Waves of purple vapour obliterate the statues to
long dead falsebeards, still worshipped by country folk who have been trained
to believe a Wal-Mart parking lot is a hay field. Sitting in line at the
miracle mile Chik-fil-a for twenty efficient minutes is their scenic country
ride, ever so briefly letting the real world air in with power windows to
grabble their post-modern supper. The obedient wage slave curtsies, saying “it’s
my pleasure to serve you” dutifully. And these post-modern country folk who don’t
recognize their country has had the flags of an international cartel of lawless
brands planted everywhere, drive off into oblivion, taking exit Fuck Everybody
Else to hustle back to their 2-acre two-storey McPlantation home where old
glory still has a spotlight on it out front, flying just above their chosen
battle flag of lost causes which they still claim mental allegiance to despite
being as domesticated and docile as feedlot cows in their physical existence.
Continuing their practice of suckin’ on the state’s chili dog outside the tastee-freez
of reality, secure in their inherited and carefully maintained “simple”
comfort. Let the waves of purple (and orange) vapour continue to teargas their
oblivion into discomfort.
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