It’s Over, Johnny

The unending cyclone of real time media and its cruel intentions broke my next-to-last straw yesterday. I’m going to delete my Twitter to cut out the cancer known as weak people’s opinions and stick to #art-porn Instagram; at least there the voices are a little less uncultivated and much more inclined to tell me how handsome and sexy my filters look which is all I really care about.

I won’t mention Ellen or that country western singing competition show guy because what’s the point of rehashtagging yesterday’s cries of Millennial #douchebagedness when today’s BIG BIG story is about that blue/green-haired swimmer dude who led poor innocent Prince Harry astray in Vegas and how blue/green-haired swimmer dude is in so much perilous public relations limbo having just escaped the Brazilian jungle with only $10’s and $20’s and probably a bad, bad hangover. Last night I was fired up for the obligatory celebrity apology tour for exercising rights as Americans under the first Amendment of the U.S. Constitution because some piss-ant, thin-skinned, unlaid Millennial pussies hashtagged #racist enough on Twitter for the slow news day guys to take the bait and give it journalistic legitimacy just because there was a celebrity involved. Sure, I realize media is run by profit-obsessed corporate interests, as is pretty much everything else, even comedy, but come on, guys, calling poor mainstream harmless lesbian Ellen to task for a fucking meme? Is this what it’s going to be like from now on? Bring back Joan Fucking Rivers and her Heidi Klum oven jokes. Makes me remember who flung political correctness on the country in the first place. Uhh, anyone else recall the Clinton Administration of the dreaded 90’s? Luckily for me I was in a blackout for most of that eight years but I do remember everyone being schooled and shamed for expressing unpopular truths, hey, hey. Ole Hillary and her husband Bubba are headed back to the white house as Trump’s oh-shit-I-have-to-go-through-with-this Celebrity Apprentice Contract Negotiations campaign is crashing and burning (see Michael Moore’s website). This all sounds like I’m complaining without a viable solution to make a change. That’s true. I’m no longer scared for the future of the country or really all that angry at stupid people with opinions, I’m just reminded many times within the 24-hour cycle of life that I just don’t care anymore and I don’t believe in anything anymore.

That being said, I FEEL SO MUCH BETTER NOW! I’ll keep articulating with as much expletive-laden candor as I can until the game is finally over. The best way for me to vent frustration is with written words, especially since I seem to frighten the most hardcore of confrontationists when I speak to them in my ZERO F*CKS Soprano’s tone. I should have been either a prize fighter or a movie star, but both of those dreams have long-since been replaced with the simple wish to remain in a constant bubble of delusion. That’s right, since I gave up hope I feel much better. After a year in NYC maybe I’ll move to London and be a #bitcheditor. Get lots of free stuff and Rolls Royce rides out to the aristocratic English countryside. Maybe get Prince Harry to tweak my nips. Until then the heat is off a bit in Metropolis and the anticipation of the end of the season is all I have to look forward to.

Yesterday after I stopped in my 4th favorite Starbucks on 7th Avenue and Grove Street to answer most of my Scruffmail, I sat in lovely Christopher Park outside the Stonewall to enjoy the nice weather as a young bearded hipster-looking dude shouted passages from the bible about the perverse homosexual agenda (maybe he was ad-libbing parts of the old testament?) as none of the busy iPhone Zombie bees or fat wandering fanny-pack tourists paid any attention to him. Life in the big city; perpetual performance art.

Today I’m back to payin’ the rent, but a story in the Post got me to thinking about how easily a misspent life can end when the wrong person is in the right position. A 63 year old woman in fancy Cold Spring Harbor on Long Island’s Rockwellian North Shore was allegedly drowned in the family swimming pool at the family estate by her 23 year-old son, who was arrested when he returned to the scene of the crime with his wet $300 haircut shortly after the cops got there. Oopsie. There are many ways to become wealthy; whether through hard work, cunning crime, or rich dead parents. But when collecting on the latter, always remember to make sure you have a solid alibi far away from the crime scene for at least a day. You never know what you can get away with unless you plan ahead, hope for the best, expect the worst, and give zero fucks about the outcome.

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