The Official Issuance of a Challenge That Could Be Accepted Sometime Never, Maybe
Ambiguous, thick, largely inaccessible {to the average intellect} section about me:
Should I have known that Thierry’s father not only grew up a lucky orphan in a charming haven near the Scottish border, but also that he made himself a hard-working, easily amused Englishman who lived by the seat of his pants into adulthood? Early in life, Papa D learned about the nutritional benefits specific to bivalves (namely mussels and scallops [nothing against clams {at least not fundamentally}]). To protect his anonymity, [&] henceforth, I’ll call him (some derivative of) Daniel. His childhood isn’t sad—he enjoyed good health in daily life well into his sixties. [REDACTED] Before the arbitrary legal assignment of “adulthood,” the old chap whose crooning yarn spins upon our fortunate wheel of procedurally generated time, her future father happily let himself get swept away to Ireland alongside his more experienced {and more than apt to teach} bonnie lass [4 years his senior]. Never forget that my genetic coding dictates a colorful divergence from ordinarily wild perspectivity. I can’t think like you think; therefore, I will phrase things differently (even when we’re expressing the same thought/emotion). Evidently, their “X-rated” [you know, chromosomally] sexual primes overlapped in twisting trains of magnetic heat and fruitful passion. Madeleine [TNT] was the third of their five girls. Her “Daddy” [you remember Danny Boy, don’t you?] aligned his loyalty seasonally with a new underdog every year (in the Premier League). How could I possibly know this? A ladylike house of noble manner on the street, but a starving clan of poetic freaks between the sheeted lines of inaccessible exorbitance [REDACTED] through the linen pockets of cloudlike dreams upon the timed laps of luxurious oblivion[/oblivious luxury].
ARK
🤨
Now I have a story to tell about another. It goes like this.
So. A rather simple boy—and for some reason, I‘d be skeptical of any tales suggesting that he came into the world “very quickly and very easily” [oops, is this a spoiler?]—born into a life of obscene wealth, and who grew cocky in his confidence of living consequence-free amidst a celebrated facade of savoring indignity through indignant behavior, whether by design or otherwise, has redefined the American presidency. Cool.
Oh, dang, this is real life? So cool.
Also, in case you missed a major point of underlying implication, yeah, I’m saying that he’s still a boy. Indeed, emotionally, #45 is a little. Period. Noun.
Also, in case you were wondering, yup, I would say all this to his face; the only “challenge” would be trying not to laugh (too much). I’m just kidding—I’ve learned not to suppress laughter; it’s involuntary and feels good, after all! I’m not joking. Plus I’m not that insensitive when it comes to children with special needs. I’m just/not kidding.
In fact, give me a stage with a podium and—in a debate that would haunt The Donald for the rest of his life—I’ll make allllllllll the fluids evacuate his tired, shitty body.
Wait, am I (still not) kidding?
Even when I kid, I’m serious.
“Just another day in paradox.”
Somewhere in here, a moral about quick and easy fixes beseeches our acknowledgment, but I can’t do all the work, okay? Use your own brain, dammit. Plus I feel weirdly drunk despite having not recently imbibed any yeasty byproducts. Blame the anomalous connectivity of my neural pathways if you must.
Ahem, to be crystal fucking clear, I am saying with profound certainty that yes, absolutely, 100%, I would make a better POTUS than Donald John Trump.
Then again, I’m also quite sure that so, too, would you.
And that’s the point.
A bumbling blind person stumbles and fumbles repeatedly in leading a loyal procession across an unforgiving desert—metaphorically speaking, obviously; don’t worry about it; gosh—while slinging sand across the many faces of the people who pledged to follow him over an undulating sea of endless dunes under a scorching sun?
Hard pass.
Put another way, hell naw.
And one day, he’ll know, too.
Postscript:
Yeah but for real gimme the opportunity to man an opposing podium and I’ll pummel his plump rump into an undignified, messy submission, and this is coming from the female voice of an illegal alien.
Mmhmm. Ouch.
“Come at me, bro.”
In case you were (not) wondering, no, Donald’s appearance in Wrestlemania 23 didn’t intimidate me.
Kissy face.
Addendum:
Words just come out of me, okay? Can’t help it. I thought I was about to take a breather, but while listening to the American President’s commencement address at West Point, my head got split wide open by a freshly brewed freight train of stormy brain-puke. May I never run out of steam. Here are the contents found inside only a handful of the boxcars.
