Hey Trotsky--

I saw the "Fools. . . . ." header in your message and at first I thought something was totally wrong, like you had been canned by the Moyers show and were venting your spleen like Harrison Ford walking down the steps of the government building at the end of "Raiders of the Lost Ark", ferally brooding about the pasty, fat-assed inertia of red-tape rolled out by soft-bottomed paper-pushers and public policy flaks. Unlike in real life, however, at least he had a girl to take him by the arm and later suck his dick. Such as it is, "we steamers" shaking our fists at the bottom of the marble colonnade like so much frustrated libido. . . . a strung-together, hopeful process of paperclips and string and Dixie cups that a snail-eyed bureaucrat behind a desk farts at in contempt.

Or is it indifference?

Remember that "irony and violence are the tools of the oppressed". I'll take "irony", you can beat out Bill Moyer's brains with an unhinged stapler. Render him to the cold sidewalk of bleak, feasible reality instead of this tub of warm, stinking PBS bullshit that is fooling neither you or I. If I "strike it rich" with my twisting, turning turkeys being flopped over with a crank I'll give you a meaty portion. For we are "brothers in mischief", standing around like ragged bums in a long, ragged coat that goes down to our ankles like puke-caked ner'do'ells waiting around "to stick their dick in something". You can have the milk carton, I'll have Winona. Or at least give a stolen rotisserie chicken an appetizing before I fuck it, juice spurting everywhere like the warmest peace of meat I'll ever have short of breaking into a crypt and fucking somebody's grandma. And I'm such a big stud, she'd let me swipe her social security check!

Now THAT'S CLASS!

To find "The West" sputtering out in a final epileptic shudder that is dead as your master's thesis on the quintessential genius of Kurt Cobain's snot rag, idolized as a holy relic as you make yourselves sick on your own gasping expiration date in today's withering economy that is as hostile to post-Marxist "American Studies" majors as the mass MTV mind is to "logic" and "commonsense" as they rampaged in the festival fields of some sort of "Woodstock" revival like the hateful, shrieking hordes they were. When reason does not work, when morality does not apply, "but a good whiff of grapeshot" until they burn and rise no more.

What's this generation coming to?

For they are absolutely "without character", their sliver of credibility having watched old episodes of "School House Rock" and having Gary Coleman as your campy television next-door neighbor on television. So what? Does that make "you orphans of lies" any more exalted-- because you fucked yourself with cheese doodles in front of sub-literate programming as the Ayatollah frowned an ocean away like the villain in a Disney movie?

The last 15 years or more of boredom, petulance, shitiness, mean-spiritedness, and yes-- the forked tongue of cynicism and irony haven't gotten us anywhere. Generation-X has mostly settled down into something semi-stable as they got jobs and raised families, but I wouldn't call them particularly "grown up". Perhaps they are just a little bit more "stone-faced" than your average 17 year-old sniggling into his computer while stealing music, but I would them "kind of stale"-- like an existential pudding left out over night. It ain't rotten (?), just "not as fresh".

What is true now, more than ever, is the phenomenon of "the gorping mouths" when the bottom strata lives utterly without restraint as they live for blind self-seeking. That too goes for autograph hounds and tabloid photographers and the press pack yelping on the heels of a besieged politician who wants to be "left alone". When FORCE is the only thing left to save a civilization that has lived with far too much license for far too long. Leftist street agitators call for anarchy, but NO!--centrifugal force gathers around stronger individuals who maintain order "and hold the line", handing down authority to lieutenants and then to a bureaucratic class then to the bourgeois then to the working man then at the very bottom are "the slime of the streets" kicked into oblivion.

Remember, that there must always be a substratum of victimized organisms and you can not find salvation by mucking down with the lowest-- the solace in the mob, the downward drag of the crowd when they need to be lifted up by the power of "THE WILL". I'd sooner weep for slaughtered cattle, their manure reeking on the blood-stained ground as humanity's refuse and God's justly forgotten as I blow those Woodstock rioters to pieces, wading in with a club to administer "Gengis Justice". For I am a bum, and I am not stupid.

I wish to pick the pockets of the dead and grow fat off of destruction like a sorcerer splashing his hand in the dark waters of the cauldron and turning lead into gold like an alchemist, a holder of "the philosopher's stone", or at least a scrap-dealer of false dreams "as I rake it in".

And you call our current political system any better? It's the same wine, only in politically-correct, perfumed bottles of "freedom" and "liberty" as they fool one into "opting in" on their mailing lists and selling your information to "the gorping mouths" of marketers. Yes, the money "tied up" in the banking system as the masses piddle around uselessly below-- occasionally looking up and gaping as the money passes by overhead on a series of ropes. The answer is to study those ropes, know those ropes, but not to cross yourself at the sight of serpents like a Medieval peasant.

First the alley. . . . NEXT TIME THE WORLD!

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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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