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from: Ed_Zeppelin
3/20/01
6:17:53 PM
172.182.139.139
I'm gonna start poking you with sharp sticks through the bars of your cage if you don't settle down, dagnabbit.
This is exactly what I was talking about. Garish, rude, impolite... but where is the art? The panache, the destroyer cerebral sucker punch that will leave them reeling down a brightly-lit hallway in an asylum, doing the "thorazine shuffle" and doing "group" three times a day just to shake the jitters from the foul excretia permanently laid on their poor Bolton-loving brains, the masterstroke of horrendous imagery that doesn't just offend, it DESTROYS synapses, it sucks the very balance from their damaged psyches and whips their fevered pounding pulsing nervous system into hyperdrive, that leaves them weeping on their keyboards with duct tape on their monitors, maybe even poking their eyes out to try to dislodge the horrendous images of sight and sound and being that dislodged their very sanity to lie like a cold turd beside their useless hard drives?
Why do they keep coming back? Who the fuck knows? If I was in their shoes, I certainly wouldn't. It's not for Mr. Bolton or for the rights of child abuse victims or any positive thing they COULD be doing, it's because they need to be VICTIMS.
It's a lonely pursuit, because the whole point of being a victim is to beat your chest and say to someone, anyone; "boo hoo. Look at me, I'm damaged goods and it isn't my fault. It's Popeye-x and his friends, they're not nice and it hurts me" until somebody finally gets through to them that they have ONE shot at this life and that's a fucked-up way to spend it.
Get over it. That's right, GET OVER IT.
Unfortunately, in the case of these two useless cunts it may be too late, because they didn't go "gee, what the hell is that about?" when they first came upon your "Don't talk to me about ugly" page and just click again somewhere else. No, they have to hue and cry and piss and moan and tattle and creak and freak... about what?
Michael Bolton? People like them probably make Mr. Bolton's life a living hell, even worse than it must be knowing you're a fucking hack with the pipes of a Chicago cabbie, rehashing old soul songs to satisfy the curiousity of people who always wondered what "When A Man Loves A Woman" would sound like if you tried to sing it with a peach pit lodged in your adam's apple.
I say enough. Ed's got a plan, the seeds of a catastrophic motherfucker of a wipeout that will leave it's imprint on time and legend. They will say "there were giants in those days" and winos will recount the subtle nuances around old oil drums filled with burning trash, handing the greasy brown paper-clad bottles back and forth and shaking their heads in wonder and awe, grateful that even though their lives are shit at least they weren't two opinionated asswipes on the Internet in the winter of 2001.
Interested?
ANTI POPEYE X FAN CLUB
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