Rich Robber-Baron Americans Decide Planet Has Had Enough
If We Can't Own It Nobody Will
I always loved Vincent Price, particularly for a line actually spoken several times by Basil Rathbone in “Comedy of Terrors” that my mother later said was the first complete sentence I ever spoke, shortly after being pried from her proudly uneducated patriotic pussy after a difficult 15-month pregnancy.
“What place is this?” I cried. As, by the way, did a not nearly dead enough customer of my favorite Uncle Vinnie, who is not related to Aunt May.
I’m sure the first major accomplishment of most of you dumb motherfuckers was burbling: “dada,” which is one of my favorite participatory art movements, or “mama” which is what the Museum After Modern Art was affectionately known as in the final days of our suicidal #AltReich.
Here’s an #ExistentialTrickQuestion for all you floundering floral cess pits who strut and fret your hours upon the stage and then are heard no more: “Does your mother know which hand you masturbate with?”
Don’t fool yourself girl, it’s winking at you.
Yours is a tale told by American idiots, full of surround sound and furries, signifying nothing.
I’m so glad to have been born and lived and died among you.
Otherwise, I might have thought life was supposed to be a positive experience for the assholes who have to endure it, along with all this freedom, if not for you.
Here’s another #ExistentialTrickQuestion sure to give some of you more polite fuckers fits: “How bad does a planet stink with 8 billion corpses rotting on its surface?”
Next time: Bonus Points!