Maybe if you don't like using words and letters like Plastalina, you won't understand what was just written.
I could try to tell you that I'm talking about mascots, and record producer Phil Ek, and the way urinary catheters pull your urine out of your bladder so you don't have to get out of the hospital bed and try to hobble over to the toilet to empty your pee into its bowl, and how lye is a powerful substance historically used when doing industrial bathroom cleaning.
But that would be a lie.
It would be a lie in service of a blog entry. Sort of like this:
On the bar TV above H's head a cop picked up a Ferguson protester and threw him to the ground like a wet stuffed animal, and the bar exploded in laughter, some fuck started chanting USA! USA! USA! and the rest of the bar joined in....
Some people need to make up lies like that one, so they can keep being angry at anything that doesn't mirror their own views/beliefs. They try to put the origin of their own pathetic stuck-at-age-15-with-all-the-nascent-independence-it-carries-and-certainly-the-cocksure-eternal-rectitude-of-self viewpoint somewhere outside themselves, preferably stamp it onto redneck parents or redneck christer grandparents who lived in a redneck christer dirt-eater town in redneck christer dirt-eater central/western Pee Eh, and just keep spewing hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate mixed with self-righteousness self-righteousness self-righteousness self-righteousness blended with solipsism solipsism solipsism solipsism and a smattering of perseveration perseveration perseveration perseveration.
|But I'm a writer and I like to write fiction!|
I'm sure you do. The question is, why do you suck at it -- and not just suck, but suck really badly and powerfully, like a two dollar hoooer who can pull a golf ball through a garden hose?
|I'll settle down when every man, woman and child is a progressive like me.|
Yeah. Keep telling yourself that. Everyone a pretentious, hyper-judgmental, yet ironically (and not hipster irony either!) robotic regurgitator of the Avowed and Acknowledged (through groupthink) Experts' views on what is permissible and lovable in music, books, movies and generally speaking, life.
I knew people like the Ding-Dong in HS and college. They were eager to tell me how much they knew about music, books, movies -- and they did so by repeating the viewpoints of the hipster critics of the era. Movie ABC was whatever Hipster Critic said about it. Album JKL was exactly as Hipster Critic said, and the band who made it -- DEF & the GHs -- were re-imagining music for all the most refined sets of ears. Novelist OPQ certainly was the only one worth reading, the only one who mattered.
Because Hipster Critic said so.
And Refined Proto-Hipster Peer had memorized the say-so, so it was gospel.
If you want to know why your pretense at "art" sucks donkey danglers, it's right here: you don't know how to originate, because your view is enwrapped by Parrotting Others and Emulating Experts. You know you are sub-normal in creative power, but you want terribly to produce art, and produce art that matters.
But you know you never will.
So you rage, seethe, fume at the world wherever it resembles anything unlike your imagined Valhalla.
And you passive-aggressively blame these christer-cracker-redneck-reactionaries for the unsettled nature of your ego/identity, your mental dis-ease.
I find it funny, but not because you're a gifted purveyor of satire. Oh no, it isn't that.
It's because you're not that, but you imagine you are that.
That's one ripe huckleberry, Chalupa.