Greetings, dear Reader. My name is John. How are you today?
Good. Now why don't you put down your smart-ass/smart-alecky phone, come down off of your cross already, and get in the pit with the rest of us punks and flunkies and
funky junkies raising Cain and spelunking the terrain for sense, sensibility, legal tender, and raison d'etre? Come on down to the Round Table making the sign of the
cross (there but for the grace of the jumping ghost of Jehosaphat go I) before sitting down to suck caffeinated/alcoholic guilt elixir from a shitty little sippy cup whilst
passing cross-eyed judgment on all the at-large tits and ass, chicks with dicks, and pigmented irreligious immigrants who make up the silenced majority of this desperately poor
and prodigal world of powerless shmucks, suckers, and fucked-up sons of sinful bitches, grease monkeys, and Limousine liberal trailer trash who are in over their knuckleheads and in perennial hock
to The Man (and the Son of Man) all at once.
As a useful idiot and sinner, the least you can do (as the world you once knew, by and large, passes you by) is stand up straight for justice, stand tall against the luck of the
genetic draw, and then stand aside, open-minded, while the likes of me and my silly freak-flag flying ilk speak progressive truth to the cross-purposed emeritus class of privileged,
shit-eating, parvenu asshats who conspire to control the means of production and distribution on this planet. You know, before they can pogrom the living shit out of their opposition
(through gladiatorial economic combat) to no better end but the bitter, lily-white, static-ass, status quo hegemony we all purport to hate and damn and wanna beat to death whilst at the
same time knowing damn we'd all eagerly join 'em in a heartbeat if we knew how to get away with it like they knnow how to do.
"Wait a minute, pal!" is what I know you wanna say to me. "You fucking don't know me or who I am!"
Oh, but don't I? For aren't I am you (and yours) sweet Reader? For don't I already know damn well what you wanna be saying to the likes of me?
For one thing, I know damn well you don't wanna be starting somethingwith the unsweetened likes of me.
Now you're thinking: "Put on a proper shirt and pull up your saggy-ass streetwear, punk. Because we really don't need another young and pretentious, indigent
and liberal, biracial, bisexual, hot-tempered atheist pain in the catholic ass (a localized litany of my body-political foibles listed in ascending order of conventional
villainy) writing another book about nothing more than what's in store if we don't heel to and heed and suffer his sophomoric, scatalogical, soothsaying satire."
Would you say all that to my face, though? Maybe. Maybe not. Or maybe I've got you all wrong in the first place, esteemed Reader. Maybe I'm off-target. Maybe you're not one of them idle but
greedy idolaters of greenbacked cheddar complicit in the hijacking of the world's economy. Standing idly by as the epic and impending extinction of Hevea Brasiliensis
and the Damoclean sword of the Greenhouse Effect slowly but surely guillotine our electric heads to spite our primeval hearts.
Or maybe, as anyone can see, none of this shit really matters, anyway.
Either way, dear Reader; you've gotta trust me when I say: It ain't me, babe.
Or at least I don't think it's me. The one you've been looking for. The one you've been looking to blame and shame and pillory for America's contemporary ills and
pandemic ill-repute because I might/maybe kinda/sorta look and sound like your proverbial scapegoat.
You've gotta trust me when I say: I'm not the nigger who stole your truck. Or your daughter. And I certainly ain't the fabulously talented faggot responsible for stealing your heart the
other night on Broadway.
No. I'm pretty sure it ain't the unholy color of my skin or the unruly content of my character you revile so much. It's the audacity of these scar-knuckled/vitiligo
meathooks o' mine. They're the ones causing all of your agina and aggravation right now. Double-daring you to ignore them as they tap out a far-out polemical
treatise upon the World Wide Web like a pair of iconoclastic cephalopods dog-paddling up from the deepest/darkest medieval depths of my bleeding soul of
beatnik stone to perch upon your weary shoulders like a screaming demon and an avenging angel to massage your knotted temporal lobes and tickle the rods and cones and
filaments within your eyes and ears with antagonistic apocrypha like scientific reason, socio-political egality, and the absurdity of prosecuting consensual criminals in a free
If anything, allow me to assure you of one thing, my dear, sweet, and esteemed Reader... Everything under the capricious Sun and the serious Moon --all that I've
touched, stolen, seen, tasted, felt, created, loved, hated, saved, shaved, shagged, begged, borrowed, or outright lost-- has been eclipsed by my insatiable need to be unreasonable in
my shameless pursuit of money, sex, sport, enlightenment, and self-righteous agrarian autonomy.
Am I Evil?
Oh, you can bet your compromised ass, I am. Naturally and ars diavoli.