• Half-serious question: has he ever a taken speech class, and if so, what grade was he given, was it above the letter G, and am I dead?
• Unbiased observation: he can no longer say “China” without inflecting underlying hostility.
• Hyperbolic take: he announced his administration’s plan to pump 2 trillion dollars into augmenting this country’s already obscenely loaded military. He even repeated the word “trillion” before blurting, “With a T.” First, what about the “r”? Second, from which magical money tree will those funds fruit? Please provide exact GPS coordinates because I might wanna punch my ticket to Mars. Because third, are we gearing up to murder the whole fucking PLANET??
• Recurring feeling: 🤢
• Conservative opinion: increasingly, and through the synergistic combination of both his limited vernacular and inflexible demeanor, he personifies, shall we say, a one-dimensional would-be tyrant. What you see? Yeah, that’s what we’re getting.
• Liberal assessment: he falls somewhere between a black-and-white caricature of himself and a little brown bag of feces that was dropped on our porch and set ablaze.
• Remotely polite, pointlessly direct address: Mr. Trump, you should immediately abandon the mindset that the pandemic is a war and by extension that the virus is our enemy. It confuses you. COVID-19 couldn’t care less how many fancy missiles you’re stockpiling, POTUS-45, because it is physically incapable of caring at all due to being a virus and thus it technically contains NOT ONE SINGLE CELL.
Omigod did y’all hear that the earth is flat?? There are YouTube videos PROVING it. OMG we’re all being duped by psychic wizards! OMFG BRB dying then vomiting before amassing an army of braindead goons to usurp all the governments.
•
Who am “I”? Who are you?
I’m a hidden character. I wield the voice that currently drives this blog. I’m a dream come true as well as your worst nightmare at the same time. I’m someone who could be anybody.
Who the hell are YOU?
•
Speaking of us, while I do not personally remember when the earth was (thought to be) flat, I do recall a time not too long ago when conspiracy theories were way less susceptible to widespread subscription and, thus, far more harmless.
Dearest internet, I hate you as much as I love you.
•
The next conspiracy theory will be extra amusing [only it won’t (because it’s not funny anymore)]. But, yeah, it’ll be about how COVID-19 was all just an elaborate, sinister plot to drown the assassination of Donald Trump in a vast sea of innocent lives.
Can’t wait!
•
When people (who have been clearly blinded) urge others to open their eyes—fuck me—I’m just not sure how to proceed.
I know: I suck.
Before birth, I was “blessed” by a “cursed” ability to see (behind the scenes).
I can smell a bad egg before cracking it.
You can’t?
Oh.
Shucks.
Sorry.
At least you don’t have to sniff a poot to know that it stinks?
Hi.
•
One meme at a time—and funny though any such example may be—you might be helping to cement a civilizational death sentence by sharing pure nonsense as if it’s factual.
Gobble, gobble, turkeys.
Not that we will anytime soon, but we all need to start operating under the assumption that if it’s a meme/image/video file, it’s not true news—in other words, it’s false.
Because no matter how dumb someone is, there are almost certainly two people even dumber, and stupid ignorance is way more contagious than COVID-19. These days, what with humans connecting at the speed of light all over the globe and all, the infection rate of misinformation is astronomical.
Let’s arrive at some important conclusions, shall we?
News shouldn’t be seen as artificial amusement.
News should be viewed as objective information.
News should NOT be considered entertainment.
Stop being a meme.
Start using your brain.
At least try.
Please?
•
Oh, well. At least you/we/I can look back (already) and see that I/we/you tried.
Are you wrong?
•
In Wuhan, China, there’s this lab, you see. Its purpose is the study of coronaviruses, just for example. To study these microorganisms, typical hosts must be collected. That means bats, for instance. To do science, data must be gathered and measured; indeed, from perhaps 800 miles away, specimens have to be acquired and preserved.
Filled in the blanks yet?
Did the virus originate in a lab, or was it brought unwittingly to a place where a virology lab has been located for several decades? Weird, right!? An institute that exists to study viruses brings in a virus, by doing the thing it’s meant to do, via a species known to harbor viruses. What are the odds??
Do you understand?
Processing Occam’s Razor is hard when your party/salary requires you to visualize only one side of a two-headed coin.
