Peenie Wallie

Everyone lost something that day. Part of the American Pie was carved out and offered up in sacrifice to some half-baked terrorist scheme. Some lunatic Muslim’s screed, cooked up in a mosque and delivered fresh daily. Coming soon to an American city near you. Some raghead that the CIA played for over a decade and then cut loose when, against all probabilities, they battled the Soviet Union to a Mexican standoff in the thin air of some mountain range no one this side of the pond had ever heard of. Somehow, he’d amalgamated the malcontents that festered under the tyranny of an illegitimate, just-add-oil, instant-monarchy that the United Kingdom had installed in an oil-drenched stretch of desert.

The entire Middle East is a festering crisis, a boiling pot with the lid welded firmly shut. The residue of a gene pool, reduced through the ages by thousands of wars, clinging tenaciously to the sands of a desert no sane man would travel. The genetic refuse of a thousand failed campaigns, shoe horned into concentration camps.

It is, in short, a terrorist vineyard, ripe for exploitation by the insane ramblings of the clerics in the mosques. Preaching a putrid fusion of hate, revenge, and baklava, they orchestrate and nourish religious and cultural wars, like children raising sea monkeys in a jar on the Formica counter beside the coffee maker.

But no one in America really say what was coming. Everyone was just trying to help their children raise sea monkeys in a jar on the Formica counter beside the coffee maker. Trying to make ends meet. Trying to hold it together themselves.

Teetering between marriage and divorce. Between celibacy and rinsing out disposable generic sandwich bags and hanging them on a little wooden rack to dry, amortizing the savings of disposable sandwich bags into the unforeseeable future to pay for that wooden rack to dry them on. Amortizing pennies for as far back as they can remember into the desperate, unimaginable, tenuous future that stretched out before them like an unrelenting wire, chaining them to the grave. Watching their lives fizzle out, unceremoniously, like a sparkler in the night.

But if not this, then what? Shooting strangers full of cum in the darkness of a rented room with third world maid service and card keys and incandescent lighting and microwaves. Day care and desperation, shuttling children back and forth in perpetuity, till they’re worn into pulp; like a bull horn, crashed relentlessly against the cliffs of Mendocino by the perpetually oscillating ebb and flow of the Pacific tides.

The main stream media lulled the nation with a cocoon of self-centered blathering milk-toast drivel; bland, innocuous, rainy day mental masturbation, pumped into the living rooms of broken families across the continent. Not informing, not challenging, not educating, just scintillating, titillating, house-wife gossip, spoon fed to a nation of geographically challenged, celibate, mindless, masturbating dolts.

It makes no more sense to blame the viewer than it does the news media. The two are just like two teenagers finger fucking each other in the back of his parents SUV; doing whatever feels good. The moral compass was optional on that year model, so it was never installed at the factory in Hamtramck.

In the United States, the people have left the churches in droves. Now, on Sundays, they shunt children back and forth between gay parents, broken families, and strip malls, placating them with stuffed animals. Substituting dollars for parental responsibilities, as if one could possibly compensate for the loss of the other.

Women, evacuated by women’s lib. They bought into the false promise of equality. A short-sighted, quick fix for a generation of bored housewives. They wanted equal pay and equal rights. Didn’t want to be forced to stay home and raise children. So a generation of latchkey children were carted off to be raised by strangers, while an orgy of housewives flooded into the workforce, driving down wages. In the end, the Women’s Lib movement was commandeered by the rabidly fervent bull dikes, which should have been intuitively obvious to the casual observer at the outset. It was the logical conclusion of a drive to make men and women equal. It wasn’t that men wanted to change, so women would have to literally turn into men. Transmogrify to compete. Learn to piss standing up, fornicate in alleys, drink martinis, and smoke cigars.