August 28th, 2008


Flabby Arms & American Flags

Look, I don't give a shit about taxes or the war or the death penalty or a woman's right to choose. Fuck all that shit. Just give me a president who can string a few fucking sentences together! After eight fucking years of Georgie the Retard, I think we deserve at least THAT much!

I'm thoroughly burned out on the whole election process. It didn't really take long, in the grand scheme of things. I was pretty enrapt throughout the 2000 campaign; I even volunteered and canvassed for Kerry in 2004 on the Anybody But Bush platform; and early on in the primary season this year, you couldn't keep me away from the cable news channels. When CNN went to commercial, I'd flip over to MSNBC; if MSNBC was on break, I'd even slum it up on Fox News to get the perspective of concentrated evil. Then, something happened. Something happened, then. Yes, indeed, something then happened. Happened, something then.

It's called repetition. The act of repeating. Repeated action. It's one thing for which I won't stand. Life is too fucking short to hear the same fucking thing over and over again unless it's clever and amusing. Politics is anything but.

I can't concentrate when the media is breaking down pitiful minutiae. They harp on the stupidest things you could possibly imagine in hopes that it'll break as a nationwide phenomenon. From religion to race, experience to flip-flopping, age to flag pins, it all just makes my head hurt so.

Then, you read articles like the one a couple Rolling Stones ago where they talk about the money. Who's giving it to whom, and what it means for the winner in this election. Whoever it is, Obama or the other guy, one thing is for certain: the winner of this election will be those ponying up the most cash.

Nothing ever changes, no matter how many times they try to use the word in their campaign speeches. You know, it's REALLY easy to pander. Audiences LOVE hearing things that they love to hear. Tax breaks for me and 95% of my compatriots? Yes We Can! End the war and kill Osama Bin Laden? Fuck yeah we can! More jobs for Michigan and Indiana and Ohio and Pennsylvania? Well, I don't actually live there, but fuck it, Yes We Surely Can!

Yeah, I dunno, for some reason I don't buy it. Even if Obama DOES get elected - which I still think is a downright impossibility in the vicinity of finding out who really shot Biggie and Tupac - he'll be running for re-election in two years anway. You don't run for president to get things done, you run for president so you can run for president again! Get a few foreign trips out of it, throw some big fat milkbones to your political contributors, maximize your photo ops, and try to bury your opponent in re-election. Then, bask in that glory for a year or two, and in hopes of cementing some sort of legacy, try to get Israel and Palestine to make peace. It's pretty much been the tradition of the last two presidents, as far as I can tell. Clinton just got lucky with that whole Internet sensation making everyone millionaires. Bush got two planes into the World Trade Center and Clinton got a blowjob, them's the breaks.

All I know is, Obama sure as shit won't be banging the fatties if he gets into office. First of all, Michelle Obama is a piece of tail I'd love to get my groove on. But, not only that, I'm certain there are slutty interns who look WAY better than Lewinsky. Judging from some of those audience shots during his speech tonight, there was more than a few ladies in the place with style and grace sporting wet panties. If John Edwards can nail that broad, just imagine what Obama could wrassle to the carpet of the oval office ...
  • Current Music
    Godspeed You Black Emperor - Storm

Fiction: Staying Busy, part VII - Pills!

Kurt - having been left alone for twenty minutes so Aaron could go off alone and jerk the pent-up semen out of his system - was found face-down on the ground. Of course, this was nothing new. The bottle of Jack stood half-empty; again, nothing new. And a bottle of pills - or, what had once included pills - was tipped over on its side with the cap carefully screwed back on. Still, nothing new. This, after a relatively event-free four days at the Fortress of Magnitude.

Aaron dragged Kurt along the floor by his armpits, ushering his unconscious cadaver head-first toward the toilet. Kurt probably wasn't dead, but his breathing slowed to a crawl, and Aaron couldn't be sure, but he figured that heartbeat wasn't far ahead. Aaron wrapped his left arm around Kurt's chest, holding him over the bowl; he jammed his right hand into Kurt's mouth, eventually inducing vomit to pour out like a faucet on high. Remains of the bottle of sleeping pills he'd taken floated atop the dark-yellow mucus water. Aaron slapped Kurt in the face lightly a few times as he dropped him to the bathroom tiles, then he staggered over to the sink to wash the puke from his arms and the sweat from his face.

Much had Aaron invested in the preservation of Kurt's well-being. Sure, it started in grade school and continued on in their adult relationship, from passing marks to living a job-free existence high on the hog, Kurt's presence had been nothing but a positive in Aaron's life. It would become further cemented after Kurt's upcoming 50th birthday, when the clause in his will kicked in saying that Aaron would become the sole recipient of his entire estate. All he had to do was keep Kurt alive a few more months; then he could be as self-destructive as he wished.

That didn't necessarily mean he wished Kurt any ill-will. After all, he already enjoyed all the luxuries that money would provide. It still didn't diminish the fact that they were indeed the best of friends. Growing up, having each other's back as the phrase is turned, they'd developed a bond unwavering.

Kurt would continue to try and kill himself. Aaron would continue to bring him back from the dead.

After a few hours, Kurt emerged from the bathroom, shaking awake his sleeping right arm. "We better get you home," Aaron said. "Get you around some people again. Get you into some pussy."

Kurt coughed, tried to speak, but he sounded like he'd smoked 100 cigarettes in a row. He croaked something that Aaron didn't quite catch; "What?"

"E ... and ... U ... Party."

"I like the way you think," Aaron said with a smile. "I like the way you think."