I hate Hair Furor. I hate him more than I can imagine hating anyone; I mean, my hatred of him surprises even me. I hate him as much as cancer. His pernicious and malignant stupidity and uselessness are spreading like a dread disease. It’s one thing to be stupid, cowardly, and hateful, it’s another to be proud of it, to make it your life’s work and the best you can give to the world around you. It’s not what you don’t know that causes suffering and damage, it’s what you know for sure that’s just not true.
I would say that 45 needs a swift kick in the ass but we’re not using my shoes. Once you get trump on your shoes, it won’t come off.
I really don’t like feeling this way. Hate is not in my nature, as far as I know. It’s a terrible paradox. I’ve always managed to find some redeeming qualities in everyone, even W and Dick and their cabal of war. But it’s just impossible to find anything about Cheesy that doesn’t compel me to vomit. Still every day I try hard to put this long national nightmare out of my mind and live my life, do my work, feel gratitude, and be creative. It’s incredibly difficult. I’m too connected! So I’m filled with disgust at the way people are being treated and reality twisted to a wasteland of lies, obsession, and paranoia.
And in case you’re wondering, yeah, all that counts for everyone who still supports this lumbering monster of racist, misogynistic shit. If you voted for The Clown Price, you’ve had two years to figure out what he really is and what you did, and repent. Now you sit down and shut up. The grown-ups have a mess to deal with.
Up with life. Stamp out all small and large indignities. Leave everyone alone to make it without pressure. Down with hurting. Lower the standard of living. Do without plastics. Smash the servo-mechanisms. Stop grabbing. Snuff the breeze and hug the kids. Love all love. Hate all hate.
– Jon D. McDonald