Easter Bunny, Jesus Jerky on a Gone Dead American Train.

[caption id="attachment_17331" align="alignleft" width="200" caption="Mr. Blankfiend"][/caption]

[caption id="attachment_17332" align="alignright" width="206" caption="Fiend 2 Big 2 Fail..."][/caption]

{When a Hot Writer's "Rant" Strikes -- It's Best to Let the Fire Burn Down the Place, and expose the Skeletons!} Such is the case with this inspired and insightfully Spot-On Rant by Les Visible, the Dog Poet.

Mirrored from: http://smokingmirrors.blogspot.com/2012/02/easter-bunny-jesus-jerky-on-gone-dead.html

Thursday, February 16, 2012
Easter Bunny, Jesus Jerky on a Gone Dead American Train.

Dog Poet Transmitting.......

May your noses always be cold and wet.

Few things sum up American culture and the decline of the west as well as something like this. America isn't really a country. Most people aren't aware of that. It's a time sensitive experiment, having a material experience. There is no real tradition. Everybody came from everywhere else and brought their traditions with them. Of course, there was a tradition already in place, which needed to be destroyed, so that something crass, creepy and crepuscular, could eventually morph into the Twilight series of sexy, sanitized vampires, with a really high fuckability index, in a public humping offer on Dow Jones. Of course, they're not the vampires that sucked the life, love and liberty out of this failed experiment, they only play them on TV. The real vampires slink through the marketplace, with their bendable flavor straws in hand, looking for the necks of opportunity, in a no neck paradise of stunted proles and Easter Bunny, Jesus Jerky for communion wafers.

We're here in the land of the free, on bended knee, in the First Church of the Dual Nationals, where routine mass murder is 100% kosher. Well tan my noahide, pilgrim. It looks like you are the Thanksgiving turkey.

I can feel the bottled outrage over my telepathic landlines, picking my way through the politically correct landmines, in search of one temporary piece of sane and sober Earth to stand on. Tiny nano-tech gerbils are having a rave in my colon, which leads to that uneasy, wish to be pleasing feeling that Richard Gere probably gets when he's standing in front of the Daily Lama and trying to figure out the punch line to one hand clapping. Yes, I can feel the outrage of all the patriotic, Tweedle Dees and Tweedle Dums, sucking on their thumbs and spanking their monkeys to a red, white and blue, nightmare vagina, violated by mutants with farm implements, that makes Last Exit to Brooklyn read like a child’s bedtime story by comparison. What right do I have to trash this great nation under Zog? Well, I have no right. Actually, lets say I have no rights, left. Bush and Obama have taken care of that; political Siamese twins in a hot oil, mud wrestling match; I can't believe it's not mud! They're wrestling in the flatulent winds of their diseased imaginations. They have no shame and they have no sorrow and karmically speaking they have no tomorrow. They are the conductor and engineer on a gone dead train and Hell follows after. The definition of stupid is anyone who still thinks Obama has anything in common with anything he said, during his hope and change redundancy moments, prior to all the new wars and relentless economic violence he's unleashed on the public at the behest of his Wall Street masters.

Lloyd Blankfein is now the “national corporate spokesman for same-sex marriage”. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then his face is a looping stream of endless invective; a phrenological masterpiece of ad hominem, directed at everyone and everything. He's been granted complete latitude. Actually, the literal definition of Blankfein's idea of gay marriage is, “Go fuck yourself” and I think you're supposed to do it in front of a mirror if you are so inclined and I believe I can confidently declare that an unfortunate number of you are ready, willing and able, I'm going to suggest you blow up that photo of Blankswine, as a romantic enhancement for your private interludes. Think of it as a kind of creative visualization of a literal truth because Blankswine is already doing it to you. According to some forms of math, one might compute that you've got at least a threesome going on already.

