iron and rock. Bridges spanning swamps, creeks, rivers, lakes and even ideas, for with the progress of a developing nation came the infant mentality of a new capitalist world.
Visions of the power of science and engineering first infected the minds of the youths, spreading like a virus through the generations. Soon, these new ideas mutated into an alien form as a skeptic mentality took hold. Time honored traditions became widely criticized scandals. An entire generation and its culture had fallen out of vogue.
Change, that glorious and destructive word, was in the air and in the hearts of an entire nation. Yet, the strongest currents of the critical revolution ran beneath the surface as undertows of emotion and the subconscious that went mainly unexpressed. When, however, these elements of change were unleashed, great deeds could be accomplished or terrible acts committed.
Chapter 1: The mist of the early morning descended upon the swamp bottom like so many falling grains of sand. The back water was cool, quiet with the break of dawn as the old river, reminiscent of the trek of time itself, snaked its way south. A small spurt of land separated moving water from stagnant filth, life from death. Along this thin peninsula, several lanky, skeletons of oaks and cypress trees had taken root. Amongst these dead and dying branches, the fog stretched its tentacles, seeming to follow a path known only to the river from which this ghostly presence was born. A shot reverberated in the humid air.
“6 A.M. and already hot as hell,” George said with a degree of pride for his newly acquired vile vocabulary.
“Shutup, George,” was the only response Johnny could give while stuck in the mire of the far shore of Green Taylor Swamp. “I’m tired ‘nouf without you makin’ it worse with your blabbin’.” Exhausted from the long night chasing coons and blood hounds around a veritable mosquito heaven, the twin brothers rested on the red clay bank. George checked his game pouch again only to turn away, embarrassed by the two measly coons representing a night’s work. But that didn’t stop George; at fifteen, he was too stubborn and oblivious to care about losing his energy. Johnny was of a different vein; always silent and contemplative, he rarely seemed interested in anything for long.
“Hell, the Poosa sure is low for this time of year,” commented George as he looked reverently at the mighty waterway. He lowered his gaze to meet his brother’s dark blue eyes nearly covered by a thick, shaggy black hair. With a furtive motion, both boys turned away back toward the swamp. After all these years, they still could not accustom themselves to being so similar in physical appearance, as if their spiritual differences were betrayed by some sort of reflective perversion of their physical reality.
Another shot. This time much closer. The boys sprang up with an air of expectancy as they listened to the far off whine of the coon dogs. The gamble had paid off. Coons were on this spit of land. In the distance, a small orange cap could be seen bobbing through the branches. Papa Wilcutt was never one to hurry except when he was after coons or whiskey.
“Here comes Papa and Sissy,” George yelled over the sound of the dogs while pointing towards his favorite of the litter.
“What did I tell you about shuttin’ up. Don’t make me tell on you to Pa.”
“Listen, Johnny, listen quietly.”
“What do you hear—.”
It was only a small crack and subsequent rustle, but it was enough. The twins were off like a flash. Through the brambles they caught sight of their prey: two of the largest boar coons ever seen in that part of central Alabama. These beasts had become quite the tall tale in this small region. The locals had even named them. The one with the limp and scarred cheek was called Mars, a fitting title for such a temperamental creature. The other coon was quieter and arguably smarter. He had earned the name Homer. But all the slyness was ought for not now that the famed Wilcutt hounds were on them. The twins began envisioning a grandiose scene where they would tell the girls in town about their role in killing these two legends. They might even claim they killed the two behemoths, but that would come later. Now they had blocked the coons route at the farthest tree on the little jut of land. No escape.
“Boys, Boys. You seen ‘em. You got ‘em boys,” Papa yelled encouragingly as he arrived with the hounds. “Now we can flush them out.” Papa began to gather small brushwood, piling it at the base of the tree’s trunk. He lit a fire and watched as the flames climbed the old masthead of the shore. Johnny looked at his brother fearfully, waiting for his eyes to glaze over, the sign of his anger. George always reacted at such moments with great confusion followed by a chaotic fury. Johnny saw the gleam leave his brother’s eyes just before Mars fell from his perch in the sky.
A screech went through the night air. Before Johnny even knew what had happened, George had ripped a sapling from its roots and gone after the coon as if he were a rabid hound. Nothing could stop the fury now; the whirlwind had been unleashed. George’s muscular arms rained blows down upon the helpless ball of fur as though they were the tools of a blacksmith brutally shaping a chunk of iron. Johnny heard a distinct cracking sound as bone turned to splinter. He turned away, afraid to look at the destruction.
