My mother was a controlling, abusively judgmental, violently oppressive, self-righteous giver of life.  I had an accurate psychological profile of her mental and emotional stability at the first crack of my pubescent voice.  My mother was an ignorant, big mouthed, fat-titted “nurturing” whore, who lacked discretion as she mismanaged decency.  Propriety and patience was thrown overboard in the crossing of the great Atlantic, never to reach these shores.  She immediately took up the art of scavenging, and she would beat a beautiful, well-behaved, native child, simply because she had it in her to beat a child.

Providing pathological excuses for people’s misbehavings is Positivism’s and Psychoanalysis’ grandchild.  And the Religious Right is against abortion, extolling life so that all might have an empirical chance to find their pathological excuse for their misbehavings.

 My mother continues to this day to tell me that she should have aborted me and all I can honestly say to her is, “You’re right.”  Because any government that had a sense of the love of God would know that a cheap, no good, gutless, directionally challenged, maniacal maniac like you has no business pushing life out from between her legs.  I don’t care how much the profligate cunt parades up and down the Boulevard screaming about how much she wants to colonize.

As for dad…well he was in the picture for a short time and rescued me from momma in my late childhood, attempting to point me in the direction of liberty.  But when ma got to struttin’ her slattern fat ass up and down Madison Ave. papa couldn’t handle her, so he went and abused some black bitches in Algeria.  He took to ma when she still had a densely firm ass even though she plapulated her low slung meat-curtains and knocked her knees around the ears of any two-bit Wall Street bum.  But daddy’s name was Francis and I suppose one can’t expect much from a guy with a name like that, except maybe the obvious.

The Magna Carta was abrogated by the French for the sake and benefit of the New World.  And since the French owed less they gave less.

As my mother and father’s heir I laid myself to waste and all those that inhabited me benefited little, and since Charter Four of the Magna Carta was rendered obsolete I maintained my right to decimate.  I found a pathology that excused myself from all responsibility.

In between the potato salad and the Spicy Fritoes,

That burns my pucker string on the way out,
I may toss Black Cat Lady Fingers an M-80’s

At the feet of unsuspecting passerby’s.

 And it’s acceptable.  However, on any other day, except Americanization Day or Independence Day as most of us know it as, one may be sent to Guantánamo Bay and held in concentration fashion as a guest of the my War on Terror.

 How long will the tour scud

Through the garden of fever-brains

Morphed on cellulose stems

Rooted in syphilitic soil?

 I ask in one of my dreams.  But I don’t really care for an answer.

The water is washing out the wet from between my daughter’s legs and the blood is bleeding out the flow that hangs between my son’s legs.  My daughter’s ovaries are dehydrated and my son’s testicles cannot support themselves.  But we can stand together at the park and watch the sulfuric spectacle, which gives me the feeling of power and accomplishment.

I’m pissed off.  “I’m” the U.S.-of-A. and I’m one aggravated, mean spirited, visionary bastard.  And my mother Brittany and father Frances were a couple of wretched parents.

I have grown into a Johnny Ringo epitaph inscribed by Doc Holiday, “Here lies a poor soul that was just too high strung.”  

We can’t have incompetent skip loaders operating cranes.  Who wants to land a load of steel beams that is slung loose instead of tied and cinched properly?  They’ll fly all right.  The whole load will fly apart, and will flutter down like a rack of four thousand pound knives from the sky and grind the lander permanently into the architectural structure.  A twenty-three-year-old Pile Driver tried to warn a veteran skip loader but was dismissed as a kid playing a game of ball-breaking.  Before OSHA there were all kinds of maimings and deaths on high rise construction sites.  Maybe someone at OSHA can explain to the chronic T.V. viewer how a 747 leaves a dent in the side of the Pentagon.  But then again as Eric Hoffer so aptly noted, “The independent individual constitutes a chronically unbalanced entity,” because there is no one but oneself to validate one’s existence.  Penniless self-validation takes its toll on one’s self-esteem, especially when the skip loader of the Executive Branch is also dismissing individuals as unpatriotic ball-breaking kids.

