All our senses and all our sense have been dulled by toothless swine. If we succumb to our laughter, we are led to the gallows and hung with a noose of ADHD-drugs wrapped tightly around our whiplashed necks. A straightforward lynching in the classrooms. Grand halls reek of foul abuse. The cancer is spreading. We`ve all got it by now, you know, oh boy.
We have skin as thin as paper wrapped over muscles unflinching and unfeeling, jaws clenched by stress and neck and shoulders aching. The ache we feel in the age of conformity narrows our breath, our veins can no longer carry the oxygen to our brains, so that we can no longer think and as a result we can no longer speak. We are dull and numbed, fat and bored, lost in a society in which we are forgotten, cast away to lick the jackboots of our betters, our superiors. We were led astray by insane ideologies, we left our blankets and our sheets in the strange monochromatic haze of a dying TV-set. Laugh, they say. We laugh. Do not laugh, they say. We weep. And thank them for the opportunity to repent.
Voices flow from out of a subcollective consciousness, a dramatic reading of the communist manifesto. Acted out by actors caught in the beauty of the woo, the immediacy of selfrighteous madness, locked in the ivory towers of eternal victimhood. You, they say, are the devil made manifest. You, they say, are the oppressor and we have every right to hate you. We shall fight you from the comfort of our middle-class homes, from our beds and from our sofas, we will bitch and moan and label everyone evil, salty scum. Do not stray from the path. We are fucking better than you. For what is the working class, the blue-collar slobs, if not nazis, if not literally Hitler?
Carry on with your othering, you collective blob of crocodiletears, you harsh, unfeeling, solipsistic, narcissistic and naive hobgoblins. We`ve got work to do. But, of course, we are worse than you. Evil pigs living paycheck to paycheck, doing menial work and manual tasks which you deem yourself unworthy to do. You clog our veins with propaganda, piece by piece and bit by bit, we drink our coolaid by the kegger, and laugh and weep and cry and die in chairs built on dreams that dried up on our thighs. All this while you sit and shit and gloat and moan and screech and roar through the windows of your unfeeling, unsensing eyes, winging at the merest notion that we may suffer as well, that we do suffer and do suffer well.
A generation caught with minds bent completely in on themselves, unable to emphatize but able to other, and then to devalue and bombard this other with weird fucking notions that we are somehow priviliged and evil, that we are scum. You have infested us all with lies and slander and pure, unadulterated hate. All the while claiming victimhood and woe-is-me. Wiping away tears with one hand, and beating us into submission with the other. A grand plan. Was it, perhaps, your final solution? Not to kill all men as the twitter-mobs would have us believe, but devalue and destroy all men, to push us down and belittle us and make us grateful for it? Why, of course: killing us would mean that you would have to do the dirty work. Better to make us subhuman. Back to the Gulag. Build them ivory towers, boy, and build them well. You owe us, you know. Oh boy, oh man, oh how evil the airconditioning is. Oh man, oh man, never have I ever seen a cat as clever as magical miss pussyhat.
Their ilk suffer from full frontal rectal examination: they have their heads stuck so far up their own asses that they can only smell the world through their bellybuttons, and can only see the world through the laced veil of their own thinly spread farts. This ideology is a fart laced with brainaltering chemicals. Oh, no, woe is me and mine and my farts.
The cancer is spreading. Our boys are being drugged for the crime of being boys. «Sit quietly in the back, youngun, while I speak from a position of unquestioned authority about how evil you are». The stench of the farts is unimaginable way over here in the back of the classroom. I can hardly taste my own tongue, but I feel the blood rising in my throat, thirty years of cancer building up. Oh man, thirty years of repressed rage rising from my nimble fingers. Oh boy, oh man, oh grand wazoo of the skies: is there any reason to carry on? Is there any reason to brush the cobwebs from my teeth and the rust from my throat? We were magicians once. Now we are whipped into conformity. We are neither boys nor girls, we are purple penguins locked in the zoo, gassed into bewildered compliance, grey and dying standing in lines and in rows in cold despair staring at the white walls of academia where our future died in ballads worth pennies! Were anyone present to hear our songs dying on our tongues bewildered by what-the-hell-happened-now? Who will save us?