“Get him, George, hell ya, get that coon,” Papa yelled encouragingly as he slipped from the log he had taken seat on. His smell belied a long career spent drinking. Johnny reached for the gun, snatched it away, and sent a shot up into the air. George whipped around, a changed look on his face.
“Don’t be wastin’ bullets I paid for with my own money.”
Johnny was stunned to see his brother revert to his old form so quickly.
“You crazy or somethin’. What’d that coon do to you? Papa had it cornered in the fire, weren’t no way out.” But Johnny could see that George did not understand.
“What you talkin’ about. I killed the coon, weren’t I supposed to do that?”
“That’s right, son. Don’t you be listenin’ to your no count brother, he don’t understand the glory of the hunt,” Papa chimed in drunkenly.
“If by glory, you mean drunken fury, then yes, I don’t understand ya.” But before Johnny could go further, Papa had taken the gun and shot Homer down from the tree. A truly unfitting end to such a noble and respected denizen of the swamp.
“Now we got two biggun’s to take home. One to eat and the other for show. Course there won’t be much to show with Mars. You done good, boy, real good,” said Papa as he turned with George to wade back across the swamp, the blood trickling from the game pouch into the murky water.
Johnny kept his distance as they zigzagged through the reeds and cypress knees. With his eyes towards the shore constantly wary of moccasins, his mind trailed back to the terrible event he just witnessed. Once again his brother had taken a life without any regard or reverence; he simply snubbed it out as he if it were a particularly unsatisfactory cigarette. Even now, George walked with a lighter step fed by his heightened adrenalin from the kill, an action he had probably already forgotten. Moreover, Papa encouraged the violence. Unable to take the coon’s life in a respectful manner with his shotgun, he proudly left the job up to his son, absent of all feelings of shame, a side effect of the liquor…
Proud to be an American
As a staunch republican and proud American, I would like to forewarn the gathered of the following
Please beware
of gay marriage, abortion, and stem cells
of global warming and high school coffee houses
of the Democrats, the independent thinkers, and the libertarians
of Al “Antichrist” Gore, Hillary “Hill-Dog” Clinton, and Barack “Not a Terrorist” Obama
of anyone reading a Koran, or just plain reading
of the non-Christians and the non-conservatives
of the foreigners, the non-whites, and the Mexican immigrants
of people from Iowa and Wisconsin
Most importantly, guard yourselves against France
and Canada
and New Orleans
and FEMA
and California
and France
Fear nationalized healthcare and the Salvation Army
Do not question the almighty Halliburton
Run from Nietzsche, Sartre, Foucault, Heidegger, Butler,
Salinger, France, Vonnegut, Faulkner, Ginsberg, and Jones
Protect the children from alcohol, marijuana, tobacco, and fast food
Give them oxyconton, oxycodone, Britney Spears, oxycodine, Paris Hilton, vicodin, hydrocodone, energy
drinks, Michael Jackson, hydrocodine, adderall, sleeping pills, Harry Potter, South Park, Xbox live, Wii and Ritalin instead
(besides, you can’t be distracted if you’re not technically conscious)
Be thankful that Cobain and Green Day are not commercially idolized
That anarchy and rebellion are just teenage fads
And that women’s rights are no longer an important issue…
Speaking of women’s rights, whoever said women were just as good at sports as men…
have you ever seen a female sumo wrestler…I rest my case
Be proud of America’s position as a land of opportunity, a land where people care more for movie stars than their corrupt attorney
generals
Hooray for Peter Pumpkinhead and Falwell and Foley and Pelosi and Rove
And for armed Vice Presidents and weapons of mass deception
And overpaid college football coaches
For the NRA and the Christian Right and horse shows
Thank God someone finally found sexy and brought it back
Praise Jesus for hot dog buns and double entendres
And one day suspensions and cheating
Rejoice in C students from Yale
Celebrate peace in the Middle East
and the spread of glorious democracy
Forget the Alamos, Waco, Jonestown, Wounded Knee, Pearl Harbor, Gettysburg,
Harper’s Ferry, Cowpens, Boston, Kansas, and Antietam
Feel safe in the knowledge that spinach and dog food and Wendy’s chili are all free from attacks
Be proud of our ability to stabilize the economy and lower gas prices—know that the war has nothing but a
positive influence on these
Know that the Lord sayeth thou shalt love thy neighbor…which obviously means thou shalt not war with
thy neighbor unless he has large quantities of crude oil and natural gas in which case he will always, always, no matter what, be in need of a good dose of democracy
Exult in the knowledge that Iraq owes everything it has today to us
Oh, and to our Iraqi friends, You’re welcome
Show gratitude towards your leaders for opening the diplomatic channels between North Korea and Iran
Before they got the bomb, sorry, before they tested the bomb, wait, before they threatened to use the bomb…
you know what, be glad that we have more bombs than them
Forget Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert and Kazakh journalists
Love!! Bill O’Reilly and Fox News and chorus
