mySQL, my song.
1. Palfrey Described ‘Exit Strategy’
One million newspaper writers, scrabbling about like glans-engorged cockroaches with orgastic glee as the next deadline approaches, 65-WPMing a penumbra of jism-in-the-eye headlines,
and the soothsucking confines
of World Gone Mad ™.
What’s in it for me?
This is the Them part:
typeface Made in China, assuming you don’t mind the blackface of the “fuck-me-baby” minstrel stop-and start at your local Washington Post-Its, Wall Street nocturnal emissions (EPA-sanctioned), and “Hit Me Baby” playing life eternal at the local Wal-Mart.
Because it isn’t enough to
catch an eye, to
grab an eye, to
soothe its shape:
it must be seized, plucked, beheld and befucked, made to recant itself (write it a hundred times)and jizzed-upon until it stings.
Tears are no solvent but a photo op. Can you hold that sob a minute while I fix my light? You can cry all your want to, baby, that’s your indefatigable right. But just remember, I can’t shoot you in the dark. Just ask Bob Capa, he tried and tried and tried. And here’s what he told the soldiers who lay dying on the beach:
“this isn’t art, baby; it’s genocide.”
2. How Would You Make a Murder Look Like a Suicide?
One million sex bloggers (and you are even if you aren’t), lust at full-stop photo op, at the intersection of self-image and a sartorialesque social outrage, with high-hemlines and low-cut Vs; everything glistening like waxed and wetted cherries for an Elle shoot off the coast of Toledo Belize – fashions of the domain-savvy and disenfranchised – the rest waiting to be re-surgered later in the select-a-boob dungeons of Photoshop post-op.
With great WordPress plugins come great responsibility.
What’s in it for them?
This is the We part:
We the ePeople, the multifangled, interconnected tongues of the blog-snog set, nagging night and day at the swing-and-sway of our palaeotype with talk about peeling away the onion skin of the sexual truth, to expose, reveal, sniff out every dish with our one good eye-tooth. But onions carry the stink of themselves in their antioxidant oils, and it is a stink that is hard to rid oneself of. Far better a thing then to memoir,
to shoddily reminisce,
to Livejournal only the perky bits,
to celebritize oneself on the occasional sandbagged soapboxes of
“me so sexy,”
“by divine right,”
“O yeah, no evil shall escape my site”
Gimme some face(Book). I need my (my)Space.
But sometimes you have to pluck the hairs from the bare unawares of your areolas, or come to grips with a tiny prick a thousand times more fickle than a payola DJ with a jones for schoolgirl bubblegum and handjobs under the console.
We’re all Moondogs here.
And in the end we put the onions down and select the discount-brand can of onion powder.
“And…a-one. A-two. A-one-two – “
3. Hookers Deborah Jeane Palfrey and Brandy Britton Died By Suicide
One million entrepreneurs, slashdotting not to rent but to pwn every dot com glory hole and co-oped moan, with words the equivalent of upskirts and the shortchange of cash for an instant-cache of Girls Who Squirt in the eye of every beholder. Is the hard-drive on fire, or is it just an insulin crash? Or is it the other way around?
This is the Us part.
It’s not that you’re not doing it, or that you’re not doing it right:
Jesus died for your sex, so it’s only fair that the whores go next.
Throw ‘em off the edge like fuckin’ buffalo. It’s checks and balances, baby;
don’t make it so complex.
Because in the same breath as you call the Madam a pimp
while soft-stroking yourself to her tear-dimpled suicide address,
your eye gets hooked on the on the
Next. Big. Thing.
Yeah – suck right up – another feature, another titillating tittle-tattle, this one an exclusive; well, exclusive to you so long as you aren’t looking for it anywhere else, but at least this one was rewritten by the home team. About how another entrepreneur, a rival muckraker and tit-wagger, let slip the name of a celebrity’s underage star-child in the latest
They come at you,
rocked-out with their cocks out and
blitzed out with their tits out,
and It and We.
And, “he’s a pimp and that’s okay.”
And, “you’re a wimp if you can’t take it – no way, Jose!”
“And she’s a whore and there’s the door”
and – don’t let it hit you where Net Neutrality split you
down the digitally enhanced arches of our collective
Because it’s a fact of life that every asshole gets fucked in the end.
I guess I already answered the question:
What’s in it for you?
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