Thursday, May 22, 2008

The State of Disunion.

This Is The Year That It Finally All Went To Hell For The Majority Of The Peoples Of This Little Blue Smudge We Call Terra Firma. Yes, My Doritos, This Is The Period In Time Where Some Of Us Went From Living On Easy Street To Barely Living At All. This Year Is Forever Going To Be Known As ANUS HORRIBLUS; The Year Where THE SHIT-HAMMER Finally Came Down Upon Our Collective Skulls. This Is The Moment Of Time NOSTRILDAMMIT Predicted 500 Years Ago By Staring Into His Little Toilet Bowl Of Prognostication After Ingesting Various Mind-Rotting Chemicals. These Are The Days Your Momma Failed To Warn You About. Everyone Cross Your Fingers And Toes, Sick Your Head Between Your Knees And Pray To Your Respective Deities That Your Wretched Souls Can Be Saved.
The Economy Has Deflated Like A Blow Up Doll After Being Ravaged By Dom DeLuise. Gas Prices Are Soaring With No Hope In Sight; And Most Folks Are Remembering The Good Old Days When That Humble Peanut Farmer Ruled The White House. Most Of Us Are No Longer Accepting ASS Nor GRASS For Free Rides. Food Prices Have Also Skyrocketed; Bringing Us Back To The Fact That Cupboards Are Barer, And Making Us Search The Dusty Bookshelves For That Long Forgotten RAMEN COOKBOOK. Hell, I Have Finally Given Up Record Shops And Started Stealing My New Music From The World Wide Web.
Is There Any End In Sight?
... And What Of The Good Times? Where Is The Soundtrack That Soothes Our Pained Souls And Wallets. Where Is The Preperation H For The Warts On Our Asses? Does It Come In The Form Of A Naive, Relative African-American Newcomer To The Political Scene? Does It Manifest Itself In The Guise Of A Pant-Suit Wearing Smooth Talking, Cackling Scumbag Lawyer? Or The Form Of A Crotchety Fossil Found In A South Indo-China Prisoner Of War Camp? Is Sweet Salvation Awaiting Us In The Arrival Of An Indescisive Faux-Radical Baby Doctor Who Can't Even Choose What Pair Of Fucking Underpants To Wear In Front Of The Hippies?
No, None Of These Are The Answer To Our Woes, My Fiends. The Answer To The Nations Problems At This Point In Our Glorious History Can Be Summed Up In Three Simple Words; THE DOUCHEBAG BRIGADE. This Collective Of Fugitive Musicians From Other Established Bands Will Effectively Rock And Or Roll The Pants Off Of This So-Called Recession. Come See A Sound So Terrible, So Excruciatingly Painful, That Any Thoughts, Forebodings, And Dreadful Misgivings Will Evaporate Into The Beer And Sweat-Soaked Spring Air.
You Owe It To Yourself, And To The Economy And For The Good Ol' U.S. Of A-Holes...

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