And 2nd period English and 4th period Latin
Be glad that we are not France or Canada or England for that matter
Applaud the high school teenage poets whose experiences and knowledge run as deep as Swamp STJ
Burn books and imprison their authors…it’s worked before
Burn the rain forests and the Louvre and electric cars
poison the ocean and combust the fossil fuels
Fear global warming as you would fear your imaginary friend…and if it turns out to be real, a lot of prime
real estate will open up in Alaska
Criticize Fight Club while making literal interpretations of the Bible
Praise Jesus and curse Allah…live up to your own golden rule
Revel in the knowledge that American Idol is preserving the great musical tradition of America
While the McNugget and the Whopper embraces its culinary culture
And Paris’s Confessions of an Heiress continues the literary legacy of Fitzgerald and Hemingway
Disbelieve science and evolution
Support the intellectuals who dreamed up a more intelligent design
Know that America has lived up to the dreams of its forefathers, those white slave owning rebels who degraded their women and
forsook their homeland to establish themselves as true patriots
Pray to God that no one interprets the Constitution
And that the Patriot Act remains unquestioned
Know that the legal system justly executes its duties and its criminals
Support your human rights loving troops in Abu-Ghraib and Gitmo
And other places where the truth flows as free as the scalding waters of a torture chamber
Feel safe in the knowledge that we do not exploit those who died in 9/11
And that 9/11 will always be on the minds of Americans,
Especially those who witnessed the terrible events of 9/11,
As well as the terrorists whom we will make responsible for 9/11...
Boo!!!...9/11
Praise yourselves for ending school segregation with racial privatization
Ignore the fact that Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson wage war on racism through the same “white” dominated media machine
that they raged against as young men
View the public humiliation of Michael Richards and Imus as victories over bigotry as well as celebrity
Scream your rally cry down city streets and country lanes: Reagan!!!!
But finally, and most importantly, thank God we are not France!!!
Please beware
of gay marriage, abortion, and stem cells
of global warming and high school coffee houses
of the Democrats, the independent thinkers, and the libertarians
of Al “Antichrist” Gore, Hillary “Hill-Dog” Clinton, and Barack “Not a Terrorist” Obama
of anyone reading a Koran, or just plain reading
of the non-Christians and the non-conservatives
of the foreigners, the non-whites, and the Mexican immigrants
of people from Iowa and Wisconsin
Most importantly, guard yourselves against France
and Canada
and New Orleans
and FEMA
and California
and France
Fear nationalized healthcare and the Salvation Army
Do not question the almighty Halliburton
Run from Nietzsche, Sartre, Foucault, Heidegger, Butler,
Salinger, France, Vonnegut, Faulkner, Ginsberg, and Jones
Protect the children from alcohol, marijuana, tobacco, and fast food
Give them oxyconton, oxycodone, Britney Spears, oxycodine, Paris Hilton, vicodin, hydrocodone, energy
drinks, Michael Jackson, hydrocodine, adderall, sleeping pills, Harry Potter, South Park, Xbox live, Wii and Ritalin instead
(besides, you can’t be distracted if you’re not technically conscious)
Be thankful that Cobain and Green Day are not commercially idolized
That anarchy and rebellion are just teenage fads
And that women’s rights are no longer an important issue…
Speaking of women’s rights, whoever said women were just as good at sports as men…
have you ever seen a female sumo wrestler…I rest my case
Be proud of America’s position as a land of opportunity, a land where people care more for movie stars than their corrupt attorney
generals
Hooray for Peter Pumpkinhead and Falwell and Foley and Pelosi and Rove
And for armed Vice Presidents and weapons of mass deception
And overpaid college football coaches
For the NRA and the Christian Right and horse shows
Thank God someone finally found sexy and brought it back
Praise Jesus for hot dog buns and double entendres
And one day suspensions and cheating
Rejoice in C students from Yale
Celebrate peace in the Middle East
and the spread of glorious democracy
Forget the Alamos, Waco, Jonestown, Wounded Knee, Pearl Harbor, Gettysburg,
Harper’s Ferry, Cowpens, Boston, Kansas, and Antietam
Feel safe in the knowledge that spinach and dog food and Wendy’s chili are all free from attacks
Be proud of our ability to stabilize the economy and lower gas prices—know that the war has nothing but a
positive influence on these
Know that the Lord sayeth thou shalt love thy neighbor…which obviously means thou shalt not war with
thy neighbor unless he has large quantities of crude oil and natural gas in which case he will always, always, no matter what, be in need of a good dose of democracy
Exult in the knowledge that Iraq owes everything it has today to us
Oh, and to our Iraqi friends, You’re welcome
Show gratitude towards your leaders for opening the diplomatic channels between North Korea and Iran
Before they got the bomb, sorry, before they tested the bomb, wait, before they threatened to use the bomb…
you know what, be glad that we have more bombs than them
