“i trust god speaks through me. without that, i couldn’t do my job.”

somewhere along the way a clever soul finally noticed there is no “u” in profile and boldly placed their “i” within it. copy consists of rote ad nauseum of the relationship of the perceiver to the object, an insipid exploration of a parasitic attachment to a host. the spite of the boring and bromidic has been funneled into a career in publishing and the slow decline of traditional publications corresponds to the rise of self-absorbed hacks nakedly placing themselves within the piece. print remains dead. print is dead. and we have killed it.

“L’ego my ego”

“the screen is us and we’re t.v. “

an all too familiar tale, re-told and sold as something new and refreshing, a fresh take on a stale yarn that leaves a satisfied feeling of fellowship and opposition, an affirmation of the black and the white, and acumen in knowing how this storybook ending ends. alas, reality is not fiction and that “stinking, shitty little war we have running over there” hasn’t spun the way it was said it would. individual observation has been replaced with a virtual understanding of the world, a multimedia fashioned state of mind in which there is no experience save a fantastic digestion of the platonic form of an experience. true social networks shrink while virtual networks explode, language becomes truncated grunts of code pregnant with meaningless meaning and people around the world die as the force of force is exerted since a political solution cannot be had without a coersion…justified and accepted as moral imperative. the entire mesopotamian mess is the outcome of the lack of reality american’s on the top of the mountain to it’s foot now live in and their acquiescence to view the world not through experience but vicariously via video. what a tragedy that the world over fantasy impacts the immutable reality of the others.

“and I can do you favors
but then you’ll do whatever I like”

“look people, you heard it on the radio,
you seen it on the tv show!”

socialized dissatisfaction…as if the human condition weren’t enough, anomie must be marketed. so what’s the salve to sooth…why playing artist with oneself, naturally! as if rubbing mercury and the distilled essence of animalia weren’t enough, the forms of the divine and omnipotent chisel of creation may be profaned with a nip and a tuck, a peel and pull, a hack and a whack. bearing witness to modern media is an exercise in endurance and disgust as a parade of hatchet faced men and women march their failed artistry on their faces. all at once we are unique and part of the group so there is no shock in that some creative impulse bubbles up within all in some form or another, and yet the deficiencies of thinking one self capable of artistry are painfully obvious immediately through any visual mass medium…the sum of elective reconstruction expenditure’s parts are greater than the total carved countenance.

“well we’re big rock singers
we got golden fingers
and we’re loved everywhere we go
we sing about beauty and we sing about truth
at ten thousand dollars a show…”

as the apotheosis of talentless hackery, the political pundit cum movie star is a beacon of fatuous demagoguery that the world’s citizenry are beholden to so as to ease the burden of self emanating opinions and the crushing weight of thought. nowhere on earth has the fusion of dasein and nothingness been seamlessly fused than in the good ol’ u.s of a. …and how could it not be? entertainment capital of the world and cultural exporter of vacuous trash, where else but there could bonzo’s paternal influence, cher’s lesser half, a genocidal cyborg and captain stubing’s cabin boy be elected to political office?

facticity established without a doubt and transcendence asserted, it comes as no surprise the critic has climbed onto the stage to share the limelight of the glad-handing entertainer. no longer content to critique, the fray has been joined and many dollar is to be made by the politik of shock and the assertion that i and me now speak for we so that you know who is us and what is them. that money and time has been well-spent engaging the thought of “cash in” should be expected, but its elevation to culturally relevant discord seems to suggest that the punch and judy show has been somehow overlooked for centuries as the proper stage of political debate.

alas, it is now necessary to gambol in the manner of viswanathan cum coulter and assert that we all don’t want to abolish pundits. we simply want them to reduce our minds to the size where we don’t need to drag heads into the bathroom and drown ourselves in the bathtub.

“and did we tell you the name of the game, boy?”

“if jesus were alive today, he’d never stop throwing up.”
“hypocrite reader — my likeness — my brother!”