Monday, October 5, 2009

Elmer Fudd With His Foot On Your Neck

A Ghetto’s not a ghetto until it’s a state of mind.

They’ve ghettofied music. When’s the last time you heard something that stirred your soul?

They’ve ghettofied books. When’s the last time you read something that proved the world was alive?

The’ve ghettofied parenting, so much so that it’s trendy for marginally amusing white comediennes to do a movie called Baby Mama.

They’ve made children obsolete. When’s the last time a kid smiled at you unfettered by technology, just because life was cool?

They’ve made thinking evil. How did intelligence become the realm of the elite?

They’ve made sex inescapably stupid. What it was: “I want you, but I want you to want me too.” What it is: “I wanna make love in this club, love in this club.”

Instead of infected blankets to Native Americans they give technological baubles to the masses, killing brain cells by the billions.

They kill the imagination by mining every last hero from our dreams.

Strawberry fields forever.

They tell us a savior is coming but the truth is the devil retired a long time ago.

The like the word “classic” and make sure to use it 12 times a day.

Nothing is real.

There’s nothing to get hung about.

They inject us with poison then tell us we need to live healthier lives.

They are right bastards and proud of it.

Hunt them with me. Let me take you down,

Where there are plenty of rabbits...
The future is a talk show and we are the buffoons at play. Every U.S. citizen will have to be DNA-verified by Surgeon General Maury Povich. Affairs with your best friend's man/woman/wife/husband will be mandatory. Classes in how to flail your fists wildly will start at fourth grade. Anyone not able to shout convincingly will be kicked off debate teams.

I've seen the future and it will be.

Constitution will be amended; you can't say anything is stupid anymore. Finally a wide-open society, where the braincell-impaired no longer have to feel put upon and mouth breathing is accepted just the same as flip-flops at work.

Y'know, Orwell didn't intend 1984 to be an instruction manual.

We've seen the future. And it's seen us.

Hasta la vista, baby.

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