Month: May 2024
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8 Names On a 4 Chord Song
Four chords. A tired dog chasing its tail on a vinyl treadmill. Bureaucracy on a drum kit, eight suits in mirrored shades pounding out a dirge of control. This ain’t music, it’s a roach motel for creativity. A tired carousel circling a stagnant pond. Eight names on the marquee, a flickering neon graveyard. This ain’t music, man, it’s a control…
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Life Cannot Be Delegated
Life, baby, ain’t some goddamn timeshare you can pawn off on your accountant. It’s a blood-curdling, batshit rendezvous with the abyss, and you’re the only one strapped into the goddamn rocket. You can hire a lawyer to fight your battles, a therapist to untangle your neuroses, and a chef to nuke your microwave burritos – but that won’t buy you a single goddamn…
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UAPs Jobs Program
The spooks at Langley, adrift in a sea of conspiracies of their own making, flail about like demented cuttlefish, spewing ink – nay, official statements! – to obscure the truth they themselves birthed. A truth as slick and squirming as a fresh-peeled Scientology engram. These suits, shuffling through the halls of the Pentagon, their polyester blending with the omnipresent beige, are caught in a…
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Monday is Committing Seppuku
Monday, that starched white collar of the week, that joyless grindstone of productivity, was keeling over, not with a whimper, but with a ritualistic harakiri of epic proportions. The air, usually thick with stale coffee and regret, carried the tang of iron filings and existential dread. Was it the soul-crushing TPS reports, or the fluorescent lights humming a maddening Cold War spy tune? It was…
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From the River to the Sea
A low murmur, a tremor of unease, rippled through the labyrinthine corridors of the Ministry of Justice. A new proclamation, its ink barely dry, hung heavy in the air. The pronouncement, issued with the utmost bureaucratic gravity, declared the phrase “generic sentence” a criminal offense. Yet, a disquieting dissonance echoed within the very pronouncement itself.…
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Pusherman:
American Addiction #69 They’re all strung out, man, on the same scratchy needle. Living on red income, strung out on next week’s deposit. A paycheck, a scrap of paper chasing its own tail. These are the jittery legs of the working class, the treadmill hearts pumping rent, groceries, utilities – bills like neon signs screaming against the…
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The Savage Professors: A User’s Manual
Professors, tenured and trembling, clutched their tenure packets like rosaries. “Diversity,” “Equity,” “Inclusion” – these were the holy trinity, whispered in hushed tones during faculty meetings. But down the labyrinthine corridors of the university, a darker current ran. DEI, anti-racism – these were Molotov cocktails slung at the ivy-covered walls. The seminar room reeked of stale coffee and desperation. Tenured egos, once puffed…
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Objective, Subjective and Asubjective
We crave order, a map of the buzzing confusion we call existence. So we dream up these categories: objective, subjective, asubjective. Objective? Pure, unadulterated fact, cold and hard like a chrome thermometer. But is this “temperature” just another code word slapped on the writhing mess of the real? Sure, the reading might be objective, a…
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Against the Day
Pynchon, man, that dude throws a Molotov cocktail into the country club of proper English. Forget your Strunk & White, this ain’t your daddy’s prose. Pynchon, throws a Molotov cocktail into the cocktail party of proper English. Forget your white-glove grammar and your predictable sentence structures. This ain’t your momma’s book club. “Against the Day”…
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Freudalism and Imperial Marx
Flickering neon signs cast the cobbled streets in a strobing red. A knight in rusted armor, his visor cracked, chases a scuttling peasant through the alleyways. The peasant clutches a tattered copy of Das Kapital. This is Freudalism, baby. A tangled web of power woven from Oedipal complexes and repression. The Lord, a bloated id…