Twitter Fell On The Floor

I can't laugh, and I can't sing-- at least one thing the mercurial faggot got right.

Actually, the non-paying think tank provided me with a green light to go ahead, and this is where you start to swivel the joystick in a blind panic: National security is not my field of expertise, and there are more than a few thousand bloggers who dissect Washington daily, who have far greater ease of access to deputy directors and the plethora of advisors who've circulated in and out of the West Wing over the last twenty years. Now I have to track a couple and compel them to talk to me. Only I have no idea how to pose my questions with a straight face, but this is what I wanted, despite my imminent lodging crisis, so you may feel free to see me screaming in a Six Feet Under sketch, while I curse Twitter's staff profusely for recycling the has been relevance of Barry Manilow's sexual identity, because Manilow was the virtual definition of a  fop long before gay marriage became a rallying cry for their side. He is the king of Dork, and now, I can't get his duck paddling vocals out of my head. Yes, I had an album. My parents no doubt preferred this variation of gruel flung from a spoon to stick to the wall, as opposed to Peter Townsend's seductive and daring artistry, but why I had the album, why I sat reading postcards for the Manilow fan club on the school bus, this is anyone's guess.

Calm down. If I marshaled my forces to get a query past the gate, then I can marshal an article on a policy hypothetical and its repercussions. I do not have to re-litigate an entire series of events which have already been reported ad nauseam. I am a real journalist. Was, not a pretense of a recording artist whose fifteen minutes of fame barely merits disturbing the grave of Andy Warhol, tragic pop culture guru, dispensed dung beetle refuse. In many ways, my willingness to breach decorum, in a montage of biting disillusionment, is too toxic for social media, and too nasty for Niume, with its few lions and flocks, yet the sheep keep coming. A follow, a subscription, these are effortless. Human intervention, well, that is another matter, with sometimes detrimental results. The question becomes, if my disdain is so all pervasive, the love for the scold itself, that too, lends itself to the strident mockery embedded in the blank verse of Moliere. But if Jack thinks he is going to save his company with marshmallow whip, perhaps United Airlines can have him appointed as Viceroy to Saint-Helena, as this is one quad who wouldn't mind seeing Silicon Valley in a game of Castaway. Google finds me dangerous. Various web communities followed suit, but no one has lifted a bloody finger to help me against my disadvantage and nearly intolerable circumstance. Remember, I live with activists who were under investigation, whose institutional solidarity humiliated me. I should not have to be reminded of this on a daily basis, in a senior living facility which finally acknowledged what I've condemned for years. The disabled can no longer live in section 202 housing, unless they meet the age requirement. The American welfare state is going to implode and destroy itself sooner rather than later.