I’m not that guy. It’s possible, but I don’t feel like that guy. Whoever the hell he thinks I am. That would be me. You know the type. A hothead with a buffalo chip on their shoulder and a rusty axe to grind. I dabble in the arts. Politics and religion belong together in the garbage bin of history. I speak especially to those who have lived a few lifetimes in their past and still have a few more to go. There’s no good reason for partisan discourse. You might know someone like that. They argue with everyone about everything. But I don’t think that way. I’m not a typical American white guy. I reject the notion of religion in my politics.
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of those who lived through too many trials and tribulations in their strange days? Making it real for the rest of those sorry slobs who make fun of poor souls, barely scraping by. Holding their own steam, navigating through the muck of today’s ancient modern world. Their arrogance precedes them, while their ignorance trumps any chance of tomorrow’s common sense.
Humans aren’t durable creatures. They can’t sustain themselves without the help of other humans. We need each other’s approval, support, and undivided attention to survive the pop-up storms and other disasters. The unknown pitfalls of a questionable tomorrow. You know what side their toast is buttered on, one leg at a time, with no damn pants to encumber a breezy laid-back freewheeling lifestyle.
If you know what I mean, then you should read between the lines and figure out how it works for the best. Along with everyone else’s problems when the other shoe drops. We never have solid footing, obfuscating on thin ice. Peering into a cracked crystal ball of some future stranger's fortunes while ignoring your own current poor reality. It’s a weird situation when one hand washes the other as you scratch my back, and I ignore yours. I’ll get around to it eventually. You will get over it, eventually. The greedy outnumber the selfish.
The dark carnival’s in town, again. It could get ugly fast; you wouldn’t see it coming. There are no safeguards to stop them from the relentless slaughter of John and Joan Q. Public. It’s a slow burn that creeps up, taking you by surprise. Too late for apologies. That’s how life under the Big Top can get to you. Like a parasite living inside of you. Unnoticed at first, but then imperceptibly, you become indoctrinated into the criminal minds of a world of miscreants and misfits. Cretins, freaks, and pencil-neck geeks. Sorry, fella, you lose. Wanna try again? Come on, give it another shot! Nope, you only get one chance in the sordid game of unlucky chance.
Every sheep in the audience gets duped, fleeced, and bruised. Carved up like a holiday ham, trimming the fat off the back of poor souls who don’t know what about whom, the know-nothing peeps. It’s the bait-and-switch quick punch upside the proud red, white, and blue bruised heads. With the fancy footwork and a big game plan. A winning strategy in combination with the billionaire boys club of bromance and the P Diddy all-star distraction from the three-card Monte, find the walnut under cups mixed up.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Ronnie and Mommy haunt the hallways, making spooky ghost sounds. The South African diamond heir is no genius. He plays with rockets and robotic self-driving, self-absorbed doodads. He suffers from toy syndrome and tip-of-the-tongue affectations. He’s not as smart as the fearless leader, king of the double swindle. His ever-changing combover and 20-foot-long red necktie dragging behind him, a slow slouch knuckle-dragging, obese lump of lard, waddling toward the tarpit of his undoing.
There’s the sniveling ass-kisser, who feigns ignorance towards all social media platforms even though he was the originator of this lonely endeavor. He claims to know nothing about the machinations of social propaganda. A sucker for a greasy burger. Our next freak is the alpha male radio host, a failed comedian who licks the crap off the boots of infamous edgy celebrity types. A bargain-basement Alex Jones on steroids. His soapbox is a slippery snake eating its tail. Over here we have a rare specimen in a vintage blue ball jar, once America's favorite mayor and one-time legal counsel to El Dookie, the chosen one who threw him under the bus. His black hair dye running down his forehead, mixing with salty crocodile tears and ill-fitting dentures. A bankrupt, babbling ambulance chaser. Let us forget the truth; come in, under the tent, and see a corrupt hillbilly dying on the vine without an elegy.
Up next in the line-up of suspects is a man who’s not a doctor but plays one on his TV show, donning Dorothy’s ruby red heels. Last, a little homophobe kid who can’t rock without his Bud Light. Spouting dumb platitudes about his own hatred, revealing a big baby in a t-shirt donning a pimp hat that screams, I AM A PROUD RACIST! It’s a bunch of idiots who don’t think they stink. Hiding behind a whitewashed picket fence. Standing in front of a White House for a snowy White Christmas.