The touch screen freaks are taking it to the streets, a babbling crew of text-savvy nimcompoops. The worlds’ awash with modern women who coo at the E! talk news (news they say, I swear to you they say this). Texting, twittering, tablets, and tabloids have spoiled the tea, and I don’t care to drink it, not one bit, not without something heavy and burning to soothe my frayed and frantic nerves. Perhaps I am to be discarded by the fresh faced fan-clubs, death by inglorious funeral pyre (if the can ever ignite the fire). It’s the goddamn proles, the basement mould, the pampered fold. Enlightenment means nothing if all we do is stuff our needy faces’ with entertaining fuck puppets to jerk and dangle, crash and burn, , marry and divorce, whatever.
I would trade them all for a bucket of ice and a hairdryer, I swear I would, if only I had a glass that wasn’t dirty.
I don’t blame the painted fools, the big screen tools, the demented ghouls; why teach a man to fish if instead you can get him to sell his fish and buy your greasy gear. The greasy gear that fulfills the fear that maybe we never have enough in the eyes of our peers. We all need to look up to something, something larger and bigger and brighter than ourselves, lest we ever actually have to be O.K. with what we are. The horror, the horror.
I’m sick, sick and sorry, the sorriest son of a bitch there ever was, if there ever was. Shit.
