The Anomie Within

Tim Tebow
Barack Obama, QB
Barack Obama, QB
President Barack Obama takes a moment to pass the football at the White House. | Photo: White House | Barack Obama, President, Democrat, Football, White House, Sports,

America's Parade of Horribles

As far back as 1638, well before there was an official 'America' to which pledges of allegiance could be given (and 'death to' epithets could be hurled by illiterate jihadists) there has been a New England tradition on a certain holiday in July otherwise dedicated to separation from 'Old' England known as the 'parade of horribles'.

Lawyers use this phrase to denigrate the supposed argumentation of their opposites in performance before juries and appellate benches; however, in what is perhaps understatement, since those ancient days of the 17th century the inhabitants of the northeastern part of what would become manifestly destined American North America seem to have had incredible prescience of what we would become: Killer Klowns from Vacuous Space.

From Ms. Brucelyn Jenner to Superbowl halftime orgiastic panderings to Get Outta Jail Free entitlements for Wall Street's walling-off of the 99 percentile, a.k.a. the One Percenters from prosecution for Mississippi gambler mounte-banking malpractice, we have met the 'anomie' and it is U.S.a.

Historians point to Benito Mussolini's literal upending as popular hatred for his 'trains-on-time' fascism; it is posited here that even in that admittedly unpleasant upside-down posture his apparent blushing would best be used to point up the extent to which his system--admired in the 1920's by those (then) quaint National Socialists in beer-swilling Bavarian brown leiderhosen--has been eclipsed by the very big tent circus America's body politic has become. In keeping with this zeitgeist, then, all must be prefixed with 'super'--to include its obese head to toe tattooed populace--culminating in its illogical conclusion: all hail the Super-Duper Circus Minimus that is the Smartphone. This device, more than any other primate tool, will ever flood the cosmos with electromagnetic drivel uttered by the most disappointing of Darwin's shams: the talking monkey, with nothing to say.

Let's examine the three rings of this huge tent of perverse performance 'art':

Ringmaster: Media, atop its platforms of Ubiquity, calls the tune, with a backup cadre of ever-repulsive twerkers so outrageous they tap into the rubber-necking practice of passing (passive) motorists: can't help but look;

Ring One: Without even trying to lampoon Wagnerian opera, fat ladies bounce buxom atop necessarily stout war horses bred to carry heavy armor--in this case, it's the footlong hotdogs stuffed into their pieholes which only appear to be smiling; so they're less than happy---look at it this way, America's Midriff Class is larger than ever;

Ring Two: Groucho's Lydia, the tatooed lady, new and 'improved', so that in addition to Washington crossing the Delaware you, the audience of a state of mined inspired by Truman's old haunt, now called Misery, may behold every drunken impulse writ very large upon her body poly-tic---itself an uncontrollable twitching brought on by super-sized Big Gulping and Big Macking behind the (ob)scenery;

Ring Three: On the high-wired drug-addled trap ease of addiction, Madam Meth, always without a net, accompanied by what used to be the name of female heroes, Mr. Heroin(e), swinging by the neck to the dirge-like musak of Neil Not-So-Young's 'Something and the Needle, Too'.

So, then, hurry, hurry, hurry, step right up, young and old, boys and girls, shy and bold; it's the greatest shown dearth of scruples starring two-legged elephantine underachievers since P.T. Barnum's last televised offerings---the Kennedy Murders & The Death of a King, brought to you by Mussolini Brothers, very Limited.

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Updated Aug 12, 2017 11:59 AM EDT | More details


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