I had just finished watching the Republican Presidential debate, where I was rooting on my man, Ron Paul, who although he didn’t have perfect hair like Mitt Romney (only a Mormon would name their kid after a baseball glove!) or have that bulging cheek look like he just shoved a fistful of Red Man (later changed to “Native American Man” for political correctness) tobacco in his mouth like John McCain, he was the only person up there talking any sense.
After a debate, I don’t really need to hear self-appointed pundits expound on what was just said with their own colorings, as they lead the sheeple viewer into getting caught up in the horse race while ignoring that all horseshit smells the same and at most is just a pillow to rest your head on while the government continues to bend you over and pound you like a bitch. So while I was going through my cabinets scrounging for something to snack on, the only reason I didn’t turn off the television was because the power button broke off a long time ago and I have to jiggle a butter knife in the slot just right in order to turn it off and on. And if the smell of elephant shit hadn’t totally stunk up the room, that prick Sean Hannity had to come and add his own lump of shit onto the fecal playground.
Scammity started doing a post-debate interview with Ron Paul where he was totally unfair—talking over him, cutting him off, not allowing him to answer, giving his disagreeing opinion, or shall we say his marching orders from his puppet masters who set the agenda—and totally misrepresenting Dr. Paul. I was so infuriated that the next day I went out and bought a $1300 DVD/CD duplicator in order to copy Freedom and Truth videos to hand out to people to help break them free of the matrix that people like Sean Scammity were creating and casting with the political equivalent of the dog piss actor, Keanu Reeves. I figured I’d worry about paying my rent come the end of the month; worst-case scenario I’d be a homeless guy with a pretty awesome DVD/CD duplicator.
Half-a-year ago I had a computer crash and lost the software I needed to dupe discs. So today when I emailed Discribe, herein called Dickscribe, I received a response by Eric, a man who was so law-abiding that once when he was getting a blowjob from his girlfriend while driving a car, when the light turned red he told her to STOP, not only resulting in it being the last blowjob she would ever give him but also directly contributing to her becoming a lesbian.
Apparently, if I bought the duplicator a few months later that I did, I would now be eligible for a free upgrade. I asked Eric if he could hook me up with the update anyway. He wrote back, “You can pay $149 for the upgrade.” I wrote him back, “So your answer is no then.” He blabbered on about the “rules” and I was like, “Bitch, then just send me the older version.” To this I received a two-line response: “Dicksribe Robotic version 5 is no longer being developed or supported. I have to follow the policy.”
I called the company of the duplicator and told him Eric at Dickscribe was being a prick and the guy there sent me the program I needed immediately. Eric wrote me back and asked me what exactly I needed, which either made him a retard, as I had spelled it out for him already, or someone who was masturbating to my emails and needed one more response from me in order to pop. The image of a guy poking his girlfriend in the shoulder with a massive erection and seducing her with, “Let’s fuck,” and her replying, “Wait until Melrose Place is over” and when the show ends and he’s limp as a chicken’s neck she’s says, “Okay, let’s do it,” to which he’s like, “What are you fucking kidding me?” came to mind. “Too little, too late, Lewinsky. I already came on your blue dress.”
When the Pharisees tried to bust Jesus’ balls by asking him if he was doing healing on the Sabbath, knowing that if he admitted to it he would be in violation of the laws Moses had made up and said it was from God to cover his crack high, Jesus answered, “Was the Sabbath made for man or man for the Sabbath.” You see, Jesus was a Jew and we know those Jews can negotiate themselves out of any dilemma. “Officer, my cousin, Shlomo owns the donut shop down the avenue. Why don’t you forget the ticket, stop in, and tell him that Shmendrick sent you and have your fill of donuts?”
Eric is like many rule-followers, so attached to them that when the Nuremberg Trials happen a second time and they ask him, “Why didn’t you just fuckin’ send him the program?” he will answer like his Nazi predecessors, “I was just following orders,” thinking that answer will always point him North and so he can just discard his own moral compass.
Rules are meant to serve man, not enslave him. But no one has the balls to make the call for fear the boss man will get upset, or society will get upset, or “Mrs. Jones will get upset if I let you run without a jockstrap and not her.” And if they are the boss man, they will probably justify that, “I got where I am today by following rules,” forgetting altogether where they had left their brain upon its removal.
I rather live in the freedom of anarchy than the prison of the lawman. Surround me with dirty, unethical criminals over clean, law-abiding pussies. Most of you would prefer to walk around with dirty asses because someone didn’t tell you, “You might want to wipe your ass,” just so you could avoid the responsibility of making your own decisions.
Socrates said, “The unexplored life is not worth living.” Well, that’s not an unexplored life, it’s a life plenty explored—only by someone else. Tell them to fuck off and start living your own life and break some of their precious rules for a change. The world won’t suddenly end. It may even begin anew for you.
The alternative is to be a cocksucking Pharisee like Eric with your head up your ass following the stinky rules that someone else shoved up there, missing the fragrance of the fully blossomed Master who is right in front of you telling you to stop being a pussy and live for a change.