And when there are two sides to a story, there’s always a middle ground, aka the truth.
COVID-19 wasn’t manufactured in a lab, nor was its onset a purely organic occurrence. It arose naturally (and was spread) due to humanity’s artificial influence (across the globe).
Stop pointing stupidly ignorant fingers. Stop blaming a single side of one whole story. Stop taking sides; instead, straddle the uselessly destructive line being drawn in the sand.
Try to be reasonable.
Can you?
Ah.
•
Who am I??
Who the fuck are you?
Cool. Hot.
Be that person.
Hurry.
•
Too Late To Matter
Ever learned a lesson the hard way? Imagine this. Imagine that you get sick with the virus currently changing the whole world. You reckon, “Eh, I’ll be fine.” Imagine that after a week or so of manageable symptoms, you (re)determine that you will, indeed, be fine. Then imagine that you take an abrupt turn and start sliding downhill. Even then you suppose you’re gonna be okay. But imagine that you keep getting worse. You land in the hospital. The ICU. Intubated. Ventilated. Now imagine realizing. You are going. To die. Imagine drawing your last breath due to a form of life that you never saw coming. Would you then take it (more) seriously? Because by then, it will be too late to matter. Imagine that.
Evidently, being taken under the wing of HRS [humanity’s reluctant savior] makes a girl wanna sing. He doesn’t necessarily “enjoy” that label, but the dimple that never fails assures me that he does, in continually exhibited fact, like it when I mess with him. I suspect that he lets me prod because he’s drawn to my roundabout invitation to welcome a loss of control and, in a pussyfooting manner, it evokes justification for his desire {to let me have it}.
I know, right? Gettin’ personal (all of a sudden).
Grow up.
And, no, I wouldn’t say this to his face. [Hey, Atlas!] For now, we only talk about this kind of stuff when faces aren’t being faced. Shush; it’s fine.
Are you looking at this budding situation through a lens that filters objectionable subjectivity? Little ol’ me, penetrating his emotional boundaries? What a weird world ours has become! (Ha. Just wait.)
Also, this really isn’t all that comical, but we should probably seek to find the humor in it. I think that’ll increase our chances of widespread sanity-preservation once people start puncturing the next barrier in scientifically spiritual thought.
I’m gonna be famous (unless I die). That’s a fucked-up thing to know (for sure) in advance.
On top of that, there’s no funny business going on here, by the way, because currently (we recognize that) physical connection {in spite of increasingly obvious attraction} isn’t the smartest option. Sometimes people choose to ignore their magnetically dueling charges. Because reasons exist. Yeah?
Yeah.
Also we don’t know that his super-seed wouldn’t kill me {or most any other human female, for that matter} before the third trimester. In actual fact, we’re not even sure how long I’d be pregnant in this weirdly academic, hypothetical fantasy. Elvyn’s old textbook suggests a gestation period upwards of 60 weeks. It’s funny: I really do feel like I know her (very well). I hope to meet her (someday soon).
God, I can’t wait ’til all this information beats down the thick door which steely guards the realm of common knowledge before gaining access, settling in, and kicking up a bunch of dirt. There’s a lot of shit that could use a strong, stirring motion. [I’m evaporating in my own obscene brilliance.] Yeah, it’s gonna stink at first, but playing the long game is the only way we’ll get outta this mess.
Yesterday I caught a glimpse of the gear Atlas keeps mostly out of sight in our new vehicle’s variously sized storage spaces. My eyes zeroed in on a few gadgets that I was only 99.999999999999999999999999999% sure I had correctly identified in my head. So I asked. “What’re those?” He confirmed that they were, indeed, very strong restraints, usually effective against hungry, overheated belanoc [never tested on a galacian].
Is it wrong that I instantly had a naughty daydream centered around being restrained by the fancy restraints in question and then masturbated later to the juicily fruiting thought-train therefrom? Don’t answer that.
Or do. Just keep it to yourself.
Or don’t. Whichever, really.
Who cares? I’ve already said too much!
Oh, and I’ve been dancing a lot, too, lately—typically when I find myself alone for brief swaths of time. Like earlier this morning while he was out doing secret stuff you can’t know about yet. I had some “me time.” Danced around (the interior of) our current shelter in these new (green) panties that don’t quite fit.
I have experienced an odd strain against this weird feeling of late—I think it’s what folks call “happiness.”
