Unbelievable Fecal Tennis
The Word E2 Feed
This sport is the culmination of what it means to be American, apparently.
Salutations from the inner intestines of the American political process. The Election has come to my City, and hence I have come to the Election. No matter what I try, it reaches out a beslimed tentacle to loop about my ankle and pull me in, so here we are.
The name of the game is the game. On Feedsites, in the increasingly outmoded print medium, in snatches of conversation overheard at the local Pup Bucket over potato vodka and Labrador haunches, you can hear and see it being played. Both sides are required, because it takes two sides to make a game.
The Smirker's designated rectal cleanser has chosen a co-candidate. This might, possibly, be newsworthy, but only if in fact the selection of a VP candidate ever meant anything other than a ruthless political calculation on the part either of the Party, the Presidential candidate, or (rarely) on the part of the VP-to-be in question. Well and good.
The problem is that your press seems to have decided to suck down whole the endless shitstorms of brainwash coming from both sides of the game. Hence, the court delineated and the score re-zeroed, both campaigns compete to lob their own brand of piquant excreta back and forth across the American public's head. She's a good mother! *WHACK* She endangered her unborn child! *WHACK* She's against corruption and earmarking pork and for women! *WHACK* No, she isn't, she spends half a billion on a stadium but makes rape victims pay for their own rape evidence kits! *WHACK*
...and so it goes. The net, in this case, is a line of stunned and weary Americans, the last remaining survivors of a nation once willing to think and to take an interest in its own destiny. Watching, with the lost hope of abandoned soldiers, for the rescue that will never come - for a candidate, a campaign, or God forbid the press to actually argue or ask something about the actual job of running this country.
Don't hold your breath, other than to avoid the stink.
On one side, the Designated Successor side, we have a set of operators who have been tapped with the shit-stained finger of the currently in power scumbags to continue the rapine for at least another four-year term. Another four years with increasing efforts to dismantle the oversight and balance functions of the American Federal Government. Another four years of knee-jerk fundamentalist-informed decisions with far too much power given to those who are so brain-damaged as to think that Jesus existed, died a virgin and still nevertheless cares more about them than his regrets and anger over his never-was sex life.
(Get real, people. Even if he didn't mind dying a Virgin, he's a Jew. His mother is giving him eternal shit for not only not giving her a grandkid, but never even entering the game. He doesn't give a shit about your sins, he's too busy paying for his.)
On the other side, a group of frighteningly indecisive wankers who are caught up in the train wreck of a candidacy whose primary attraction is that the man himself is apparently capable of pitching a hallucinatory brainwashing field that the Bolsheviks would have wet themselves to get hold of. One that is so powerful that weeks after even seeing the man on television, his acolytes are reduced to standing on streetcorners wearing small images of him in their lapels wanting eagerly to talk to YOU about his wonder and upcoming CHANGE with the light of Utter Certainty shining in their eyes.
I've seen utter certainty. It marches in jackboots and presses the punishment button even with screams coming from the next room.
So there we have it. The Two candidates. The Growler and the Grinner. Which will you have, America? Would you like fries with that? Don't worry, we don't expect any upsets in the Status Quo; the economy is dropping with the oncoming of a poor front, but after the expected storms things should stabilize as ever - with a few shining icons of consumption parked atop a shivering mass of sheep.
Next up: Which one fucks us less in the ass with a lawnmower. Maybe.
I'm Spider Jerusalem, and I Hate it Here.