Forget Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert and Kazakh journalists
Love!! Bill O’Reilly and Fox News and chorus
And 2nd period English and 4th period Latin
Be glad that we are not France or Canada or England for that matter
Applaud the high school teenage poets whose experiences and knowledge run as deep as Swamp STJ
Burn books and imprison their authors…it’s worked before
Burn the rain forests and the Louvre and electric cars
poison the ocean and combust the fossil fuels
Fear global warming as you would fear your imaginary friend…and if it turns out to be real, a lot of prime
real estate will open up in Alaska
Criticize Fight Club while making literal interpretations of the Bible
Praise Jesus and curse Allah…live up to your own golden rule
Revel in the knowledge that American Idol is preserving the great musical tradition of America
While the McNugget and the Whopper embraces its culinary culture
And Paris’s Confessions of an Heiress continues the literary legacy of Fitzgerald and Hemingway
Disbelieve science and evolution
Support the intellectuals who dreamed up a more intelligent design
Know that America has lived up to the dreams of its forefathers, those white slave owning rebels who degraded their women and
forsook their homeland to establish themselves as true patriots
Pray to God that no one interprets the Constitution
And that the Patriot Act remains unquestioned
Know that the legal system justly executes its duties and its criminals
Support your human rights loving troops in Abu-Ghraib and Gitmo
And other places where the truth flows as free as the scalding waters of a torture chamber
Feel safe in the knowledge that we do not exploit those who died in 9/11
And that 9/11 will always be on the minds of Americans,
Especially those who witnessed the terrible events of 9/11,
As well as the terrorists whom we will make responsible for 9/11...
Boo!!!...9/11
Praise yourselves for ending school segregation with racial privatization
Ignore the fact that Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson wage war on racism through the same “white” dominated media machine
that they raged against as young men
View the public humiliation of Michael Richards and Imus as victories over bigotry as well as celebrity
Scream your rally cry down city streets and country lanes: Reagan!!!!
But finally, and most importantly, thank God we are not France!!!
A Colored Chaos
Reds, Blues, Greens, Oranges
The light streams past
Branching and converging and branching again,
Only to be caught up in a cacophonous crash of silent thunder reverberating
Black river intersections like absent stars of dying flame dot the landscape of these
concrete condos, these customized cages
Images pass by on crystal sheets
Ornamenting the smooth rocky outcrops
Glistening in an artificial haze of incandescent splendor
A torrent of quiet chaos spawns a monotonous hum of organized existence,
Proud progress
Other sounds echo under the bulging blanket of civilization
The drone of the muffler and the click of the engine
As it feeds on its ever flowing, ever fleeting fire blood
While spewing forth its smoky spillage
A soothing response waits in the lifeless night
Only for a moment does this personalized prison open its doors to the heavens to breath
in the view of an untouched sky
Escape.
Freedom.
Sanctuary calls from the outside within,
The nature of the untamed
The black streets pick up their flowing debris,
Carrying it further and further from the beating heart of a buried beast
Unmolested light breaks through as the entrance to a world ruled by shades of green and
grey is overtaken
This new night breathes in the chaotic rhythm of life and death
A pulsating and purring presence hidden by the daytime darkness seems to order this
living paradise
Sparkling and twinkling candles reflect off the sky and the water soaked ground,
Seeming to originate in the medium between
Still, the black river flows,
Intruding on a land of blue water and green light
Suddenly, the moving metal monsters grow cold in a caress of society,
A chain of hidden ideals
Traveling in a lunar land of life teeming
No longer a place of isolation,
This world reemerges as an interface between two enamored existences,
Caught up in their own survival,
Oblivious to the other
Yet intricately tied by filial bonds
Artificial reds and oranges merge with natural yellows and greens,
Flowing into the stream of white light emanating from a two toned life
The light streams past
Branching and converging and branching again,
Only to be caught up in a cacophonous crash of silent thunder reverberating
Black river intersections like absent stars of dying flame dot the landscape of these
concrete condos, these customized cages
Images pass by on crystal sheets
Ornamenting the smooth rocky outcrops
Glistening in an artificial haze of incandescent splendor
A torrent of quiet chaos spawns a monotonous hum of organized existence,
Proud progress
Other sounds echo under the bulging blanket of civilization
The drone of the muffler and the click of the engine
As it feeds on its ever flowing, ever fleeting fire blood
While spewing forth its smoky spillage
A soothing response waits in the lifeless night
Only for a moment does this personalized prison open its doors to the heavens to breath
in the view of an untouched sky
Escape.
