The Man Of Wimpole Street.

Fuck it ain't pretty huh? No, sirree, it ain't a picture of calypigian-ness by any stretch of the buttoxical imagination. Where else are people acting like this? Where else?

I'm digging my god damn shelter. Oh, my god this shit is going to Fuck in a Crapbasket faster than you can say Fat Indolent Christer Weirdo on Meth. These "folks". "Folks".

I'm hoarding my XTC records and my classic literature and my native wit and I'm hightailing it down to the fucking basement and soak in the tub, fuck's sake.

I'm going down to Big Pedro in Holyoke and I'm going to cop a bottle of black market morphine and I'm gonna cut it with some god damn empathy. I'm going to cook it all up at once and I'm gonna sit on the couch with one of them I.V. bags on wheels and I'll just roll it to the bathroom when I h-h-have to drain the lizard. Shit. Guhhh.

Oh, the muscle control is going. My shit is giving out. It's for sheer desperation and alienation. Ogh. Where did the "folks" go what "read books" yo? Where's the man gonna stand up and say, "um, I'm sorry, but this is fucked". Whenever I say something to someone that's really funny and they give me that bl-blank st-stare it's like you gone down for a whole episode 'a' Full fucking House and she just look at you like you a spare cushion. Cushion.

I toiled hand t'mouth for 23 years so's what I could dance away from the nicotine-stained mitts of the man. The wrinkley, noisome did-jits that wend their way about our lives like a fast-filmed advance of army ants. Like the branches of the Tree Of Crap, Rumsfelding its putrescent limbs into your very Isle Of Langerhans. Ohhhh, don't Seek Shelter Neath The Tree Of Crapola, my dear, dear, beloved ones. That's no place for men of letters, for women of letters. No kind of place at a-a-all. You'll need those Isles when you're old. They don't know what they're for but you need 'em when you're agid.

Criminy fucking cricket but that Michael Moore is a putz. That's who we have? That fucking guy?

What a dope. that Farenheit 9/11 shit was weaker than your gran on disentery. If that's the best we got, some pushy fat 2-yearer oinking around and acting outraged, we are well and truly extinct. We are the Commonsenseosaurus, man. It pains me to s-s-say.

Lawks-a-mussy is we good 'n' boned if that's what we got. That wet High School Dance Wall Hugger. Oh, I piss myslelf with fear. Yes, fear. And that butthole Kerry? Give me a break.

that's what we've got? That fucking Kerry dude? Waxes like 300 VC at great personal peril and then lets Bush saunter back into the White House like Elvis into fucking Graceland after blowing his load for the cameras? Ay, chihuahua. that is some f-fucked up, fucked up stuff. Some funky shit. What kind of a man does that? YOUR kind of man? If you're a chick and you're going with Kerry and he just mums up while that fucking 56th trimester abortion George Bush just waltzes back into the Winter Retreat you're going to still respect him? Oh, my god. No wonder about the divorce rate, that's all you expect a man to do.

And not even try to rabbit punch the fucking guy. And not even just man the fuck up and say what he's thinking which is, "I'd like to put forth some wise and good policies but right now I'm just so scared, so scared for my family and my country because you, Mr. President, are about as right in th' head as a fucking lead addict. You are about as in control of your faculties as a Jack Russell with a tennis ball dipped in liquid acid. After a hour.

Who else we got? There has to be SOMEBODY, you know? We can't really be THAT devoid of quality as a people.

Um, Bill Clinton? Oh, yeah. Him. Sure. That fucking guy'd spent any more time with his nose buried in fucking Osama's bush he'd have fucking brain lice. Him an' that freakin' harridan who walks him around by his nose an' whenever she looks about for a suitable place to take the shade he's floppin' his cocktail frank in another teenager's ear. He's like Bill Sykes and she's fucking Fagen, all dark motivations and Chanel Number Something.

Cripes, who we got? We are well and truly fucked.

I'd take fucking Sting at this point. That's how blown we are. We could get fucking Bono to run shit. Or that drip from Coldplay. That drip with the crap on his hands. "Hey, mannnn. Let's have Free Trade and no killing duckies". "Hey, mannn. It's uncool when you fiilbuster me on the House Floor".

They've got the Ghost of J. Edgar fucking Hoover and we've got a fat dick, a pussy VC annihilatin' congressman, a pukey doctor, a harridan with loins of ice, a Pillsbury Dickboy with a hankerin' for teenie trim and a bad ticker and fucking Jerry Springer.

And Liz Winstead. That guy is weird.

On the fucked scale of 1 to 10 I think you'd be hard-pressed not to agree that we are a h-h-hundred. Oh, my friends, my brothers and sisters I feel the hour is nigh. So it's off to the basement with a twelve-gauge and a morphine I.V. and a big smelly bong and a stack of wanked-out 70's Lithuanian titty books.

And may God have mercy on your s-s-souls.