A Little Too Real For You?

The day is long as an aging woman's, specifically my maternal grandmother's, tits. The birds are singing a lonely, agonizingly slow version of Soulja Boy. I can sense that this day will leave me deserted in a sea of people, feeling as lonely as Wilson and Tom Hanks even after rejonining both human and volleyball society.

As I sat amid this sea of faceless birdpeople who hummed "connnnfffooooorrrmitttyyy" in a deep baritone, I knew that I was going to have to be the peacock in this drowning pool/puddle of mud of mediocrity.

As an act of Defiance, not dissimilar to the small Fort in Northwestern Ohio named for this attitude in the Northwest Indian Wars Battle of Fallen Timbers, I stood up. I could sense the very anger rise up to meet me like a raging boner in the middle of a massive mastfest. They weren't about to deal with someone, something so real as my black hoodie covered in human skulls that was now prominently displayed in the epicenter of their disgusting storm of conformity. Right in the heart of their conform-a-storm.

So there I stood, displaying my plumage of reality and about to drop some truth bombs.

"9/11 never happened," I said as I crossed my arms. "It was all made up and filmed out in Hollywood as a massive Bush-led consiparacy."

I've hit a chord. Suddenly the drones looked at me, and they noticed my brash commitment toward individuality. How could they not? The truth was staring at them like someone they just GHBed and were about to date rape.

They stared at me, thawed out of their frozen, zombie state like when you put a hot pocket in the microwave and watch it transform from a brick of not caring to an oozing, thinking piece of processed cheese and imitation pepperoni. And as I was about to hit them with another hard reality bomb, like a three-hour block of The Hills, one of the sheep spoke to me.

"I lost my wife in those attacks," baaaaaaed the sheep. "You're a fucking moron. Go back to Hot Topic."

Another man planted by the government. I applaud you, Bush regime. But guess what? I made some of your sheep think a little bit, like someone playing a fourth-grade version of You Don't Know Jack.