Dr. Faustroll Writes the Wrongs

I was born when the NOMPH™ was shifting its focus from WWII to the Cold War, and my parents were pussies. My mom had grown up in a share cropping family and worked in a shirt factory early on and eventually died of emphysema. My dad had his pet pigeons served for supper and eventually died from complications from a flu shot.

I am about to become 62 years old. In another six months, I can and will draw Social Security benefits. I have actually been retired most of my life. I never planned a career, nor did I pursue one. Years ago, I played pinball machines, some of them for money, and that activity gave me all the spiritual and moral support I needed to continue continuing.

I think all the time. I think thinking is more important that doing. I think doing is often counterproductive if you haven’t at first thought about thinking about thinking about what you are about to do.

I objected to the concept of voting being a responsibility before I got to junior high school. To me, voting is another form of slavery. The masters control the ballots and the initiatives and all the other horse exhaust that comprises freedomocracy, and you are committed by an accident of birth to validating a system that is totally phucked.

I have argued against capitulation my entire ludicrous life because that is what I do. I believe in nothing. I promote nothing. I bomb nothing. I embrace nothing.

I listen to stories on NPR about people my age who have come to understand and appreciate the sacrifices of their parents, and I wonder who the phuck these propagandists are. What are they trying to sell and who are they trying to sell it to?

I have nothing to sell. I have nothing to give. I have nothing to offer. I have nothing to withhold. I have nothing, as Ben E. King once sang and I understood what he meant.

I intend to live another 62 years and transcribe the crap from whatever medium there was to whatever medium there is to whatever medium there may be, especially if it involves cave walls. Considering the last ten years of the nation of miserable phucks, that’s an attainable goal.

Twitter me.

Or not.

Don’t matter. Don’t mean a thing.

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