So it turns out that Vox Populi ain't the same as Vox Dei, after all; but rather a simian grunt followed by an inguinal gesture. So be it.
Since no one (me and you included, dear Reader) bothered to thoughtfully respond to the one and only cat (BumGunner88) who at least made the fruitless attempt to
post a thoughtful and poignant comment... Well, we can go ahead and attempt to sift through and unpack the vulgar pabulum as we tiptoe past the exploding turds as we screw
up your nerves and scrunch up our faces as we try and swallow all the apple cider nostrum weu can stomach before puking our guts out of our butts, but...
I'm here to tell you something: That's not mere indigestion/constipation you're dealing with. Your perturbation stems not from the realization that you're
unwittingly sharing this planet with a whole helluva lot of racist, sexist, comic book-obsessed idiots and asinine ne'er-do-wells with misanthropic opinions derived from delving into the
sphincter-stinky bowels of social-media platforms, stress-testing your already unenviable nose-first position behind the economic eight ball. And it's not because your
socks are too loose and your hair is falling out, either. Nor is it because your stupid-looking Thundercat Underoos are chafing your psoriatic nipples and riding up your salmon
ass at the moment...*
*Although, if all of these things are truly happening to you? I truly feel for you.*
No. Like me, you're probably just an empathetic card-carrying member of the commoner class of popcorn-chomping chattel whose common sensibilities are often overwhelmed
by the explosive techno-beat sexual tension that surrounds us at all times while just as often underwhelmed by the disappointing people and depreciating real estate we
deign to accompany and occupy at any one time.
To wit: We, the people, are constantly engaged in a phyrric tug-a-war with our friends and families and colleagues and enemies over territory, taste, and tactics. Not to
mention the batshit battles we wage against our own common senses as we delude ourselves and then kill ourselves (and each other) trying to stem the inevitable tide of personally
dire physical and mental degeneration, degradation, and demise.
And why not? In an arrogant (but rather astute and masterful) attempt to make dollars and sense of the poorly conceived and overly convoluted plot of mankind's ultimately meaningless
existence; William Shakespeare Himself was both prolific and profound and eager to categorically tackle the big issues. Traversing such diverse themes thru comedy and tragedy
and romance and polemical rant --Measure for Measure-- until he'd completely exhausted his sui generis wisdom and eventually succumbed to the economic/ergonomic
pressure of remaining relevant. An inevitable condition that all men, no matter how high or mighty, must eventually contend with.
Perhaps that was around the time the Great Bard Himself threw up his hands to bemoan the unlawful knowledge that the cockblocking Devil Himself could cite hallowed song and
scripture to serve His own inhumane purposes? Seeing as Shakespeare's oeuvre (and The Bible itself) has been used to justify just about every deadly sin this side of omission,
jealousy, ignorance, misogyny, hypocrisy, pornography, genocide, intolerance, incest, pride, prejudice, persuasion, and the partaking of potent potables, perversions, and profiling politics to
the avenged sevenfold end of the proverbial noose?
Well, it seems far more likely (to me, anyway) that the Morning Star Himself (as a muse) actually wrote and continues to write all the songs and scriptures and fables
we all know and now and then and forever hardly cling or adhere to. For only the Abrahamic Lord's Best Man and original-sinning Scapegoat could've transcribed that
goddamnable Good Book in the Gotterdammerunged first place, is what I think I mean. Because only an amanuensis who truly hated his boss would be compelled to
compose such a skillfull but scathing profile. Am I right?
Of course, I'm right. At any rate, and considering the Bible's shameless ethos/pathos/ledgerdemain or (whatever the fuck it's trying to say when it says you should rape an angel
if you get the chance, live inside a fish for a while to gain some perspective, and then inseminate your brother's wife when he dies before dashing the heads of your incestuous offspring
against a rock when they inevitably talk out of turn) where's the harm in a little self-promotion? Especially since Moses and Shakespeare and Lucifer and Me are merely and
faithfully trying to transcribe The Word of our martyred but everlasting Father to martyred Mother Earth's everlasting memory.
