High Thoughts and Misdemeanors

I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy...oh, yeah, the lyrics from Queen's masterpiece, Bohemian Rhapsody. I'm listening to that right now as I wait for the 6mg of lorazepam to put the lid on some unpleasant nightmares and every so gently, and with a loving hand, put me in an unconscious place far from those who would hurt me. Or hurt me by ignoring me. Or at least deliver me into a world where I didn't put my cream cheese and asiago bagel sandwich on a newly purchased book, thus getting cream cheese on it. Such a world must exist, at least as a projection of my mind onto the a stack of corned beef from the market.

Don't you think for a second that I would defend your bourgeous values and risk spilling my revolutionary red blood. That is not an ambulance you hear, it is the dues paying comrades of the One Big Union singing The Internationale in harmony!

Arise, the damned of the earth,
Arise, prisoners of hunger,
For reason thunders in its crater,
It is the eruption of the end!
Let us make a blank slate of the past,
Army of slaves, arise, arise!
The world is changing at the base,
We who have been nothing, let's be everything!

This is the final struggle
Let us gather, and tomorrow
The Internationale
Will be mankind!

"Intellectuals don't harmonize well," the old opera singer from Cuba reminded me, "and their passion is sapped by psychosomatic illnesses ranging from alcoholism to game legs to asthma...a pathetic lot." With that, she stabbed out her cigar and rose. One of her attendants moved to aid her, but she slapped him away. We were standing together. I half-turned to look at her, and saw that she was staring at me. "Let's get a drink, young man, while this lot sings poorly I'll allow you to entertain me in the hotel bar."

Then I felt myself being ripped open, and I looked down to gauge the damage. I sought solitude so I could measure the pain. The smell of shit was in the air, and I then realized that I had an accident, in euphamistic terms. Blood was everywhere, and my long fingers flitted over the buttons on my shirt. But soon my shirt was off, and I realized that my intestines were spilling onto the table and one particularly frenetic artery was sending blood across a painting of Tip O'Neil in the lobby. The removal of my pants proved ever more disasterous. My erect cock was a fountain of semen, and shit flowed from my anus. I tried to speak, to beg forgiveness for embarrassing my comrades for being so bourgeouis, but nothing but grunts and squeaks came out. I noticed, too, that I was lactating, and blood was starting to pour from my mouth.

Things were starting to get embarrassing. All the pills I've taken over the last 6 years started spewing out of every orifice. Harold Lagothip proposed that I call it an evening, although the opera singer didn't understand the fuss. I put my overcoast on, and it acted to redirect the vomitus onto the floor. Meanwhile, blood, urine and feces still flowed without end. Lady Joratio T. Alastus offered a kerchief, but it wasn't enough.

The revolutonary could see me for what I was, and I left the hotel by bending back my fingers and cracking them all the while saying, "Toot toot arosu isduf." With That, I awoke on the corner of 5th and Main St. There was an exciting sale on MP3 players at a nearby Best Buy.

Some stupid cunt got into trouble with Donald Trump, Miss USA. Who cares. Once you realize that you're truly alone, you have nothing else to worry about, no hell could possibly top that. Twas a brillig and a slithy po and a gire and a gimble in the wabe. Death death death death deaht death death death death...that's what the powers that be want. I wish Bush would find a little death, and his whole cabinet. I'd like to blow them up, if I weren't a pacifist. Compassion. Why is empathy and compassion so fucking hard to relate to the next generation. Why does compassion exist in opposition to the interests of those in power. It's insane. Makes me want to overdose and put an end to the madness. But I won't. I despise my political enemies too much to kill myself. I look forward to the day that I learn of Bush's death, from whatever cause. I'll dance a jig...a merry jig, even.

Nobody noticed when my hero, Frank P. Zeidler died. He was 1,000,000 times the man Bush ever thought of being. They don't honor my heroes, and I mock their heroes. Why is compassion so hard to embrace. Just embrace compassion. A little love and understanding for your fellow brothers and sisters.

Compassion.

Compassion.

Tell me not in mournful numbers life is but an empty dream, for the soul is dead that slumbers and things are not what they seem. Life is strong and life is earnest and the grave is not it's goal. Dust thou art to dust returnest was NOT spoken for the soul.

I'm going to curl up in the closet and weep for the dead and wonder why there is no class consciousness.