Wednesday, August 28, 2013

How I learned to stop worrying and love the twerk...

In the beginning there was fish pussy and fish dick and they fucked and fucked and eventually decided that being wet was totally uncool and one of the hipster fish decided to investigate the shoreline and over a millennia grew some gimp legs and walked out onto the volcanic ash beach and had a fucking margarita and went back into the water and said fuck y'all I'm moving into a fucking treehouse and brought the sexiest ass bitch fish with him and had a mega-teen party with crack and meth and invented fish porn and fish jazz and Gawd said "it is good"....

We seem to forget that every subsequent generation feels that its successors are filthy, immoral heathens  on the doorstep of hell, whacking off on the Devil's chin; the transitory state of grace that emulates entropy is simply the latest iteration of resisting history. I will not sit here with my first world problems and complain about the VMA awards and the corporate whores that pimp* their artists for all to see -and hopefully buy- but I will not under any circumstance be silent on the inherent hypocrisy that infects this nation and its whiny, blatantly un-ironic citizenry. We, a country based upon religious freedom - freedom to practice and invent inane and hyperbolic idiocies - are still caught in the grasp of guilt: sex and its many antecedents are at the core a crime of public shame and private abuse; a counter-intuitive false balance of a shade of grey that is doublespeak at best and unimaginable apocryphal pretense at worst. 

(*yes I reversed those roles intentionally for comic effect, or lack thereof...)

The double, triple and quadruple standards that infest this issue and poison the root of sanity to the core are myriad and disgusting; a veritable plethora of insensate irrelevance that makes us all complicit in our own obvious degradation as biological beings, forgetting that we are driven by desire and that free will is but an illusion of evolution: determinism is the true killer of mysticism. 

And lastly, though I make the false claim that this is a blog about cycling, it is not without an obvious self-sense of cognitive incongruity that I step off the high-dive into the cesspool of inanity, making what is surely a vain attempt to not preach to the choir, but instead give a dope-slap to the massively myopic masses who, with no help from our media and 'elected' officials, are rotting away in a self-induced oblivion.  

Boner Ghost buys a gun....right KC?

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