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sky in certain shapes while someone with a modified iPhone pretends to be Helmut fucking Newton on a roof somewhere, shooting from above in a subliminal nod to how you consider yourself looking down on the crowd because you “know it’s more dramatic.” You all dress differently and, by doing so, dress exactly the same, with your clever T-shirts of icons you have no clue about, pants that are so tight, they should technically be cutting off the blood flow to your ankles, and black horn-rimmed glasses, whether you need them or not, all tied nicely together with a seemingly inexpensive-yet-very-expensive corduroy jacket. You love fun and life and happiness and bullshit because you are all unequivocally
the
most pretentious bunch of cocksuckers I have ever seen. At least the Yuppies owned their shit. You treat everything you do as vital because if you don’t, you’d be faced with the reality that you have no fucking clue what you’re doing or what you’re supposed to do next.
    I know what you’re thinking. You’re saying to yourself, “What do you mean, ‘you people’?” To which I will retort, “What do
you
mean, ‘you people’?” I warned you before: this wasn’t going to go well for you, so suck your straws until the cup is dry and shut up. Everywhere I look there are scores of cunts just moseyingthrough their tenure with not a care in the world. Meanwhile, people are homeless. Children are dying. Animals are mistreated. Families are torn asunder. Countries collide above our heads, and our government officials can’t even stand being in the same room with each other. Yeah, these are all great reasons to muck about and suck at life. Your “can-do” attitudes only really get as far as what you
feel
like doing for
yourselves
.
    Some of you hippie types might actually be bothered to join the fight here and there where the chains show a bit of abuse, but when you do it’s always done so fucking twat-like. I saw a commercial on a relatively new network in the states where a correspondent was attending an “alternative music festival.” The shit they had at this festival was such twaddle that I couldn’t stand myself. A woman was selling poetry at a typewriter. A man was making albums at a vinyl press. An “artist” was creating “art” on an LED screen and having people stand in front of it while he took their pictures—trouble is, it was the same pair of crappy angel wings every time. But to the washed masses, this was the epicenter of art in this country. I’ve seen more thought-provoking roadkill. These same people were bragging about recycling. Yay fucking Bertha: you’re
supposed
to fucking recycle. What do you want, a cookie soaked in Nobel Prizes? Go fuck yourself, you self-important dildos. Having said that, it occurs to me that that may in fact be the only way they can experience satisfaction: by fucking themselves. So the joke’s on me.
    And I’m not fucking laughing.
    You could set your watch to how incredibly benign people and their ilk behave in this day and at their age. The problem is that I know this type of youthful renaissance fascinates the rest of my kind. My fellow water buffalo stop in their muddy tracks, taken in by the strange goings-on of this aberrant movement.At this moment in history distraction is the name of the game. Don’t pay any mind to the seriousness of our places in the world. Don’t worry whether Egypt is burning, Libya is crumbling, and South America is still anathema for anyone
not
in a drug cartel. Don’t you worry your pretty little fuck faces about a goddamn thing. Just make sure those mittens you knit for yourself match the embroidered jumper you got for Christmas. Be lucky I’m not God: I would have canceled this shit-ass experiment called Man long before Jimmy Fallon got his own talk show.
    I need to get outside my sweatbox and clear my head for a bit. So I’ll tell you a story that, though it gets heavy at the end, is about the joy of being