There is no country called America, or the United States. There is no such place. There are no laws. There is no constitution and no bill of rights. There is only prostitution and a bill of goods. The organ harvesters own the asylum and the next stage is where you begin to eat each other for the amusement of the ones who led you to this Meek's Cutoff; this Donner's Pass. You followed the loss leader and now you've got bar codes on your ass. You're surrounded by scanners and scumbags. Welcome to your dumpster diving future. Welcome to the time of the tattooed gangs, with chapters in every city. They're just waiting for their moment to storm the gated communities and bazooka the banks. ♫Send in the tanks, don't bother, they're here♫

Oh, am I being negative? Have I missed the whole point of this sea to shining senility diorama? Surely I am a heretic and damned for all time, singing like a canary in a goldmine. I should get a job, probably a hand job would do. Why don't I take a pass and just buy one for you? It's a handjob, blowjob, snowjob world. No job too big or too small and despite the fact that Blankswine has to hire a circus midget or a nine year old boy from Isfahan to do the honors, I'm not going to say that size matters when you're looking for motive to become what he is. Let's just say there's a connection.

You could, I suppose, put the entire country in an orgone box built by Geppetto, cause someone has to sit on Pinocchio's nose and all we need is a little help from Escher and the whole country could groove at the same time. There are all kinds of ways and means, that even now, could turn this figment of a bankrupt imagination, into the country it never was. Were the dead and disorderly to suddenly rise in spirit from their graves and inhabit all of the empty minds, presently wandering like Thorazine queens up and down the corridors of the world's biggest open air mental institution; when they're not just standing around like foreclosed and abandoned houses, then maybe, just maybe, a humming, insect resonance of serendipitous awareness might fortuitously sweep through the collective consciousness and all over the world, these temporary zombies could march on the Central Banks and deliver some what for, right now. I'm dreaming, I know but... ah, a conflagration devoutly to be wished.

Or... suddenly it might occur to enough of 'them' to just step away from the consumer machines and whatever desks and workbenches they're stationed at and just wait, just wait until the whole nasty apparatus comes to a silent halt. Or then again, possibly, all those deluded soldiers, tumescent with guns, could just lay down those guns and walk away and wait. The entire nation needs to turn into a flash mob but that's as likely as people ceasing to eat at The Heart Attack Grill, just cause someone got a little gas. That's all it was, there in the most foreclosed and empty abandoned lot in the entire country and deservedly so. Or, you could just shit in one hand and wish in the other. Or, magically, some electro-magnetic wave of awakening could sweep across the land, leaving no mind unchanged and the people could gather at their polling places and shout out their votes on the way into the booth and shout out their votes, after leaving the booth and wait around, with everyone waiting around, until the voter fraud army has to hightail it into the high, wide and lonesome, where the rattlesnake politicians and Gila Monster bankers would then be having their potluck, rubber chicken dinners for the foreseeable future.

Yeah, there could be all kinds of 'or's, if not for the 'ifs', 'ands' and 'buts'. Coulda, woulda and shoulda also play their parts in this horrific and depraved circle jerk. In a sane and reasonable world, the Blankswines of this world would no longer be in this world, 'or' marooned on a nuclear atoll somewhere that nobody goes. In a sane and reasonable world, none of the things that are happening would be happening and America might even be a country there, instead of a failed laboratory experiment, sitting in the back of Jeffrey Dalmer's icebox in a covered dish, waiting for Dalmer to get the late night munchies after smoking a PCP laden joint made out of lint and human hair. America is a serial killer's wet dream. It's a star spangled torture chamber, where the sane and sensible are hunted for sport.

It's been my pleasure to ring your bell, run off down the sidewalk and leave you with this flaming paper bag, outside your doorstep this afternoon. It is my fond hope that you will stomp on it to put it out and then enjoy the fruits of your efforts at your leisure. I didn't need to write this. I could have just gone down to the Heart Attack Grill and hooked into the pacemaker wireless, for some internet surfing, while I waited for my order to arrive but Las Vegas is a long way from here; though not far enough to suit me.

As the sun sinks into the Fukushima charged waters of the once blue Pacific, we bid you adieu from those lands that sent the first hungry conquistadors and sexually iced up religious nuts to populate the formerly beautiful with the presently ugly. As the ship of state also sinks and the passengers drown in their gins and tonics, let us offer a closing prayer that nothing like this ever happens again but... that would be wishful thinking, wouldn't it?

End Transmission.......

Beamed from the Saucer Pod By Visible on Thursday, February 16, 2012