The skip loader believes that the only manifestation of evolution is through cataclysms in the form of silver-dollars flipping head-over-ass from the sky.  It’s best to save one’s self-esteem by inflating the ego and deny, what Alexey A. Kozlov explained as, our “primitive consciousness,” and throw ourselves into the pot of contrived and calculated monetarists masquerading as monads in the stew.  Any chronically imbalanced, independent individual understands that there is no intermonadic harmony pointing to a cosmic Monad when the Executive Branch is slinging saturated loads, heavy and loose.  Salvation for the lower class does not lie in inflation and credit.  And OSHA has no authority in these safety matters.

Totalitarianism in a free society is not imposed by exterior threats but is implanted interiorly.  “We are ruled by a ruthless politburo which sets our norms and drives us from one five-year plan to another” (Hoffer) that runs out with retirement.   

Jeremiah was told to desire nothing because everything is going to hit hard when the Grand Monad rearranges world history.  It’s another way of understanding the arduous work of using words in order to get beyond communication.  The prophet, Jeremiah, was exiled to Egypt.  He was ejected from the world of the sublime and hurled into the world of common banalities, where insignificance and irrelevance grew into matter and form.  The prophet’s quest for truth and justice was immersed in the corruption that he despised and longed to disassociate himself.  But he was controlled and molested by a divine compulsion to abide in the company of the wicked and the pain of the suffering.  His innermost feelings and thoughts were raped by a scandalous God that had anointed him with a cruel and righteous burden for the benefit of the forsaken.  The extreme impetuosity of the human plight was the subject of Jeremiah’s prophecies.

Nietzche answered the same call and developed the positive arm of all his inquiries, “to establish a new meaning for man in a world become meaningless.”  But was the world ever meaningful, especially when it costs more to make a good Tequila than it does to intimidate life into a docile drool.  It’s an “important” detail to look like Britney Spears and do yourself while looking at your reflection on the television screen.  One might think of describing this perverted narcissism as a downward Dali, pandemonium red that turns your tongue black; chronically hydro, sneaky peek bullshit that markets the sex out of everything, while alchemists control both the federal treasury and the condom industry.  A loaded bludgeon that is coercively convincing is what one might be inclined to call an African Gutter Ditch Party or a credit card that is issued by Drug of America.

We all can’t have the patriotism of George Washington’s first intelligence officer, Nathan Hale.  His last words, before Mother executed him--by hanging--in Manhattan, were, “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.”

Dr. Fleischman, from the T.V. show Northern Exposure, was disgusted with Eve because she enslaved to serve her delusional illnesses.  Who could argue against the fact that a foundation for good relations is simply an enterprise begging for stable understanding?

Europe’s descrying discovery of the Americas was her own Adam & Eve story in the midst of a rising market where Monarchies and Merchants decried Savages.  Europeans thought the Native Savages to be the indigent, modicum of mediocrity, needing emancipation from themselves.  When the Native Savages realized that the Europeans thought of them as only half of what is second rate, the Natives considered the Europeans to be indigent, eutrophic epitomes, whose mothers were getting so much dick they couldn’t ride a horse fast enough, but they could blow the day lights out of one.  And that’s what their mother did.  Her growth embodied the quality of deprivation where she asphyxiated herself in the New World and ended up needing emancipation from her own idea of herself in order to embody the ideal Native born right-wise.  She became a degrading to the point Puritan, who commanded that no one commit offenses or disorder, while she engaged in the highest form of warfare, fucking.  She could savagely rape the fear of God into a colony.

Her husband was coming in through the north.  He was known by the Savage Natives to be a useless benefit to himself.  But he was a bit more sensually seductive in blowing his own wad of quietus throughout middle-America.

I, fortunately, was the offspring of the pangs of their consciousness.  And in the fullness of my maturity I emerged into a swaggering philanthropist who took up the challenge and started The Foundation for Good Relations.  I called it N.E.E.D., an acronym for Never Ending Economic Disaster, or Disregard, or Degradation, or Depriving Depravation.  I never could get the D quite right.   

Therefore, on this Day of Independence I exhort any of those who fear my falling bullets from the sky, keep the faith!  For the stars guard my bullets!  Whereas, my Mother and Father had aristocracy, I have celebrity.  So let’s put our right hands over our hearts and dig in with Mr. Tru-Bone’s anthem, “Our vision of progress is not limited to our own country.  We extend it to all peoples of the world.”

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