"I Got Fucked-up on the
Jerry
Springer Show!"
They called it "Tranquility Bay", but I called it hell. Or cannibal holocaust. It was a reeducation camp in the Jamaican islands staffed by a bunch of Negroes in pith helmets. The constant crashing of the waves, the waving palm fronds in the breeze, I figured I would have to swim for the mainland rather than put up with the sunup-to-sundown brainwashing.
A staff member blew into a whistle and made us stand at attention, we wayward youth whom our parents sent here until our level of acceptability improved enough that we could return back to normal society. Mouth off, and six of them would flail you with bamboo sticks while you howled like a monkey. It simply made more sense to "play along" and plot silent resistance.
What was I but a political prisoner? When Mom's fat Hindu Indian meditation circle partner ran over my black cat, Lilly (-- a horrible driver, hopping the curb, slamming her sandaled foot down on the gas) I went up to the local gas station kiosk for retribution.
An Indian girl with a towel wrapped around her head, carrying nothing of her civilization's cultural richness in this endeavor, was flitting around with a tabloid magazine and super secret sexy dressing tips. I beat my palms on the glass.
"FUCK YOU AND ALL OF YOUR KIND! GO BACK TO WHERE YOU CAME FROM!"
That could have been it, but I returned 15 minutes later with raw hamburger and stuffed fistfuls of it in the money receiving slot. That is, before the police got there.
Two days later I was woken up at 4 AM in my room with a flashlight in my face by two porky security guards, tackled, handcuffed, led kicking & screaming down to a waiting van, and driven down to the airport where I was flown off to Jamaica. My Jewish mother thought it was "for my own good", softly coming to this conclusion like the liberal Democrat she was.
"I am perfectly fucking in charge of my faculties, you Jew-mongers!" I hollered as I kicked at the metal grating behind their bald, shaven heads. Their only answer was silence. On the plane they shackled my feet and tossed me back in steerage with the luggage.
On the island we, the defiant, were filed into a stockade and made to fall upon our knees before a black man in a general's outfit.
"I am Mobutu Kintè but you will call me 'sir'. We have defiant youth, yes? Ah, yea white devils!".
Clearly, the only way out was suicide-- or playing along as we were forced to stitch wallets and make trinkets for sale for the tourists on the mainland.
It was a fate worse than death, but I emerged a humbler Aryan. For $40,000?!
********************
Such was life in "Jerry-land", when a nearly-irresistable force meets an unmovable object, i.e. the crossed arms of Steve Wilkos, the easily-grinning bouncer with his arms crossed, who points at you "to go sit back down". Like rams "butting heads", the one with the more experienced, wiser crown of horns that sends weaker, inferior elements scurrying off without the girl, let alone with pride and honor which he'll let you keep a little bit, as long as you don't test "the wrath of bald-headed knaves" in the post-apocalyptic court of 21st century opinion like "The Decline of the West", when what it all came down to was a wolf-pack of beating fists and collapsed rubble of human debris like fat and drugs and waste and anal rot and strippers and porn stars and cheap motel rooms and unpaid child support as a tow-headed little boy turned his face up to you from the floor and scowled.
To presume that everyone is equally capable of exercising "free will". . . . . is the bullet our devil's advocate uses to shoot down arguments about "social responsibility" in its tracks. But some characters, whether by breeding or by habit, keep falling for "the same old traps" and is the equivalent of what happens when you wave a cork beneath an alcoholic or drug addict's nose and sell them on false, empty, and broken promises. That they will be "a television star" or will "see the big city" or have everything fixed in their lives "in one, determined flash" that only leaves more woeful suffering in the wings as the producers "rake it in", and America laughs and points.
And how the mob everywhere draws the knives for "its false idols", not only for the ridiculous contenders-- but those who have fallen-- breaking them to pieces and tearing out their hearts as a sacrifice victim to be consumed in a blood orgy as a means for compensation for HOW SMALL everyone is, exercising their power as one frightful mass who need a leader whom, at the bottom of it, they can love, respect, and fear.
And how sometimes those who go for "the long shot" of fame & fortune, are those least capable of staring down this fundamental savagery that lurks in the human heart, how it might leave them shaken and unable to cope with the essential heart of nature.
"Let me be your teacher. . . . ."
*******************
"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!'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Rheeee of Crickets)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
("I heard that, Missy!")
Drop "The Bard" a line at
michaeladams_s@yahoo.com