Man, I thought it was motherfucking this and that and the other thing back in August was going to blow the shit open. Then I thought it was that fuckwart Mclellan sticking out his shitass pussy Yale YRC booze-stained birdy lip and askin' some fucking reporter if "he was insinuating something" at some Christing White House briefing or another over this fucking Abramoff shit.
Then I thought for sure it was going to be this fucking domestic surveillance shit. See, now it's every day, baby. Some new humiliation. Some new scam. Some new no-bid contract. What a fucking nightmare. The way it's picking up steam.
And it dawned on me a few days ago that we'll put up with pretty much any fucking shit. yeh, unless they come for our flatscreen, man. Then it's Katy Bar The Polesmokin' Door, man.
It's like a day gig, man. It's like the fucking outrage is a pastime until motherfucking dinner. Or th' new season of Armenian Idle. Jesus fucking christ. What the fuck are we doing? What the fuck am I doing? I, me? huh? I ain't my brother's polesmoking keeper. Y'all do what you want. I'm living in a fucking glass house for sure. You know?
yeah, all very well and fine to be all Soulfinger-this-and-Sal-The-Feist-That-and- ain't-it- funny- the-other-thing but what the fuck good does any of that do?
It's all racing towards critical mass. The decision is going to be upon us. It really is. It's any, any, any fucking day now. You think I'm just Lightfootin' it but man this time it's for reals.
I'm telling you. I'm telling you you're going to wake up really fucking soon, maybe next month. Maybe in the spring. And you're going to have to decide. You're going to have to decide if you believe in your fucking house and your car more than what's fucking right for our kids and our fucking country. You fucking dig me? Because it might not be what we think.
God damn it. I'm having a harder and harder motherfucking time writing this polesmoking blog. I'm getting a little tired of bein' a hoot. can you tell? I'm gone for DAYS. I look at that god damn screen and I think what do I really add to anything?
Best I can do is preach to the choir. Preach to the fucking choir. Not that there's anything wrong with the polesmokin' choir, of course. I'd hate to offend EITHER of my readers thus.
Look, man. I'm singing "What's Going On" to fat white fucks that have funny things written on their t-shirts with words like "cunt" and "Arab". And my little rebellion is to say, "what the fuck! Let's bring 'em home!" during the guitar solo. I'M A REGULAR MOTHERFUCKING ABBIE HOFFMAN, MAN. I'm like a white, non-filanderin' MLK Jr.!!! WOOOO-HOOOOOO!!
I'm fucking ashamed of myself. I mean, I've got the don't-play-the-man's-game, thing down. Doin' all right there, you know? All that means is I don't have shit. Got that part. But I don't have the nuts to go ALL THE WAY DOWN, DOG.
IF I HAD A NUT IN MY SACK I'D PULL THE FUCKING RIPCORD RIGHT THE FUCK OFF. BOBBY LIGHTFOOT AND THE ORCHESTRA OF SWEET REGRET MY FUCKING ASS. YEAH, ONE MORE TORTURED FAILURE SONGWRITER ANGSTING ALL OVER THE PLACE IS GOING TO BRING 'EM HOME. YEH. YEH.
Well, at least I do more than that tosspot Bono. THAT fucking guy. Jesus Christ.
Although he did set some "painless" mouse traps in our attic last week when I had him over to TEACH HIM A FUCKING OPEN G CHORD. Guck.
so what THE FUCK ARE WE DOING? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT AM I DOING? Look, people, we HAVE TO DO THINGS THAT RENDER US UNATTRACTIVE TO POLITE SOCIETY, MAN. We have to BE FUCKIN' BRAVE.
I'm going to go do SOME REAL DRUGS, MAN. Some BIG BOY DRUGS. Some WHITE drugs. Like they used to when MEN WERE MEN AND TH' PIGS WERE SCARED. Then I'm going to get myself ORGANIZIZED. And then...then...once I pay th' electric...and th' cable...and th' payment on th' flat screen...and...and....and....
YOU SEE? SEE HOW THE MAN GETS INTO THE FUCKING DRINKING WATER??? EH? EH?
I'M GETTING APPENDICITIS FROM THIS FUCKING SHIT. I'M GETTIN' A MITE PIQUED. A LI'L VEHRKLEMPT. Aaaah, I curse the FUCKING DAY I entered the world of Men. What a disillusionment.
It's so hard to be counterculture registered trademark anymore. God damn it. Unless you want to move some fine GAP products. Dammit, now I'm crying. No, wait, that's just flopsweat. From th' white drugs. Ooooh...but they was good for a half hour. Now I have to sell my stereo for more. Wait, people don't even have stereos anymore.
PEOPLE DON'T HAVE STEREOS ANYMORE!!!! WHO'S FUCKING AMERICA IS THIS? WHEN THE CRIMINY FUCKING CHRIST DID THIS HAPPEN?
AND OUR CHILDREN!! WHAT HAVE WE TOUGHT THEM???? DRUGS ARE BAD?? DRUGS AREN'T BAD, MAN!!!!! GUNS AND LIES AND OIL AND SHIT AND MONEY AND WALMART AND POLITICS AND CEO'S ARE BAD!!! COME ON!!!!
You're going to tell me next to THAT FUCKING LITANY THAT DRUGS ARE BAD? I'M SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE THAT? Our little brownshirt children are BUYING IT. BUYING IT. Oh, God.
JESUS AM I TH' ONLY ONE WHO'S JUST FIT TO BUST A GUT!!!!!!!! GET UP OFF IT! GET UP! STAND UP! DON'T GIVE UP TH' FIGHT! IT WORKED BEFORE, MAN! BACK IN THE DAY! FIRE ONE UP FOR ABBIE! GOD DAMN IT!
DON'T YOU KNOW THAT YOU CAN COUNT ME IN?
What's that say, huh? Does it speak to your Quality as a Provider reg. tm.? Your Q.P. quotient?
Just means you're a good consumer times 4, baby. That's what it means. You roll the dice and you flip the coin just like the rest of us, every day pissing a little more ozone layer away, baby. Off th' grid with the lot of us, daddy. Toot Polesmokin' Sweet, baby.
Can't even feed a family anymore without signing on the fucking dotted line, man. How's that
sink in, Mr. Casual Friday? How's THAT
shit working for you? I know this guy in god damn Holyoke who has 11 aunts and uncles and is working class. Can you imagine trying to have a fuckin' brood like that now? Guh---uh---uh. You'd have to be that pussy metrosexual hair-gel devouring human monument of greed and avarice Richard Branson to sink that many damn pucks.
See, what I'm trying to say here is that really the only way I can think to stab out at The Man is to be borderline motherfucking homeless. You ride the rails, you show up in towns and agitate. You take the fight to The Man. I guess that's O.K.
When you get that mysterious feeling that you -j-j-just can't get it UP to earn like a good little American Worker.
Ah, well. We all have our crosses to bear. Mine just needs paint a little more'n yours. Fuck it.
Fuckin' Bono. Jesus Christ. Pussy hairdresser metrosexual bitchass. I bet he listens to Th' Blackeyed Peas at home.
The Blackeyed Peas! Ha ha! That's what we have! We earned it! You get what you deserve, my dearies!
What you deserve!!!! Whatius Youius Deservicus,
as Illiad would have said. The great prophet.
The Blackeyed Peas. The soundtrack of madness. My madness.