Skip to content

War Criminals of The Third Party

It is not that I give so many takes, but that I take so many givens, and to such extremes, as to sound excessively scolding of this world around me. Only pretension and hangups insist that life is hard, so I quite likely sound as intended nonetheless. I have realized that I self-edit dramatically, forever reminding myself that any essay might be a reader’s first. While chronological always seems sensible, I also accept this to be a Naked Lunch of blogs.

But life never happens in order. Not for anybody.

TV sports reporters are apparently undergoing a delicious existential crisis, realizing amidst a landscape where the loudest and dumbest members of the general public lives and breathes on the moment to momentary inconsequential, loveless masturbation that is social media, how repetitious and reactive opinions about manufactured culture are ultimately meaningless when by no means are they short in supply. In an age where so many voices get amplified, do they now see that their own voices lack either reason or capability for standing out. In an unflushable public toilet where streams of multiple urination enthusiasts past and present collide and intermingle and fester, do the drops of no singular effort prove commendable.

A proud gun-owner and trophy fetishist somewhere in southern California has announced the abject lifelessness of his or her own territorial pissings, through displaying the aftereffects of the brutal torture and murders of multiple innocent coyotes, an event which will surely be a frisson point at the next quarterly summit of the coyote high council. Elsewhere in the world a wolf cub gets rescued from freezing waters, because persons unblinded by the lights of marketing know to respect the wisdom of the ancients. Which, to be sure is neither love or fear, as though all are conscious decisions only respect can be earned, even despite the many more inadequacies of a commodity’d planet.

And contrary to the personal dreams of the sportscaster sub-genre from what I coin the Prom Kings Union, or its over-reaching influence, real heroes elsewhere are earnestly contributing to the betterment of society, facelessly and thus quietly, requiring neither advertising endorsement or permanent head injuries or repeated spousal abuse or music video cameos to see the deed through. Swimming against the flow and ebb of the bog does revolutionary thought alone save lives, even when spat from the mouths of babes. What India there wrote on the life and work of Mary Knowles is the anima to the animus of what I wrote on the work and life of Steve Ditko, and in observing this philosophical reflection do I find myself confessing a desperate longing to make sweet, passionate animal sounds aloud while hunching her over a coffee-table populated by emptied red wine bottles and the roachy remains of many a marijuana cigarette. “Verily, my anaconda don’t want none unless you’ve got buns, hon” interjected the Tree of Knowledge aloud itself, in regards to the serpent its knobby branches upheld aloft to the wench on her knees down below, always down below (where all things considered indeed do grow).

From any union will madness come of the undrained member.