More absofuckinglutely craziness from the workingdouche

Doesnt this shit make your skin crawl? I can picture this guy driving an ice cream truck around blasting NPR and wearing a Slipknot mask with a dildo for a nose.

Man's destructiveness to his surroundings, to encompass even the environment that keeps
him alive, which, by definition includes his fellow men - AND WOMEN!, and his destructiveness
to even himself is well documented, and comes to encapsulate, and be defined as: History.
The story of the human race, like the story of in incelebrate (read: those being without brains)
is writ, i.e. "written" in our language just as sure as the story of these "incelebrates" is writ
in bones. The last chapter of Stacey's life, and Amber Inaspic's life is the story told in
the laying about, the disposition, of theys bones. This is where their story ends, and ours
continues. How it will continue depends on the how one reads the bones, the detritus. There
is nothing more eloquent that the Catholic Mass, in which it is annunciated, to wit, it is qouted
for you - YOU! and many, for the remission of The Remaindor'z Sins ~

"By the sweat of your brow
you will eat your food
until you return to the ground,
since from it you were taken;
for dust you are
and to dust you will return."

These words should shock nobody - NOBODY! Since the human race is so repleat with his
own destructive tendencies, it should come, is wall, as a shock to nobody - NOBODY! that
the new album by the Broken Bells is nothing more'n (read: in truth, ~ "mourn", 'r 'more than -
THAN!) a soundtrack to the dissolution, and destruction of the only great rock band on the
Ellis landscape, left. Van Halen is gone, R.E.M. is over - OVER!, Wilco is well succumbed to
the unconstrained and flaccid ego of what's his name, Bruce Springsteen is becoming what
is expected to become of a Jewish man of his age 'n attainment, U2 teeters (read: as opposed,
of course, to 'rattling and humming'), .38 Special is still cranking out post-Lynard Skynard
tributes while the south - THE SOUTH! still burns, and mothers down there still somehow
manage to impart on daughters just what is it they do, and how they do it, And How They
Do It, AND HOW THEY DO IT, AND HOW THEY DO IT!. Nobody rocks any more. In any one
given Saturday night, back in the day, which was defined just as much by the over-amped
glare of the Beatles and Rolling Stones shiney new equipment on the Ed Sullivan Show stage,
ON THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW STAGE! as were we defined by the stoccato crack of the Italian
6.5mm Manlicher-Carcano rifle at John F. Kennedy, at a range that wood shock most people.
We, - YOU! of that generation instantly sublimated the sound of those three cracks, and morphed
them of course into the sound of Rock 'n Roll just as surely as today those sounds are
being morphed into the muffled cries of the "wonded doves of Sand Dog Blow 'N Go and
the clapper which you use, at the end of yet another day, same 'ole, same 'ole, too
cool for school, to turn off the lights.


- the workingman