"I didn't mean to kill him, Frenchie."-- John Hurt, The Discarded
The day after Christmas, the former Walmart shit-faced imbecile who discards my disposable underwear, (mainly from CVS ) came down with a chill, and the end result of that is, I have been stricken nearly two weeks with possible COVID-19 induced influenza, and all I have to show for it is the Elon Musk nigger modal owl hooting over my embittered carcass: I created an only partially successful GoFundMe campaign which stopped dead at the doorstep of my father's relatives, and that's that, a former writer, of some small reputation, driven to such hate, even as I am almost better, I find relief only in a type of ventilation genocide, because Twitter is nothing but a refuse pile, bot accounts of the poor choking each other to death, and I think of the late Brian Dennehy, charging, taking a stand, getting killed by a polycephaly gimp, because this is what super attenuated pressures achieve, beneath the overlay of Stephan Hawking's voice box, and the best we can do for ourselves is Elon, or his peer, Vivek? Not that the two are comparable, but India already has Narendra Modi. We don't need him in the West Wing.
No comments:
Post a Comment