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.
Let’s say that this image represents a supernova, a monstrous cosmic event which demonstrates gravity’s unstoppable nature when a massive star runs out of fuel and collapses in on itself en route to an ultra violent explosion resulting in the birth, among other things, of the precious metal we call gold.
Currency amounts to the blood of a nation, society, civilization—that is to say (via implicit extrapolation), resources must flow and circulate in a timely manner (in order) to promote and sustain health. Analogously by extension, hoarded riches become thick clots. Clotting portends systemic failure, advertising symptoms that may include social injustice, just for one historical and current example, which can plant eager seeds of civil unrest and stoke raging fires of political division.
Welcome to 2020!
We already know where this is going, and yet we act like we don’t. In other words, we dumb.
Treating solely the symptoms that compromise the integrity of anybody, especially poorly and under predominantly ill-equipped leadership (at every level), will not cure the ailment.
This is painful{ly simple}. Simplify the problem. Know the solution.
The disease that plagues humanity is inequ(al)ity.
The virus is greed.
In other words, overall, we’re sick in the head.
We don’t have to be.
Our cure has to be wisdom, and this must be spread by enlightened people.
Currency means time.
Time.
Money.
Worth?
Existence is like a ticking time bomb. Gravity imposes the same tax on all of us. We need to share the weight of our presence across the globe lest human civilization, along with our impressively diverse, positively bursting catalog of earthly creations, ultimately crumbles in a tragic comedy of pigheaded errors atop a cacophonous concert of contagiously willful ignorance.
In other words, don’t be greedy; rather, share.
That’s how we win.
In other words, it’s the only way we avoid loss.
People, we run the same race.
Life versus death.
Our variably tilted equation won’t solve itself—we have to correct the imbalance by smartly affecting the factors, by reducing waste, by redistributing power in every sense of the word.
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.