Freedom.
Sanctuary calls from the outside within,
The nature of the untamed
The black streets pick up their flowing debris,
Carrying it further and further from the beating heart of a buried beast
Unmolested light breaks through as the entrance to a world ruled by shades of green and
grey is overtaken
This new night breathes in the chaotic rhythm of life and death
A pulsating and purring presence hidden by the daytime darkness seems to order this
living paradise
Sparkling and twinkling candles reflect off the sky and the water soaked ground,
Seeming to originate in the medium between
Still, the black river flows,
Intruding on a land of blue water and green light
Suddenly, the moving metal monsters grow cold in a caress of society,
A chain of hidden ideals
Traveling in a lunar land of life teeming
No longer a place of isolation,
This world reemerges as an interface between two enamored existences,
Caught up in their own survival,
Oblivious to the other
Yet intricately tied by filial bonds
Artificial reds and oranges merge with natural yellows and greens,
Flowing into the stream of white light emanating from a two toned life
Thursday, April 26, 2007
The Greenhouse Effect: God's Blanket
Recently, my church had a special guest speaker who warned our congregation on the sins of global warming. I hope to share some of his wisdom in this, my first post. I won't be long in introductions, this will be a short read, but i do hope u enjoy this short speech and the other posts to come. And now for the speech, copied as accurately as my memory would allow. “For years we have lived in the cold recesses of this demonic world, this liberal playground, but no more will we succumb to the whims of compassion and mercy. God, thy merciful Lord, has seen fit to redeem us from such a fate. How, you ask. The answer lies at your feet, my friends. More to the point, the answer is soaking your feet in a tepid bath of glacial ice and polar crystal. God is freeing us from the icy dominion of the White Witch of the North. He is laying a blanket of warmth across the world to cure our communist infection, our terror induced chills. With this blanket of God’s love, disgustingly termed by the liberals as the climate “crisis,” new areas will open up to the ideas of capitalism and democracy. Older areas, however, who do not share our passion for freedom will be punished for their loss of faith. Places like Miami and California will be put into a watery grave. And I say good riddance. Praise God for his love. He is removing the cold chains of a liberal slavery. He is freeing our snow encased brethren from an icy oppression.
But some of you seem dismayed. I know of a recent rumor heralding this “trend” as the beginning of the end. You whisper in fear this terrible truth, because that is what it is my flock. No doubt is in my mind, God has had thoughts of ending us and these are just the precursors to a much harsher castigation. God is turning up the dial on the cosmic oven. I’ll be damned if he isn’t trying to smoke us out. But I know these tricks, these divine tests. Do not stray, do not give in. Refrain from listening to your liberal neighbors as well. If they tell you to conserve energy, to carpool, to wash with cold water, simply turn the other cheek and say be gone devil. Don’t conserve, go out and buy three new gas powered generators and run them 24/7. Don’t carpool, buy American trucks and SUVs. Don’t wash with cool water, use scalding water laced with as much bleach as possible. Wait, that would be a waste. Poor the bleach down the nearest drain to the sea. I beg you to buy Al Gore’s book, as many copies as possible, and burn them in city squares and town halls. That’ll show ‘em. We are doing God’s work people.
And now, Brother Bush will lead us in the ceremonial burning of the Kyoto Protocol.”
But some of you seem dismayed. I know of a recent rumor heralding this “trend” as the beginning of the end. You whisper in fear this terrible truth, because that is what it is my flock. No doubt is in my mind, God has had thoughts of ending us and these are just the precursors to a much harsher castigation. God is turning up the dial on the cosmic oven. I’ll be damned if he isn’t trying to smoke us out. But I know these tricks, these divine tests. Do not stray, do not give in. Refrain from listening to your liberal neighbors as well. If they tell you to conserve energy, to carpool, to wash with cold water, simply turn the other cheek and say be gone devil. Don’t conserve, go out and buy three new gas powered generators and run them 24/7. Don’t carpool, buy American trucks and SUVs. Don’t wash with cool water, use scalding water laced with as much bleach as possible. Wait, that would be a waste. Poor the bleach down the nearest drain to the sea. I beg you to buy Al Gore’s book, as many copies as possible, and burn them in city squares and town halls. That’ll show ‘em. We are doing God’s work people.
And now, Brother Bush will lead us in the ceremonial burning of the Kyoto Protocol.”
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