Megaphone man here.

Once again I slant the context of thought like a blaring billboard of noise until all the nimrods are eventually parroting the same thing over drinks and hamburgers and salads. He who talks the longest and loudest and most glibly like a winking 1950's man with a briefcase, or the radio voice of authority telling you to believe in God like the voice of God, or a sports hero giving an interview with that simple philosophy of the athlete. . . . . "We got to play". Ask not for whom the bell tolls as Donald Rumsfeld, our matinée idol for seniors, waves the divisions forward with a snapped all-American salute into that sand-trap, as ill-fated as a bad game of golf.

Sometimes I wondered why I didn't go to a dubious Indian doctor who'd prescribe me opium with the rising staleness and monsoon humidity of "The East", not like over here in "The West" where we practiced some kind of rigid version of pharmocological Calvinism that supposed you were damned either way, and must struggle up the road of perdition like a tight-fisted Scotsman frowning on the putting green with red sideburns and the graveness of the cairns. But then in India you had "the shit-dogs" wandering through the streets snapping up turds in their jaws like the most sickly of mongrels, not unlike the snail-eyed hacks who staffed the offices of the DNC "like yellow-dog Democrats" who made the Roosevelt's look like Nazis.

Trapped in here, swirling in a sea of simple, retarded, "happy answers", I secretly raised a spear of my own means-- which would probably just publicly translate into something heavy and lunking and stupid as the tables would call out with bleats of objection, if not dismay as you tipped everything over like Spartacus in the arena of discussion, launching a slave rebellion that people could neither understand nor were prepared to join as social democracy's pussies. That is, as they smiled endearing grins for "the group photo". . . . . an assortment of misfits as splotchy-faced as they were irredeemable upon nature's threshing jungle floor.

And then on the monitors above in the special room, you had the preposterousness of an ESPN show featuring Charles Barkley, a formerly wild, repentant Negro colossus, being taught how to perfect his swing-- the white man's game of golf and establishment certitude. Why, his shirt is even pink and his balls as white as snow. And his putt? Mediocre with a handicap. Sponsored by Cialisis and American Family Life Insurance. Pity the day when civilization collapses. . . . . and we elect a Negro to the highest office in the land. The skies will rumble, the earth will shake, the Dow will drop, and the Teletubbies will dance sweltering Satanic glees of joy upon the hot sands of Iraq as the sun sets on the American empire and all fades to black.

Though who wouldst make us devils. . . . . I am the megaphone man. Marked and slandered, cross my heart I hope you wilt and shudder like petinuas in a hot, dry, desert wind. Or cover my check, because I'm slinkin' out to the car. Thank you for not pelting me with salad.

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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'

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(Rheeee of Crickets)

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("I heard that, Missy!")