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“Mr. Fuckbon, what does the future hold for the war in Clitoristan?”
“Rest assured the vaginal flatlands will not be taken without force. We can’t talk anymore of a diplomatic solution to dairy embers of sadness. We must press onward, but with caution, reserve and humility: Remember the great Butt-Cheese war in ’67. Who knew?”
“Who knew what?”
“The nuggets, the shit-nuggets we would find, the untapped reserves, the mechanical yen of displaced peoples! The injustice, can you dig? I’m talking about democracy.”
“And what of the foodstuffs, the vast artifacts of pornographic art?”
“Just snap on your gas-mask and feel the disconnect. It gets under your skin like a rash. Dreary supermarkets light up all melancholy-like. People crying, wanting to reach out. Makes you feel older, crusty like the echo of a fart.”
“But what of it?”
“What of what? I’m talking about spreading a layer of cheese through the whole region – imagine the revolutionary domino effect that could take place there – a cheddar realm of soft golden hope and night time fantasy. A lore of old sunshine and snowy crystal wishes. A Christian hope, mind you, a feathery realm of bedtime wishes and feather-bed Club-Med stuff, all kept within the context of a wholesome snack for the kids.”
“Who will foot the bill for the war?”
“The mirrored halls of our fecal forefathers, the supreme wish farm, the animal blood factory. Who cares? The point is security. Right now we’ve got sources out there that speak of old callused grudges, of idiot hatred. It calls for action, damnit.”
Date Written: May 02, 2003
Author: Phony Millions
Average Vote: 4.5