Don Bastardi, the name of the foul reptile, was projected onto the screen and into the viewer’s consciousness, warning of Storm Jeane, referring to her by name and exalting her to a new level of ferocity, towering over her seasonal siblings in potential to further destroy AMERICA. God damn, nature seems to be the only force the Caucasian oligarchy just cannot control in the least. Mo’ unstoppable than terrorism/ weather systems collide cause schisms/winds break down city of man Prism/Omnipresent view of what you trying to do/humble you, till respect given is true.
Mr. Bastardi was rather inhumane in his reporting approach. He seemed to forget that college kids’ vacations would be ruined, and the anticipated days of boozing and nights of wild sex would be smited out Sodom and Gomorrah style, or that the millions of immigrants who work for a pathetic minimum wage and are surely uninsured would be thrown under the wheel of misery on the steep slope of “Damn!, existence really can suck.” Or maybe he was so intimidating because he was a republican representative reptile, a little too excited by the prospect of disaster and the consequent disappearance of attention to the sketchy touch- screen voting system that cannot produce printed results. Victory was at their hands. Jeb licked his fingers, tastier than Crispy Cr??me frosting.
But then the newest intelligence was transmitted to Don and he became suddenly God- fearing. God was creating a tempest, but he couldn’t help feeling a little pissed that Osama claimed rights to 9/11 targets “Genius, just like a movie,” He thought as Al Qaeda created history. “And movies are the natural progression of a medium through which people gain meaning to their being on this earth, starting with the spoken word, then giving rise to the scriptures. If he is controlling the attention of those looking for meaning in the life, then he has displaced their thirst for knowledge of the Divine.
I must use my omnipotence to take control again. This dish will be three thumbs up,” but he was conjuring a plan on a new level of symbolism. He was sending a preemptive attack, telling the pseudo-rulers of His creationcosm that they were doing very bad trying to play His position on earth. He was going to impose destruction on the site that catalyzed the last four years of concupiscence under the auspices of the fictitiously elected president. Crazy intelligence systems they have these days, huh Don. Don, as well as the whole administration, was baffled. “But I thought we were carrying out His will! Mr. Bush is certain of that, right?” “Hmmm, maybe God doesn’t appreciate children being brought into this world without love and comfort. Wow, wouldn’t that be something, if every child were loved and nurtured through its path of decisions in life?
“But Jesus, there might not be a place for the mindless agenda found in MTV-esque female booty objectification, hair gel, Big Mac followed by a cowboy killer decadence, and hunting deer with automatic weapons that we so cherish and uphold as part of His righteous plan.”
My friend turned up the music and the TV went off, Bastardi with it, and in came reflections guided by the smooth sounds from Company Flow. Then I remembered that the world doesn’t, en fait, revolve around the United States, that we just tend to fall into that troublesome way of thinking while caught within it.
A friend had told me that 600 Haitians died in the wrath of the kinetic energy swirling out of control down there, far, far away from the pleasure of a Vermont couch and a hangover, and remedies and beats and raps and thoughts of le belle donne from the night before, shaking what mamma gave ’em and hoping more of the same would unfold as the moon gained eminence once again.
Yes, we are far from these occurrences, let us be conscious to the plight of those not as fortunate and feel infinitely grateful for the potential to throw on some Dead, rather than facing It while drowning in the pool of filth created by the pesky disease that mother nature wants to do away with.