You are living proof that Christ's death was in vain. You embody all of the worst aspects of our gluttonous and proudly ignorant culture. People like you are the reason why democracy fails, and you don't even care. As long as you can keep shoveling more processed, high fructose garbage into your septic maw, you will gladly continue to take more and more while the world rots around you. You are a fucking pig, consuming and polluting while producing nothing but shit, and you still have the fucking gall to talk like you think you have something to say that's worth listening to?
Your every affectation is cringeworthy. Your "intellectual" musings are a lamentable pretense which fool nobody but yourself. Your dime store philosophy is merely the paraphrased and regurgitated quotes of so-called thinkers who's apparent eloquence you wish would rub off onto you. Just stop trying to sound smart, because you're not. You are a fucking moron, and deep down, in the pit of your hollow, cavernous being, you know that to be true. So do the world and yourself a favor and glue your fucking mouth shut before you embarrass yourself any further.
The space you occupy is wasted. The greatest contribution a worthless fool like you could ever make to the human race is if you removed yourself from the gene pool. Even considering how slim the odds are that you would ever actually couple with a member of the opposite sex in a nauseating spectacle of groaning and sweaty, venous meat rubbing to produce offspring, the thought of you infecting the world with your vermin progeny is a loathsome prospect. If there were such a thing as a just God, he wouldn't even allow you to have children. He would scrub you from the Earth's surface like the Cheeto grease from your fingers before you even got the chance. That's all you deserve, you bloated, sweaty blob of cellulite and body hair. You two-legged sow.
You make me sick. If I could, I wouldn't even acknowledge your existence, but everything about you, from your stench and ghastly visage, to your contemptible mockery of a sense of morality, offends me to the very core of my being. I hate every aspect of your person. The mere knowledge that you exist makes my life tangibly worse, and I wish I could purge that knowledge from my mind. You are the worst thing to ever come seeping from that putrid gash between your mother's hocks. I hope your entire fucking family drowns, and your pets too. Fuck you.
Downstairs, Meatball Mulligan’s lease-breaking party was moving into its 40th hour. On the kitchen floor, amid a litter of empty champagne fifths, were Sandor Rojas and three friends, playing spit in the ocean and staying awake on Heidseck and benzedrine pills. In the living room Duke, Vincent, Krinkles and Paco sat crouched over a 15-inch speaker which had been bolted into the top of a wastepaper basket, listening to 27 watts’ worth of The Heroes’ Gate at Kiev. They all wore hornrimmed sunglasses and rapt expressions, and smoked funny-looking cigarettes which contained not, as you might expect, tobacco, but an adulterated form of cannabis sativa. This group was the Duke di Angelis quartet. They recorded for a local label called Tambú and had to their credit one 10″ LP entitled Songs of Outer Space. From time to time one of them would flick the ashes from his cigarette into the speaker cone to watch them dance around. Meatball himself was sleeping over by the window, holding an empty magnum to his chest as if it were a teddy bear. Several government girls, who worked for people like the State Department and NSA, had passed out on couches, chairs and in one case the bathroom sink.
This was in early February of’57 and back then there were a lot of American expatriates around Washington, D.C., who would talk, every time they met you, about how someday they were going to go over to Europe for real but right now it seemed they were working for the government. Everyone saw a fine irony in this. They would stage, for instance, polyglot parties where the newcomer was sort of ignored if he couldn’t carry on simultaneous conversations in three or four languages. They would haunt Armenian delicatessens for weeks at a stretch and invite you over for bulghour and lamb in tiny kitchens whose walls were covered with bullfight posters. They would have affairs with sultry girls from Andalucía or the Midi who studied economics at Georgetown. Their Dôme was a collegiate Rathskeller out Wisconsin Avenue called the Old Heidelberg and they had to settle for cherry blossoms instead of lime trees when spring came, but in its lethargic way their life provided, as they said, kicks.
At the moment, Meatball’s party seemed to be gathering its second wind. Outside there was rain. Rain splatted against the tar paper on the roof and was fractured into a fine spray off the noses, eyebrows and lips of wooden gargoyles under the eaves, and ran like drool down the windowpanes. The day before, it had snowed and the day before that there had been winds of gale force and before that the sun had made the city glitter bright as April, though the calendar read early February. It is a curious season in Washington, this false spring. Somewhere in it are Lincoln’s Birthday and the Chinese New Year, and a forlornness in the streets because cherry blossoms are weeks away still and, as Sarah Vaughan has put it, spring will be a little late this year. Generally crowds like the one which would gather in the Old Heidelberg on weekday afternoons to drink Würtzburger and to sing Lili Marlene (not to mention The Sweetheart of Sigma Chi) are inevitably and incorrigibly Romantic. And as every good Romantic knows, the soul (spiritus, ruach, pneuma) is nothing, substantially, but air; it is only natural that warpings in the atmosphere should be recapitulated in those who breathe it. So that over and above the public components—holidays, tourist attractions—there are private meanderings, linked to the climate as if this spell were a stretto passage in the year’s fugue: haphazard weather, aimless loves, unpredicted commitments: months one can easily spend in fugue*, because oddly enough, later on winds, rains, passions of February and March are never remembered in that city, it is as if they had never been.
I want to go over to Canada with a machete and see how many I can kill before I go down(judging by the quality of your men, many).
The only reason I don't is because there is one fetish artist over there that appeals to my niche brand of degeneracy and I don't want her caught up in it. That's all you leafs are to me, a source of oddly specific pornography, your only worthwhile export.
You better hope she never leaves your borders, you should worship the ground she treads on, your days are numbered. The day of the rake = Soon.
5 comments
1 jorio 2018-03-22
DAE Drumpf?!?!?!
