Death of America Part MDCLIV

Last week I made the best decision of the year: to shut off news and opinions about news. The autistic screeching from all sides was making me schizophrenic and since there’s nothing I can do about any of it anyway, I’ve lost nothing. I feel much better and it’s freed up a lot of time to ponder.

What I’m left with for entertainment is youtube videos about anything but news, which equals mindless TV; the last major newsie headline I saw was a youtube sidebar about Fuckface Comey being fired.

UPDATE:  before I could post this, I accidentally caught another newsie sidebar while looking up H. Ross Perot. 

Brad “Chelsea” Manning to Remain on Active Duty, Receive Medical Care After Prison Release

Mentally-ill traitor-to-his-country Manning went on a hunger strike to force the US govt to cut his dick off at taxpayer expense, and they folded.  So now, in addition to the government-sponsored 3rd world invasion and deliberately prolonging Middle East wars for fun and profit, we’ve fallen from executing traitors to satisfying their every whim.

The U.S. government is just another mafia, but unlike a real mafia it’s too cowardly and dumb to kill its enemies.   

We have drug addicts serving 30 years in prison but child molesters and traitors committing espionage walking free.

I gotta be more careful not to glance at those fucking sidebars.

 

 

 

Jesus Christ versus a pococurante

When I first saw him he reminded me of a failed auditioner for a boy band, mostly because of the his white t-shirt underlying a thin print-pattern shirt with open sides billowing as if underwater as he paced, seemingly lost.

When I saw him again he was loudly singing songs referencing Jesus. Those around him seemed disturbed by this, but he was in his own world. He was there because he had a problem with something, and because I was at work, it was now my problem and job to help. As I helped him he asked, “Have you been Saved?” I wasn’t looking at him when I answered, “Well, I’m working here…” Meaning “Fuck No”.

Up close, Boy Band’s face was smooth and fresh but his eyes were puffy and tired. He explained how he was now 25 and had done every drug possible and hit bottom before trying God. And lo, Jesus had Saved him!

While not technically a Christian myself, I believed that Christ Jesus had indeed helped Boy Band, along with the peer pressure of the church, but I didn’t think the experience made Boy Band any smarter or more lucid; whatever potential he had before frying his circuits with drugs would remain lost. Well shit, he was only 25. Why judge?

I was mildly insulted that a “ki-dult” (25 is the real beginning of adulthood) would preach to someone older (me) but Boy Band’s torpid joy seemed real enough, and those Saved early on have a much harder road ahead of them than those who convert later (after fucking and drugging, sins denied me due to hating people).

Being at work, I only offered grunts of acknowledgment. As a customer, Boy Band could say whatever he wanted, while I was a slave. No employee enjoys this imbalance but then, I really didn’t have anything to add to his sluggish exuberance. If I wanted to risk losing the job I would’ve told Boy Band my minority opinion, which as a fundamentalist/former-druggie-now-Saved he would’ve found unacceptable: Jesus Christ is the answer, but not the only answer, there are infinite paths to God.

Boy Band said he’d say a prayer for me that night.

That was yesterday and I feel no different. I hope the positive effects of his prayer are delayed because tonight is another lottery drawing and the pot is 37 mil.

** ** ** ** ** **

Christ alone will never do it for me. I’m personally offended that He would deign to heal broken hearts when He Himself never tasted the pain of a variety of human failures, including rejection from a woman loved.

Now older than Christ at the time of his exit, I await death with the curse of a healthy body. Suicide would just leave God with a way to change the subject for calling Him out on the many, many fucked-up and stupid ways things are run around here.

So I wait, while somewhere out there Boy Band plans to be a counselor helping drug addicts. I am confident God has a few surprises left for both of us. It’s why I own a gun.

Flowers in the Sciatic

The art of life is the art of avoiding pain. – Thomas Jefferson

Though disgusted by my recent bout with sciatica, I’ve been really enjoying these narcotic pills I have, so good they’re addictive!

Within 5 minutes of taking my (unprescribed) medicine I feel a spreading joy radiating out from my stomach, as if my muscles were made of knotted diapers soaking up an exquisite, urine-like warmth. The feeling of ax blades chipping at nerves in my legs and hip dissolve, the pain muting into a midget mime tapping in helpless silence behind his invisible wall.

If I notice any part of my body while drugged I feel only pleasure, a total absence of pain.  Compared to these painkillers marijuana’s high is too random, its euphoria waning quickly after the burning coughs.

I don’t know what I’m gonna do when the pills are all gone. 😦 Probably nothing.  The sciatica is 90% gone anyway; last week the fickle demon completely left one leg for the other, where it hasn’t been nearly as bad.

I’m embarrassed to admit I figured out the cause of this recent pain. My Rockport work shoes are over a year old and look like they’ve stepped on IEDs. They provide no cushioning, unacceptable when you’re on your feet most of the day. I tried looking for new Rocks last week, where I usually buy them every 6 months. The rude assholes no longer had them. I must find new assholes to save my feet, legs and back. Anatomy.