"I failed as a father," -- Martin Sheen, an Anger Management cameo no longer as ironic in its original air date.
Oh, I do not know. As a good lieutenant, I've never been much of a herd animal, never prefaced children, and cannot enter the vacuum of this particular feminine privilege which makes most women diffident with my attitude and in social media, it's almost an unstated requirement to gain access to the repository. Not that this is a complaint. Given that a France 24 anchor found my heartfelt response to GQ Magazine the night of the Paris attacks, a Monday and a world away by now, I have a new found respect for the extraordinary collapse in communication technology to level the field-- not that this incident will get me jobbers-- but here I am, cripple extraordinaire facing down a corrupt housing classification on sheer will-- and my landlord's perplexing inability to boot my racially antagonistic but courteous in context ass out the door, and I get quoted on international television. Worth starving for? I don't hate my building manager and her scions for being black with a lesser intelligence than mine. I hate that hers and their employment is contingent upon threatening me with re-incarceration, that she doesn't have half my education, struggles to keep up with my defiance of her trained for cruelty, and she is presumably Philadelphia's definition of the lower end pluralistic black middle class, while I'm living hand to mouth, owing over $23k on this damn brain. I kicked up with the sloth-indolent receptionist too. "Why not just evict me?" She couldn't comprehend that in my view this was kinder than 22 years of harassment, threatening letters under my door on a daily basis, and continuing assessment team escalation-- yet I get quoted on an international 24/7 news feed. Irony, indeed, not that I'm a huge footprint, just as likely to tell the glamour veneers to fuck off, which douses me down a bit, as I could have had over a thousand followers by now, but that I take risks, indulge provocation. Hush money for this iconic entertainment scandal to the tune of 10 million has earned my prevalence for the caustic bite. What kind of society is it where a smart quad has to engage in extraordinary rendition just to earn 23k until 36, but the son of a man best noted for playing a fake president doles out that kind of hush money for a disease that made its way from the bush to gay sex hostels and then invariably found its way to the street?
My dead brother was mildly psycho, an angel dust rapist. His life haunts me, for that shame of it, and yet in the Hollywood bubble, Charlie Sheen eats his own hype like coprophagic poultry. It is difficult to pity Sheen for his antics in recent years, but perhaps it should have been him against the unpleasantly brittle boned Michelle Pfeiffer in Hollander's slate grey, clinical interior Vancouver of the equally unpleasant arc of Personal Effects. His ethics are more in tune with beating the shit out of retards.
If my small conservative base suspects I am branding a white hot liberal tong here, no, not really. I've seen the bottomless pit of the deranged who die like rabid dogs, and A-listers like Sheen make Sodom and Gomorrah look like a Bedouin sanitarium for consumptives. Does the man have any sense of personal responsibility whatsoever? Given his age and self-destructive promiscuity, he will probably be dead on the inside of 72 months.
No comments:
Post a Comment