1 wokeaspie 2018-03-22
You are living proof that Christ's death was in vain. You embody all of the worst aspects of our gluttonous and proudly ignorant culture. People like you are the reason why democracy fails, and you don't even care. As long as you can keep shoveling more processed, high fructose garbage into your septic maw, you will gladly continue to take more and more while the world rots around you. You are a fucking pig, consuming and polluting while producing nothing but shit, and you still have the fucking gall to talk like you think you have something to say that's worth listening to?
Your every affectation is cringeworthy. Your "intellectual" musings are a lamentable pretense which fool nobody but yourself. Your dime store philosophy is merely the paraphrased and regurgitated quotes of so-called thinkers who's apparent eloquence you wish would rub off onto you. Just stop trying to sound smart, because you're not. You are a fucking moron, and deep down, in the pit of your hollow, cavernous being, you know that to be true. So do the world and yourself a favor and glue your fucking mouth shut before you embarrass yourself any further.
The space you occupy is wasted. The greatest contribution a worthless fool like you could ever make to the human race is if you removed yourself from the gene pool. Even considering how slim the odds are that you would ever actually couple with a member of the opposite sex in a nauseating spectacle of groaning and sweaty, venous meat rubbing to produce offspring, the thought of you infecting the world with your vermin progeny is a loathsome prospect. If there were such a thing as a just God, he wouldn't even allow you to have children. He would scrub you from the Earth's surface like the Cheeto grease from your fingers before you even got the chance. That's all you deserve, you bloated, sweaty blob of cellulite and body hair. You two-legged sow.
You make me sick. If I could, I wouldn't even acknowledge your existence, but everything about you, from your stench and ghastly visage, to your contemptible mockery of a sense of morality, offends me to the very core of my being. I hate every aspect of your person. The mere knowledge that you exist makes my life tangibly worse, and I wish I could purge that knowledge from my mind. You are the worst thing to ever come seeping from that putrid gash between your mother's hocks. I hope your entire fucking family drowns, and your pets too. Fuck you.
Now get out of my sight.
1 subliiime4668 2018-03-22
The real shitpost is always in the comments
1 YameteOniichanItai 2018-03-22
Downstairs, Meatball Mulligan’s lease-breaking party was moving into its 40th hour. On the kitchen floor, amid a litter of empty champagne fifths, were Sandor Rojas and three friends, playing spit in the ocean and staying awake on Heidseck and benzedrine pills. In the living room Duke, Vincent, Krinkles and Paco sat crouched over a 15-inch speaker which had been bolted into the top of a wastepaper basket, listening to 27 watts’ worth of The Heroes’ Gate at Kiev. They all wore hornrimmed sunglasses and rapt expressions, and smoked funny-looking cigarettes which contained not, as you might expect, tobacco, but an adulterated form of cannabis sativa. This group was the Duke di Angelis quartet. They recorded for a local label called Tambú and had to their credit one 10″ LP entitled Songs of Outer Space. From time to time one of them would flick the ashes from his cigarette into the speaker cone to watch them dance around. Meatball himself was sleeping over by the window, holding an empty magnum to his chest as if it were a teddy bear. Several government girls, who worked for people like the State Department and NSA, had passed out on couches, chairs and in one case the bathroom sink.
This was in early February of’57 and back then there were a lot of American expatriates around Washington, D.C., who would talk, every time they met you, about how someday they were going to go over to Europe for real but right now it seemed they were working for the government. Everyone saw a fine irony in this. They would stage, for instance, polyglot parties where the newcomer was sort of ignored if he couldn’t carry on simultaneous conversations in three or four languages. They would haunt Armenian delicatessens for weeks at a stretch and invite you over for bulghour and lamb in tiny kitchens whose walls were covered with bullfight posters. They would have affairs with sultry girls from Andalucía or the Midi who studied economics at Georgetown. Their Dôme was a collegiate Rathskeller out Wisconsin Avenue called the Old Heidelberg and they had to settle for cherry blossoms instead of lime trees when spring came, but in its lethargic way their life provided, as they said, kicks.
At the moment, Meatball’s party seemed to be gathering its second wind. Outside there was rain. Rain splatted against the tar paper on the roof and was fractured into a fine spray off the noses, eyebrows and lips of wooden gargoyles under the eaves, and ran like drool down the windowpanes. The day before, it had snowed and the day before that there had been winds of gale force and before that the sun had made the city glitter bright as April, though the calendar read early February. It is a curious season in Washington, this false spring. Somewhere in it are Lincoln’s Birthday and the Chinese New Year, and a forlornness in the streets because cherry blossoms are weeks away still and, as Sarah Vaughan has put it, spring will be a little late this year. Generally crowds like the one which would gather in the Old Heidelberg on weekday afternoons to drink Würtzburger and to sing Lili Marlene (not to mention The Sweetheart of Sigma Chi) are inevitably and incorrigibly Romantic. And as every good Romantic knows, the soul (spiritus, ruach, pneuma) is nothing, substantially, but air; it is only natural that warpings in the atmosphere should be recapitulated in those who breathe it. So that over and above the public components—holidays, tourist attractions—there are private meanderings, linked to the climate as if this spell were a stretto passage in the year’s fugue: haphazard weather, aimless loves, unpredicted commitments: months one can easily spend in fugue*, because oddly enough, later on winds, rains, passions of February and March are never remembered in that city, it is as if they had never been.
1 braaaph 2018-03-22
I want to go over to Canada with a machete and see how many I can kill before I go down(judging by the quality of your men, many). The only reason I don't is because there is one fetish artist over there that appeals to my niche brand of degeneracy and I don't want her caught up in it. That's all you leafs are to me, a source of oddly specific pornography, your only worthwhile export.
You better hope she never leaves your borders, you should worship the ground she treads on, your days are numbered. The day of the rake = Soon.