If you could actually retort to me, as you're reading this, you could probably maybe say something like:
"But if God is The Word, and His Divinity in the Writ, then why in heaven or hell on earth would it be dictated to you (John Hamler of all people, in profane
New World English of all tongues) without a shred of evidence to support such an heretical claim?"
To which I could maybe say something like:
"Q.E.D, bitches! Because Moses, Jesus, Mohammed, Joseph Smith, Ayn Rand, and L. Ron Hubbard, motherfuckers! And also because English is the language of science and
scholarly screed nowadays (having usurped Medieval Latin and Nazi German) and because...
Well, that's where I run out of room and rational excuses. For I've no greater powers of observation, sensitivity, sympathy, empathy, or imagination than you do, dear Reader. Nor the talent to
express it all with clever enough description, or clear enough symbolism, to manufacture your consent. For the vast majority of my life I'd never given any thought to having a supernatural
muse in my life, pushing me towards art and philosophy and manic depression. If I had, I certainly would've hoped for a more inspirational and feminine one. You know, like Dante had
Beatrice; an escort towards comedic divinity. Or how Michael Beck had Olivia Newton-John emerging from a gaudy inner-city mural on roller skates to whisk his sorry
ass to Xanadu.
Now, while I must admit that I myself am probably more simpatico with Roscoe Lee Brown than Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles, if my Muse had to be a man? Well, I
would've appreciated a black man. Someone dark and dignified and fierce but physically non-threatening and eager to do me an academic kindness. Someone with the sage and
stentorian voice of say: James Earl Jones or Morgan Freeman, maybe.
Anyone but Ruben Kinnock, is what I'm saying. My antagonistic, Yiddish-spitting, hypostatic/homoerotic, White Whale/Lord Protector with the locomotive Manishevitz breath. Ruben is a demon
and an infernal force to be reckoned with --The Yellow King of Carcosa, the Amoral Mayor of Middlemarch, the Boss Hogg of Brigadoon, the Unholy Tsar of Ankh-Morpork, the Wicked Warlock of
Lake Wobegon, the ice-nine wielding Homicidal Head Honcho of volcanic San Lorenzo, and a John Bull/Boss Tweed arch-criminal in a Mardi Gras jingle bell party hat piking my
decapitated aspect and lockjawing me in a perpetual primal scream for all posterity-- all rolled up into one supercilious and sociopathic superhuman.
But if I'm a certifiable psychotic --believing in and revering Ruben enough to testify on his behalf-- then how come mass-hysterical devotion to the Abrahamic Lord of the Old Testament remains so
conventional? In other words:
If I know I'm going crazy, can I really be insane?
I dunno. I suspect we're all a bit guilty of protesting too much, of course. For if any one of us were really, really, really devoted enough to trust in any one thing hard
enough to worship any one thing in the hopes of getting stuff... Well, we wouldn't be so damned insecure, intransigent, and indignant about it. We'd keep our Religulous delusions to
ourselves instead of trying to convince others of it. Reveling in both the mystery and the principle instead of dividing ourselves into those of us looking for the Lost Ark and those of us praying
it stays lost.
And yet here I am. Doing the same and asking the same of you, esteemed Reader. Because I really can't fathom how else I'm supposed to convince your Pontius pious ass. If I
did know, I'd already be a successful molder of hearts and minds and wouldn't hafta individually cater to and further explain this shite to the obstinate likes of you.
Am I right?
Of course, I'm right. But I'm bound and determined to give it the old college try and prove myself wrong, anyway.
Because it's fun.
Isn't it? Isn't this fun, dear Reader?
Okay, but just know this: The first time I went about writing about Ruben Kinnock? It didn't end so well for me. Nor my country 'tis of thee.
END OF PREFACE
© Copyright 2019 John Hamler. All rights reserved.