Do I believe that blasphemy and iconoclastic shock-jockery is both artistic in and of itself and an artful dodge all at the same time?
You're darn tootin' I do. Unscrupulously.
Do I nevertheless think that I'm entitled to the infallible and inscrutable precept of total authority, anyway?
Within these pages? You'd best believe I fucking do.
Because I am a man. Yes, I fucking am. Goddamned, no doubt, but free at last!
Okay, so that was all a bit bombastic and melodramatic and unnecessarily belligerent. Shallow, hypocritical, and only psuedo-subversive. But the hypocritical heart wants what it
wants and mine wants my handsy effing hands to help themselves to your effing essence, esteemed Reader. Having sprouted at the ends of my wrists, having attained thalamic
independence, these sentient (if not sapient) commensalistic organisms have become inexorable and incorrigible advocates of itinerant Love, eminent Death,
progressive Taxes, and egalitarian Tithings. Promulgating the cruel and capricious premises and immutable principles of indivisible creation and agency with insidious insight and
inciteful declension by squid-spraying gallon after gallon of King's English ink in order to repaint the bastardized pages of history and scripture in an effort to:
A) Escape the tyranny of the tabula rasa
B) Un-rig the nigger-rigged/underhanded ballgame
C) Road-hog the information superhighway
D) Wring the nexus of conventional authority
E) Fingerbang the narrative gender gap
F) Manhandle our contaminated zeitgeist
G) Stop the pigeon. Stop that goddawfully punctual (but pretentious) punctilious (but profligate) plutocratic (but populist) fear-mongering homing pigeon from flying the
coop with our ever-loving and longing-to-be-loved souls in tow.
Christ, and only Christ, knows how I suffer, for chrissakes. Hell, I don't even know what the hell I'm saying here anymore. I've just always wanted to
say something. For evermore. And therefore:
Maybe it is me, after all? The one you've been looking for, fait accompli. For these scribacious squids I speak of (ardent, earnest, and
industrious as they be) are still woefully codependent. Belonging to, and beholden to, a bothered, bewitched, and bewildered manqué known as yours truly: John Hamler.
Yes, sweating Reader, you've heard my name before. Don't try and deny it. In fact, I'm willing to refund the price you're about to pay for the pleasure of
owning this book that you probably reckon my name better than you can recall, for instance, your own brother-in-law's elder brother's name.
Do I win? Of course I win. Because I've put you on the spot, haven't I? You're wincing with humiliation because you can't remember your own brother-in-law's brother's name to save your
own life right now and so (suddenly facing my name) you just wanna pay somebody for the privilege of getting the hell out of this bookstore before somebody
newer and more improved than you are realizes that you have no goddamned taste, take no fucking stances, and don't know what in the hell you're doing half the fucking time that you're
pretending to have the time of your insignificant/goddamned life.
Let's face it, dear Reader. That's the quotidian capitalist trick behind almost every financial, emotional, intellectual, or sexual transaction you'll ever engage in. The rub
of it, too.
Go ahead. Say my name. Say it to yourself while you search your brain for the significance of those three little syllables. At the same time, however; I would like you to
try and resist, if you can, the urge to stop reading my words in order to Ask Jeeves about my ass. Instead I would like you to try and stop
me, if you can, from infecting your perspective from here on out.
And if you can't stop me?
Well, as we all know: Bitches get stitches for being snitches. Before they're carelessly dumped in carefully dug ditches.
I'm only kidding.
Or am I?
Maybe I'm only pleading with you --for the love of Moses and cinnamon McGillicuddy-- to not go and rat me out to the Gestapo internet just yet. Turn the goddamned
page first, will you please? I'll be waiting for you (watching you, following you, and sneaking up on you) like the Burger King King and Lord Kitchener's index finger. Waiting until the time
is right to say: Thank You and Pardon Me and Isn't it Ironic? that we find ourselves, at this precipitous point in pointed time, sharing this particular
metaphysical space together, exchanging ideas and preconceived notions in order to unfuck and deconstruct our prejudicial convictions?
That's what I'm talking about.
END OF INTRODUCTION
*Ain't Nobody's Business If You Do: The Absurdity of Consensual Crimes in a Free Society. Authored by Peter McWilliams and published in 1993. Now, that book
title might not roll off the tongue like Tess of the d'Ubervilles or The Call Of Cthulhu, but...
I implore you, sweet Reader. Read. That. Book. Even before (or even in lieu of) reading this one. If you really do gotta and must make a choice, that is. There's
no law, of course, says you can't read both, you know. Or more of everything under the Sun, for that matter.*
© Copyright 2019 John Hamler. All rights reserved.