Mind you, I’m still quite prone to chaotic bursts of tearful hyperventilation because this real-ass shit is scary as hell.
Thanks to a recent fresh perspective on old scientific equations, I can feel my innermost self untangling deep guilt from the energetic enjoyment of any good mood that shows up and graces my soulful bones. I think I’m allowed now, finally, after having shouldered the immensely personal weight of a few major missteps along my lily-padded hopscotch across our universal pond. [History Mystory Lesson: Iris barely beat out Lily for my (firstborn) child’s given name. I {might’ve} flipped the same coin three {consecutive} times.] Once I was Abby before becoming Maddy, and now I’m dynamite in the flesh. My identity has been (re)claimed. Ownership “done got” snatched from jaws that know exclusively how to defeat. Today, I wear who I am clumsily {up}on my rolled-up sleeve. Screw it—I’ve earned this. I get to be me now.
When the water looks fine and you know you’ll be caught, feel the pull, lean into the fall, spring toward action, and reap the tiered rewards of a cloudlike landing.
In a vacuum, the act of falling never stops anybody, but having fallen before sometimes inspires resistance.
Don’t resist; instead, let it slide.
What can I say? My bipolarity has flared the fuck up! Which brings us to why we’re here. See, I just can’t keep my mouth shut anymore about the childish circus cultivating collusive, counterproductive, conspiratorial division while the indomitable nature of time shoves us headlong/-first into the threatening black ice which spreads quickly across our shared horizon.
This could have been (literally) nothing if not beautifully messy.
So here’s what’s bugging me today.
I affiliate with neither political party, but I’m definitely more repulsed by one than the other. I’ll let (the rest of) you (struggle to) figure out which. This is clear to some/few.
In my view, each of the two main camps harbor, groom, enable, and fund corrupt clowns of various nose sizes, all (of which are) red and swollen swelling. But in watching the myriad stream of “representatives” from either corner plead the same case over and over, something has become clear: Democrats display more intelligence than their counterparts.
The reason I say this is because I have been listening intently to the dumb words spewing from mouthy Republican blowholes. Some of them seem to actually believe what they’re spouting—it’s very disorienting, I must confess ahead of begging for your pardon.
They keep regurgitating the same crap ad nauseam; it’s all smoke and mirrors and bells and whistles. [Guys, stop eating your own shit, would ya?] It’s a bad look, okay? And, sadly, it works on roughly half the population.
Also, I we can’t help but notice a recurring cadence in their overall speech patterns. Very preachy. Very sermon-like. That’s very purposeful, you know? Don’t worry if you’re falling for it; cheap tricks are effective!
Really I’m just sick of hearing “witch-hunt” thrown around by crotchety, stubborn old-timers. Don’t be giving witches a bad name, “gentlemen.” Not smart. Clearly these senior citizens who also double as white boys have never met an actual witchy woman.
But I do hope that one day they have the (dis)pleasure of such an encounter.
Meow.
Mathematically, there are four (polar) ways to look at this. Two ways of looking at it are better than the others {again, due to numerical certainty}. It’s especially confusing in this case—the penultimate orientation—since, all in all, coming from “The Left” must mean to be real, truthful, correct. (And time, like the wonderful shitter it is, only goes one way, right?) Yikes!
Let’s keep being real. Wanna?
No? ‘K bye.
The Dems have been chomping at the bit for a reason to impeach Trump since before day one. Get that straighter than an arrow. Of course they have. You’ve heard what happens when he attempts the art of oration, right? “Verbal vomit” feels like an overly generous description. That dummy is definitely deft at discharging diarrheal diatribes.
Undeniably, yeah, they’ve been waiting for a single reason. Just one.
Lo and behold, now they have three, but they’re only highlighting two.
POTUS handed these evidential conditions to them. The platter was not quite gold, but it was shiny nonetheless.
Lucky for The Left, (some of) the (official) reasons for impeachment are, in fact, constitutionally legitimate.
Lucky for The Right, it won’t result in his removal due to how math works and why capitalistically fueled partisanship can only fail.
Unlucky for us, our political processes are borked, and We—The People—have been split by an escalating pattern of greedy buffoonery.
“Process, spaghetti, bubbly burp, process, due. Dew? Whatever, do processes. Pronunciation. Winky face.” That’s a nice talking point you have there.
