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How horrible you are.
What a twisted, sour, ugly, weird, cowed, freakish crowd of malcontents, doomsayers, ne'er-do-wells, losers in life and criminals you all are.
How *un*respectable. How *un*imaginative. How *very* lacking in that vital spark that galvanizes true leadership. How impoverished of the soul, how devoid of ordinary decency and compassion, how mindless, how corrupt, how petty and shrill and silly you all are.
Why do you do it? I am non-plussed.
You could be nice people if you wanted, it's not difficult. It's more fun, too.
I can only imagine the churning vortex of power, shit, death, greed and money that haunts your dreams, the log-books of perceived slights that you pore over night by night, the ogreish monsters, black hearted demons and giggling imps that must endlessly patrol the subconscious of your party to maintain its vast libraries of immaculate hatred. Not that I wish to, particularly. What a well-oiled and thoroughly USELESS machine. Useless work darkens the soul, gentleman.
What do you ADD to Humanity? What GOOD are you to anyone? What are you FOR?
I can't imagine that you enjoy being that way. You must know what you are when you look in the mirror in the mornings and there's no-one around you to play the game, because no-one is a fool about himself when he's alone. Small, mean-spirited men sniping at each other about imaginary enemies behind closed doors. What an ugly way to live. You must be miserable!
Imagine wanting to be a Republican! A REPUBLICAN!
Fear and constraint and what-does-HE-think-about-me and sniggering behind the bike sheds and scoring minuscule fractions of points off each other and anyone with a more open heart than yourselves! It's AWFUL! Imagine being crushed forever into that pitiful little grey suit forever and ever until you're DEAD. Because you're all far too afraid to change. You're going to die that way, you know. All of you. Empty hearted having lead lives devoid of meaning or purpose, forever alienated from the world, utterly cast out by your own fear and demoralized in the face of anything resembling generosity of spirit or kindness.
What's the best you can hope for?
An interview where you manage to make the opposition feel as small as you do. Just for a LITTLE while. As your sweat trickles down your skull under the white blare of the studio lamps you tick off the talking points in your head. What was your score? Ten points? Twenty? A Thousand?
Who cares? You. Only you. And sometimes not even YOU care, when you stare at your sunken eyes in the mirror after crawling out of bed away from a wife that won't sleep with you or speak to you anymore, listening to the strange, frightening, alien noises of the children downstairs, the children you never wanted but had to have because your dad told you you had to be a family man.
Is your tie the right shade of grey? Is your parting in the right place? Did you book an appointment with the right plastic surgeon or have you by accident chosen one that pissed off one of your powerful friends?
How you love power! How little of it you really have!
You can't really change anything, can you?
What you want is not to be alone, for other people to be crushed into the same little grey suit as you, to cower perpetually behind images and symbols and lies and games and tricks, to trap themselves in ever decreasing circles so that we all think like you, small, cramped thoughts, not big, scary new ones that make you feel stupid.
But you can't get inside our heads. You want to think you can, because that's the only way you beat aside your shadows, your entrenched and utterly perverted egos straining without end at chains of their own devising.
Poor you.
And that's enough pity.
FUCK you.
Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.
It's not *our* fault you were born so crippled, so lacking in feeling and the ordinary human strengths of cooperation and good conduct. It's not *our* fault you're so frightened of anything different from yourself you have to legislate against it in case it makes you think things about yourself you don't like.
It's not OUR fault you're a fool. It's YOURS.
And we are not here to pick up the tab for you. We are not here to be responsible for both your behavior and our own. Why should we pay for your inability to cast aside your blindfolds and chains? You put them there! Only you can remove them.
I'm all for tolerance and cooperation, but only with people who, recognizing my position, will reciprocate. I have no time for people who simply take advantage of my good nature.
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