What is that some kind of Art Deco surrealism novel you get for a dollar at those musty dive bargain bookstores? The kind of book the author thinks screams post-modernism and provocateur rebel trouble iconoclasm. They sit in their boutique gothic white castles munching gourmet Kobe beef patties with mango salsa drizzle laughing at the poor unfortunate souls; riddled with the smug satisfaction that only comes with burnin’ up mommy and daddy dearest’s money. And tack on that sheltered spoiled brat Couture haughtiness that resonates with the blame the parents psychobabble crowd. What have these so called experts and trendsetters brought to the fold? Just more cheaply made China-fuelled everlasting plastic capitalismo materialism fodder for the hunger games masses.
I tell ya, nothing in this world is free but everyone’s got a line to feed ya. Every Brooks Brothers pie in the sky nouveau riche sucker in a near suit got some angle comin’ your way and I’ll be damned if P.T Barnum weren’t right. The circus in town and we the people hafta be walking on your discarded 8 dollar a bag peanut shells littering our illusory once golden streets. Railway busy jutting out consumerism and busting a gut worth of oil for those hungry hungry fight over there yanks. Seems we’re pulling the short end of the stick and using it to test the waters while Cthulu sits mightily on his ass ordering around crawdads and puffed up shrimps.
And where are my real countrymen and women that prided themselves on grit and sand labor and hoisting up that petty symbolism flag for the greater good? That damned if you do nationalism diluted and rotated to surreptitiously slip beneath the skin of the hard as nails Canuck. Sportin’ half a days pay to bust out at the tavern and support the fledgling boozy floozy economy ransacked by them hoity toity old boy liberal commies. Getting red cheeked and puckered for a rolling night out as the moon dances its melancholy way and your best gal has a snog and a pint just for you. Those were the days that jigger and tinker with my Tuscaloosa ticker. I miss dem days and I miss those old friends who’ve gotten lost in the wind, nuthin but dust on passing currents.