Thursday, September 4, 2008

High Times at the GOP Convention

Yawn! Oh, hi there. I guess I kinda just dozed off there for a minute. Whew....The last thing I remember, I was watching one dusty old bullshit artist after another flap their gums at the GOP Convention, live from St. Paul, Minnesota.

The air inside is electric, but not in a good way. I can only describe it as a "turn the other way and run" kind of way. Short hairs stand on napes of necks, and there seems to be a faint, hot mist emanating from the convention floor. The overall scene is of a Dali-esque mirage. To ease the tension, large Ziploc bags of freshly picked Psilocybin and Mason jars of 180-proof corn liquor, both from Texas Senator Kay Bailey Hutchinson's personal stash, were hurriedly flown in and distributed to the restless mob by Republican party officials.

Smart move; it's been proven that a fairly large percentage of people experience a long-lasting increase in emotional well-being after taking mushrooms. On a more serious note, the white lightning was Manna from Heaven to the 40 or so delegates who had been seen lying in the aisles, curled up in the fetal position. They appeared to be in the bone-aching throes of opiate withdrawal, or in fulminant alcoholic DT's. Rush Limbaugh, you know what I’m talking about.

Others are seen scratching at themselves or blindly clawing at the air, as though they are fending off some manner of invisible, winged beast. Hundreds have been afflicted with Bell's palsy, and many more have open, weeping sores dotting their torsos. Calamine lotion is selling outside the convention for 350 dollars a bottle, and millions of flies have abandoned area landfills and have descended upon the XCel Energy Center in search of an easy meal.

The flies sense it and so do I; these are physical manifestations of abject horror. The Republicans know they've done fucked things up with the American people. At this point, they’re also acutely aware they had a pretty good thing going too.

Throughout this process, I've noticed quite a few things about Presidential conventions and those who serve as delegates. Those who believe in Satan as a living entity, as opposed to a metaphoric allusion to our darkest instincts, refer to the devil as "The King of Liars." After a few nights of watching our divided masses worship these golden calves, I'm not convinced that Satan could hold a candle to these pros.

I can't say who flat-out, bald-faced lied the most, but it chaps my ass just thinking about it. It's obvious these conventions are a farcical parade of lies, and a lesson in the piquant nuances of political ass-kissery. After listening to members of both parties for numerous nights in a row, I now know what it feels like to be a smoking-hot girl sitting alone in a busy nightclub. Everybody knows that fellas gonna step to her and say and do anything it takes to get her in the sack. Why? So they can fuck her. The only difference between the parties is the line of “game” they roll up with.

The delegates themselves are the side-show to their candidate's "Three-Ring Circus." On the convention floor, thanks to the unflinching eye of C-Span, I witnessed numerous acts of prostitution, two possible homicides, and open IV drug use.

A major problem occurred at the convention when it was realized that there weren’t nearly enough delegates in attendance. Party organizers were in a ‘head-in-hands’ panic after roughly half of the seated delegates up and left the convention, never to return. They went across the river to Minneapolis in search of real reform, to Rep. Ron Paul's opposing convention, the "Rally for the Republic."

Organizers had to think of something, tuit suite. It is rumored that John McCain called in some favors and had every homeless Veteran they could find, from parks and bus stops across the Midwest, bussed in to sit for the convention. They also sent out volunteers to scour local asylums, halfway houses, and inpatient psychiatric units for suitable female "constituents.”

Homeless Vets are a sad lot; they are the shells of former people who quit trying after being used up and spit out. They are the human waste of our disposable society. To politicians, with the possible exception of McCain himself, they are what they have always been; expendable, be they light infantry or convention seat fillers. They are our country’s ‘Untouchables”; paid in pimento loaf and cheap booze, and merely tolerated until their services are no longer needed. After the convention, they will be immediately and summarily returned to their former glory behind the nearest dumpster, without so much as a "Thanks, now go fuck yourself."

Above it all, presiding front and center is the unholy Puta Madre, Cindy McCain. I have lived in Phoenix, AZ for a long time, and I have seen Mrs. McCain in public on a few occasions. For me, anything closer than TV is too close for my comfort.

I don't care what anyone says, I am pretty sure she's not human.

Normally, the sparsely thin strands of her ancient, flaxen hair are secured in the severe pony tail of richey-rich bitches everywhere. It carries the pungent odor of moist loam or old books, and sours the very air around her. Flying insects that venture too close to Mrs. McCain instantly cease metabolic activity and freefall to earth.

Tortuous, cord-like veins rhythmically pulse as they traverse the width and breadth of her considerable ovoid melon, which reflects light in the same spectrum as Gold Medal flour. Her eyelashes are said to be coated in neurotoxic venom, and can be accurately fired a distance of 5 or 6 feet. Mrs. McCain’s thin-lipped smile conceals hypodermic canines that can tear through any flesh, including the densest bone. Her soulless eyes are the color of an azure sea set aflame.

Cindy McCain is in her glory, for this is her time. She has been lying patiently in wait since 1136 B.C. for this day to arrive. The Prophecies have spoken.

I can see why people sell their souls; mine's a fucking burden to be sure. It must be great to feel no sense of care or concern for your fellow man and only worry about yourself. It must be powerfully liberating to be able to go after what you really want without giving a second thought to how you got there, what villages you've plundered, or how many lives you've destroyed along the way. Imagine, just for a second, being able to lie, cheat, and steal without the slightest pang of guilt or remorse. I know, I know, it sounds great; but I can't seem to rid myself of it, not even for a fleeting moment.

In summation, there are dark forces that mean us harm that surround us from all directions. The best advice is to lay low and keep your head down until you find some manner of cover. And then, at the opportune time, jump up and come out swinging. That time is coming, sooner than you might think.

Don't worry, I'll let you know.


The One and Only: Andrew MackNair said...

"The unwavering, ever-vigilant search for truth"

So much for that, huh?

Jet Lacey said...

Johnny Cash asked "What is truth?"

Youse guys want a freakin' mind fuck? Check DIS shit out.

The truth my friend, is a relative term, and relativity allows for a somewhat loose interpretation, especially with regard to the word truth.

There is truth in satire and scathing criticism, as there are lies in every glowing recommendation and flowery eulogy.