I have heard in the past few elections that there are people in this ridiculous mess of a country who like to decide who to vote for "when we're at the polls."
What? What?
Are there really such despicable retards alive in this country that will vote on such short notice and decide which way to go as they're pulling the lever? That's like deciding whether or not to shoot someone as you pull the trigger. Stop pretending you've been paying attention, stop acting like the three minutes of the debate you watched last Tuesday gives you any right to have your vote count equal to mine. That polling lever is dangerous, like a hairpin trigger on a .45 in the hands of a cop at a protest: STEP AWAY FROM THE FUTURE, YOU FATTENED MADMAN RETARD AMERICAN, YOU! Cast away your FOXNews coloured glasses and your McDonald's bag of D grade meat! Open those glazed over American Idol eyes!
I respect people who belong to parties; at least they're trying to pay attention. Sure, both are both horsefucked messes of American politics, most folks probably agree more with one than the other. And I respect Republicans- it's hard to respect such scum, but you do have to respect pure evil when you see it just based on the fact that it's proven to you that it's actually there, and yes, it's that fucking evil.
What I cannot respect is the rambling mass of loons who vote for people based on who they think they would have a better time at a barbeque with, or who they think would change their tire for them if they were stuck. Let me save you the trouble- none of them would would change your tire; McCain especially can't change your tire because it would crush him, and if you have a Jeep you're out of luck because he can't raise his arms high enough to get the tire off the tailgate.
And all of them would get drunk at your barbeque, piss on your table, shoot your dog ("Inadvertently," says the spokeswoman), and then fly your wife to Vegas and get her drunk off of dirty martinis before they banged her. Let's not forget that they are not only "politicians", but they are also "rich", and the last thing that rich care about is your macaroni salad or the roofing nail in your tire or that your wife hates dirty martinies. It's all a means to an end.
I am supporting Obama. He too would probably try and bang your wife, and he might eventually be convicted of some heinous crime that only a politician would think that he could get away with. But I doubt it. He has some kind of honesty in his voice, some sense of urgentness and importantness and swagger that makes you think if another September 11 came around, he might actually be able to handle it instead of riding his tricycle around the White House lawn with cap guns and a WWII helmet over his eyes trying to catch evildoers in the bushes.
He might not send kids to die in the desert sands of countries of foreign countries. He might realize the absolute, resolute ridiculousness of the contradiction in terms that is "preemptive war," something so bizarre and asinine that it could only come from the "President" who invented the word, "irregardless."
I said a while ago that a storm is coming; I was wrong. The storm is here, the torrents of blood and death and horror are here, and the future of this country sways as the ground shakes with the artillery fire in the dunes. Our future is a drunken Jenga game that the billionaires toy with, and every step nearer to the election we get, another piece is drawn out by their long, wicked fingers.
I don't care who you vote for, but if you vote Republican, you have no right to complain when my generation eventually lights you on fire and puts it out with a chain.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
The Ballad of the Hanged Men
There's a lot of "Mikes."
Probably millions in the US... maybe more. There's probably another million in Ireland. Hell, I'm sure there's millions in other countries; they've all got their linguistic variations of how you say it; Miguel in Spanish, Mikkel in German, Mícheál in Gaelic. However, in all languages, it means the same: it is to be named after the mighty archangel, the warrior of God who cast Satan out of Paradise so long ago, entombing him in his fiery pit.
Somewhere, 35 years ago, in a county in New Jersey, a mother gave birth to a son, and gave him this strong name. She probably had hopes and dreams, like all good mothers do; she probably prayed that he might be like the other millions of Mikes, the ones that had good jobs in offices, young wives, and would raise good, compassionate children that would lead good, strong lives.
But that was not the path that was to be taken for this lad.
I see him now, doing the diddy-bopping shuffle that only people with chained legs learn, as he steps down from the jury box and towards the defense table. The orange jumpsuit stops around his elbows, and his arms are heavily tattooed. He's got a cross on the back of his neck just above the collar line, and his eyes are sunken in that heroin-throttled way.
As I look around the courtroom, I can see it all. I see the kid from Cali with poofy yellowed hair who's wearing daddy's suit; he's probably hear for a DUI. I see the cracked out hood rat who was on the lam for a decade until they finally caught her with large amounts of some drug or another. I see the thick black guy sitting in front of me, his hair wound in tight cornrows. He's waiting for his turn.
And there I sit, with my collared shirt, leather jacket, and small pad to write the notes out, and I am just thankful that for once I'm staying on this side of the bench. I remember how it was to have court dates hanging over your head; it's always in front of you, like when you see a great rising storm in the distance but, for now, only feel the wind slowly getting colder. When you laugh, it's there, and it ends your glee abrubtly. When you're having sex, there's still a part of you that knows when the moment is over with her, your court date will be there. When you're drunk, you'll talk about it. But only when you're drunk.
35 years ago, Mike's mother never knew that this is where he would be. She didn't know that he'd make all the wrong choices, and become a product of the system, in and out of jail for a laundry list of violations. She didn't know he'd be all inked up, the needle's veteran, and begging a judge for mercy... again. I wonder what she would think.
After his case, they bring my boy in.; I'm hear to write about him. He is of average height, skinny, shaved head, white-trash looking. He stands accused of molesting a child multiple times. He looks right at me, and his eyes aren't like the rest of these guys; they aren't sad, they aren't regretful, and they aren't hopeful.
