OK, go look at this. I haven't been able to get that image out of my mind. Here is my visceral reaction: I want to kill those motherfucking poachers, I really want to kill the rich motherfuckers paying the motherfucking poachers. My instinctive response to motherfuckering has always been to out-motherfucker them, but for decades I was trained to squelch that instinct as a moral choice, to accept as natural order motherfuckers monopoly on motherfucking, and I bought in. For decades I naively believed that humans were progressing - painfully but incrementally - beyond their innate motherfuckingness, just give the motherfuckers time to evolve into lesser motherfuckers, and I bought in. Fuck that. I don't think my epiphany came naturally - motherfuckers no longer bothers to hide their motherfuckingosity. Motherfuckers today are rewarded and celebrated, and if you fail as a motherfucker it's your own motherfucking fault - this is not by accident, it's preparation for the motherfucking horrors of the future. He who once did Good Eats now does Cutthroat Kitchen, motherfuckers. I may have more insight and foresight into depression than once, but what feels in my stomach like the sound of a empty beer bottle thrown into an empty oil barrel is unappeasable anger at my motherfucking voluntary impotency, nurtured over decades as a moral virtue.
- I don't want to be a motherfucker, and not just because I'm not good at it. This is what I'm working through, my relationship to the New Motherfuckering. Yes, it's manic and melodramatic. I'll be fine, just leave me alone, I'll figure it out myself. I don't want a Pepsi.
- And loved ones, I am fine.
- On depression.
- It's not warming, it's dying.
- Why Hillary.
- Hillary Clinton v Ayman al-Zawahiri in Violent Moron Mad-Libs.
- Philip Agee and Edward Snowden, a comparison.
- Fake it 'til you make it.
- 23 million twitterbots. I'm due for a mass bot unfollowing.
- Food links.
HAND GRENADE BAG
This well-used little bag is just the right size
to carry a copy of the Psalms. Its plain-woven
flowers and helicopter share the sky with bombs
falling like turnips—he who makes light of other
men will be killed by a turnip. A bachelor,
I wear it across my shoulder—it’s easier to be
a bachelor all my life than a widow for a day.
On the bag’s face, two black shapes appear
to be crows—be guided by the crow and you
will come to a body—though they are
military aircraft. A man who needs fire
will soon enough hold it in his hands.