Let’s Get Crazy

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by Peter E. Schultz

We’re witnessing the most exacerbated display of lunacy in America since starving Neanderthal hunters decided to go vegan, and there can be no doubt that all of the commotion about buttons not matching the snaps, burlap tighty-whities without suspenders, and the clogged arm holes in all bikinis, wow, there just isn’t enough space between all the ears in the whole USA to comprehend the nature of invented racial issues that have now become gray in the fog of urban warfare; besides, it’s been over a year since everybody got to steal new tennis shoes — no matter what the verdict is, free sunglasses could be included this time — so burning down businesses might spark unstoppable pollution, then more global warming, but all of that will come in handy this winter when the billions of misogynists get cold, although a lot of people have never even been to a massage parlor, with or without fruit on their cereal, coupled with centuries of injustice known by extravagance and every dimension of free market opportunities for wealth through gifts, notwithstanding hard work, while so ironically, capitalism opens all of the doors for annoying criticism of it, although there’s remarkably twisted sense in blaming all the violence on glue guns, after all, those things make a real mess every time someone shoots a carrot in self-defense, yes we know you might be an orange-o-phobe, in which case each green vegetable more closely fits another neoharmonically tuned socioholographic paradigm with or without chocolate ice cream cradling the maraschino cherry who has, once again, subjugated the wretched, yet adored, old pumpkin fearfully wailing in the shadows, sobbing some of the happy birthday lyrics (only the ones it vaguely remembers), when the used pencils piercing giant balloons that are altogether annihilating the integrity of our beaches have produced the kind of conundrum only solved by more and more anarchist protests where our Constitution paves the way for the free speech of those who oppose its rule of law in favor of eclairs filled with loving and peaceful brutality, non-violent murder, clothed in deep atheist reverence — all wrapped up in the kind of scorn harbored by two-year-old PhDs masquerading as homeless indigents with collections of used masks signed by the most famous celebrities, running the largest corporations beholden to foreign governments and, of course, their education czars, many of whom, by the way, have never held a loaded artichoke because they just don’t feel comfortable with the geopolitical fallout generated by endless diatribes so common in today’s bucolic inner city life, with the puppies, oh the puppies, so cute at over two hundred pounds in the high-rise apartments, and speaking of weight, have you seen that oversized postern lately, say, those green product stocks are doing well, however, the white supremacy of writing paper will persecute us until we let go of all black ink in order to read everything clearly, therefore, police should not receive funds for advanced training when the opportunities to belittle, injure them, and break the law are so much fun, giving criminals every second of suckered media attention they crave, to disparage this week’s law enforcement whipping boy, all because some people prefer mustard and catsup along with traditional relish on their hot dogs, though the inclusive posture of weeding out undesirable people by abortion, for which no amount of coupons can eclipse the wholly awesome, erudite expression of slothful, hyper-energized victims found in immaculate swamp water resting comfortably just inches below the world’s highest mountain tops, although we can’t forget the valley people who, every morning, launch robust, empty strains of mediocre exceptionalism, without ever uttering a word about the environmental irresponsibility gripping every breathing cricket on a hot rotisserie, and through all of the drenched deserts, the dry ocean floors, and the silent screams of marshmallows everywhere, oh, speaking of white fragility, nobody likes them totally charcoaled anyway, except cajun; we have only everyone else to blame for the injustice fostered by hordes of hamburgers and french fries, all because there will never be enough maple syrup to fill the lonely void left by unlimited love and pasta, knowing that we have not lost that loving feeling, whoa-oh-oh-oh, dump-dump, dump-dump, dump-dump, because we should all run for office, unselfishly sharing everything belonging to others; here, here, and there, there; besides, who’s got the courage plus kitty litter for those socialist spots on the driveway?

“Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy — meditate on these things” (Philippians 4:8).