Thanksgiving
Fold your hands in mine America, let’s say grace. We have so much to give thanks for. Glory be unto the rape of our red-skinned friends - and jesus screeched let there be America. And IT WAS GOOD. No, no, I take it all back - I needn’t puncture your bloodied eardrum with that PC BS. A whole generation’s been there, fucked that. That condom’s burst, your unaborted bastard sons are on the rampage. Liberalism’s tired and through, I’m not about to defend it OR my sexual imagery. Fuck grace, fuck thanks America - let’s just get HIGH. It makes the meal taste so much better anyway. Pass the bowl and the cranberry sauce to your right. I can really taste the stuffing now. America, do you see what I see? That man’s got a ventriloquist on his lap and he’s shouting who’s the dummy NOW? Bob Dylan would be fucking proud. But I can’t help it America, I feel it all over again, my middle finger’s spasming. It runs in my blood, it mingles with this goddamn THC. But I just want to be your friend, I’m worn out, I want to stop, that’s what - four times tonight? I’m pushing my plate back. I’m full now and this shit doesn’t work like it used to, I can still feel your claw marks on my back. I’m going to cross the threshold to the harder stuff. Is St. Peter running reception at that golden gateway too? I fucking hope not, I don’t want to scream bloody HALLELUJAH all day - I just want to watch the wall breathe and then masturbate with my own goddamn red right hand. I’m sorry, that was graphic and blasphemic, I can tell I’ve offended you. Let’s start again. Hello America, my name is righteous indignation and I have no purpose in life.