No. These are cold pin prics of ice. It chills me, makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise, and immediately I know that he is guilty and wish that men like him were executed. Slowly. Mercilessly.
I think that if I could kill him with my bare hands, I would do it. If I could twist that scrawny neck 'till the body went limp, and watch them the ravens eat him, I would do that too.
I wonder if his mother is in hell for having him, or if she knew not what was happening when she gave birth to this incarnation of evil.
I wonder how God handles such things.
Probably millions in the US... maybe more. There's probably another million in Ireland. Hell, I'm sure there's millions in other countries; they've all got their linguistic variations of how you say it; Miguel in Spanish, Mikkel in German, Mícheál in Gaelic. However, in all languages, it means the same: it is to be named after the mighty archangel, the warrior of God who cast Satan out of Paradise so long ago, entombing him in his fiery pit.
Somewhere, 35 years ago, in a county in New Jersey, a mother gave birth to a son, and gave him this strong name. She probably had hopes and dreams, like all good mothers do; she probably prayed that he might be like the other millions of Mikes, the ones that had good jobs in offices, young wives, and would raise good, compassionate children that would lead good, strong lives.
But that was not the path that was to be taken for this lad.
I see him now, doing the diddy-bopping shuffle that only people with chained legs learn, as he steps down from the jury box and towards the defense table. The orange jumpsuit stops around his elbows, and his arms are heavily tattooed. He's got a cross on the back of his neck just above the collar line, and his eyes are sunken in that heroin-throttled way.
As I look around the courtroom, I can see it all. I see the kid from Cali with poofy yellowed hair who's wearing daddy's suit; he's probably hear for a DUI. I see the cracked out hood rat who was on the lam for a decade until they finally caught her with large amounts of some drug or another. I see the thick black guy sitting in front of me, his hair wound in tight cornrows. He's waiting for his turn.
And there I sit, with my collared shirt, leather jacket, and small pad to write the notes out, and I am just thankful that for once I'm staying on this side of the bench. I remember how it was to have court dates hanging over your head; it's always in front of you, like when you see a great rising storm in the distance but, for now, only feel the wind slowly getting colder. When you laugh, it's there, and it ends your glee abrubtly. When you're having sex, there's still a part of you that knows when the moment is over with her, your court date will be there. When you're drunk, you'll talk about it. But only when you're drunk.
35 years ago, Mike's mother never knew that this is where he would be. She didn't know that he'd make all the wrong choices, and become a product of the system, in and out of jail for a laundry list of violations. She didn't know he'd be all inked up, the needle's veteran, and begging a judge for mercy... again. I wonder what she would think.
After his case, they bring my boy in.; I'm hear to write about him. He is of average height, skinny, shaved head, white-trash looking. He stands accused of molesting a child multiple times. He looks right at me, and his eyes aren't like the rest of these guys; they aren't sad, they aren't regretful, and they aren't hopeful.
No. These are cold pin prics of ice. It chills me, makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise, and immediately I know that he is guilty and wish that men like him were executed. Slowly. Mercilessly.
I think that if I could kill him with my bare hands, I would do it. If I could twist that scrawny neck 'till the body went limp, and watch them the ravens eat him, I would do that too.
I wonder if his mother is in hell for having him, or if she knew not what was happening when she gave birth to this incarnation of evil.
I wonder how God handles such things.
Friday, May 09, 2008
When in New Jersey...
We're throwing a baseball around in a friends's backyard, playing some kind of accuracy game that does not bode well with my "Wild Thing" arm (like a rocket, but watch the car windows).
Another friend from high school is fixing something on the patio table. He went to college in South Carolina, and has only been coming around again since graduating. Another guy is drunk in a lawn chair and mumbling.
During a bullshit conversation, the guy at the table begins cursing about in frustration.
Then he says it, under his breath, so low that we almost don't hear it: "This sucks almost as much as Bruce Springsteen."
In shock, I miss the ball, but don't bother looking for it. I look right at him, and then at the thrower; he's staring at Table guy. The drunk in the chair is also staring, mouth agape, and then shakes his head as if clearing out the fog and says, "The fuck did you just say?"
Table guy looks at us, an incredulous look on his face. "Jesus Christ, I was kidding."
A tense second goes by.
"Oh.... You gotta be careful with that kinda shit," I say.
"No shit," he laughs. "Forgot I was back in Jersey."
Another friend from high school is fixing something on the patio table. He went to college in South Carolina, and has only been coming around again since graduating. Another guy is drunk in a lawn chair and mumbling.
During a bullshit conversation, the guy at the table begins cursing about in frustration.
Then he says it, under his breath, so low that we almost don't hear it: "This sucks almost as much as Bruce Springsteen."
In shock, I miss the ball, but don't bother looking for it. I look right at him, and then at the thrower; he's staring at Table guy. The drunk in the chair is also staring, mouth agape, and then shakes his head as if clearing out the fog and says, "The fuck did you just say?"
Table guy looks at us, an incredulous look on his face. "Jesus Christ, I was kidding."
A tense second goes by.
"Oh.... You gotta be careful with that kinda shit," I say.
"No shit," he laughs. "Forgot I was back in Jersey."
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