“You’re not even saying Mr. Trump committed a crime!” True.
“The President wasn’t given the opportunity to receive due process!” Still false.
“Well, the military/financial aid was ultimately awarded anyway, so…” Yep. Also that’s like saying, “We got caught trying to rob a bank, but the money is there, so we did nothing wrong.”
“The Ukrainians said that they didn’t feel pressure!!” Why are you so excited? Plus, okay, whatever you say. But so what? Where’s Tina Turner when you need her?
“Persnickety cash-cleaners and shifty bitch-biscuits, daisies and herpes, name-calling and word-saying, perfect convo, best deal ever, jobby stuffs, winny meats and Jesus’s cheeseses.” Ah.
“And the economy; it booms!” This ain’t about that. But since someone brought it up, have you properly contemplated the true cost of the “booming economy” {you may be so quick to cite but probably don’t fully understand (in terms of its shaky foundation)} on a global scale?
Isn’t it neat{o} how I can write “you” and you know when I’m {not} addressing you?
Desperately, I wish more people would understand already. ‘Cause I’m dying here.
There are four ways to look at this. Two ways of looking at it are better than the others {again, thanks to numerical certainty}. This is the way which favors rising over falling. As long as we’re headed in the right direction—that is to say, avoiding engagement in the irrational resistance of time’s flow—this is the best one. This is the way.
Suggestion: first take aim then follow it with your best shot.
Only fools resist time, and only the strong may resist gravity.
Liana Rex Knight (translated by her half-boy)
Resist gravity. Go with time. Just my two cents. But what the hell do I know? I’m merely the muse. Teehee.
Back to the subject at hand. Bipartisan politics, man. Same crap, on repeat, round the clock.
News media outlets preach solely to their obediently starving choirs.
In other words, progress has been thwarted.
This nation, once the truly United States of America, used to be a lovable role model; now it’s more like the world’s smelly armpit. Perhaps it’s time we try both deodorant and antiperspirant instead of but one or the other.
Balance must be found.
Or let’s just go ahead and make two countries (out of one) before calling it a goddamn day. Split the land diagonally like the flaky piece of burnt toast it has become.
The American divide is already unofficial. Why not remove the troublesome prefix? That’s a whole syllable we could be saving, you all.
In case it’s not clear, yes, I proudly wield the privilege of declaring, “We.” I’ve earned my right to be/live here, motherfucker. That’s what’s up.
Chains link.
Look at bipartisanship as a basic seesawing scale. The left side efforts to go right while the right side pushes back in the name of keeping policy balanced and in check. The grain must be felt in order to build strength while churning the engine of advancement. That’s the system. That’s the way progression has been paced. That’s how it used to work. The introduction of corrupt money amounts to why it works no longer. Our slate is too dirty to survive. It’s time for a clean wipe. Sorry to be the harbinger of dogshit news; meanwhile, I’m not sorry (AT ALL) to pull the wool from your skewed sightlines.
About half the population is being given both the finger and the dick (by D. Trump) as each slips beneath far too many failing grasps of any conceptual radar. Meanwhile, The Don himself is being bent over a cluttered countertop (mostly unbeknownst to him and his followers) by both Vladimir Putin and Xi Jinping. Simultaneously! [It’s a gang-bang, y’all.] Double whammies are fun, eh? Sometimes, sure. In this case, no.
Fuck no.
These conditions promote sadness, desperation, violence.
Long division, meet short span.
It’s not good. Put another way, it sucks.
We gotta do something different, or we will not be ready for the real war, the catastrophic conflict almost no one knows is coming.
It doth come; and this way, from that place, it cometh. Thump your bibles about it if you gotta.
Anyhoo, I think officially going Splitsville might at least strengthen our inevitable rallying together down the road once the true threat rises suddenly from beneath dark, dense, icy depths.
Look at us. We. Humans. Humanity. Up in arms over an unabridged, uncooperative, unadulterated village idiot who haphazardly stumbled dumb-luckily into office while the most powerful civilization in history plots our downfall {largely via forced re-insertion into the food chain} if not our outright deletion. Unkind, humankind. Get right, fools.
Priorities, people: nature sets them for us. Ya know? The equation has been solved. Strip any issue to its essence. One way will always trump the other. It’s simple fucking math.
You have no idea just how close we are to going extinct.
