“In a world full of people who couldn’t care less, be someone who couldn’t care more.”  ~ Author Unknown

Here I sit.  Here I have sat always.  In the center of farmville.  In the center of gothic religious-ville.  In the center of adultery-ville.  In the center of hunting … for easy casual red-neck rough sex.  In the center of shooting at anything that moves.  In the  center of filthy jokes and home-made pies.  In the center of 70th anniversary celebrations and multiple divorces.  In the center of good old boys who stack the decks.  In the center of whining and opportunism.  In the center of big fish in little ponds.  In the center of nowhere decorated with traces of hidden scandal among the finest who continue to rape the rest of us.

So Paul Harvey who told us in his “blowing onto wax paper and a comb ” zither-like voice that politicians do not care about animals because animals do not vote scores another one in the polar opposite direction…after he is long dead.  For profit for somebody.

Barbies and Kens and clod-hoppers and high school jocko boys and YELL-leaders gathered their beers and their pops and their chips and their bean-based salsa dips and skinny jeans covering big asses and lounged in rec rooms or church basements on a Sunday to watch the annual circus of men in tights with mascara smeared under their dead eyes on their oily faces, the organ-grinder monkeys  poured into shoulder pads and sissy plastic Ken helmets to play pretend war.  Prostitutes for corporate America…male whores behaving like Betty Furness selling products…supposed athletes altered to nothing but street walkers pimped by Madison Avenue.  Take a HIKE, all of you…

Facebook Midwesterners, who amount to zilch, flocked to the Harvey voice-over for 2 and one half minutes and LIKED  in droves–in empty headed flocks –and chatted and masturbated to the look of their own lemming posts.   Curiosity stoked, I took another googled look at a seemingly peaceful tribute to the ruggedness of the American farmer and to a farmer’s rusted-out toys and to a farmer’s big family praying at long tables over mounds of dead meat and to a farmer wiping his tired sweaty brow from mass distribution of insecticides and artificial insemination and getting away with bloody murder in order to to poison the most stupid among us with PEST controls and to encourage our defeatist cannibalism and to harden our souls and to turn us into monsters along with themselves.  Those farmers grew and harvested herds and herds of zombie-monsters–us– who never stop to think or feel or care and never will again.

Around these parts, cattle graze involuntarily on (and through) the mud and manure in the rain.  Around these parts, calves and lambs are shoved into igloos dotting side yards and all over and in your face.  The babies fatten up crammed into the dark for the kill.  Around these parts farm kids are not allowed to name their Piggy 4-H projects.   Around these parts, a TRUE cow’s children are sent off to market on Mother’s Day.  Her milk belongs to our over-bred, in-bred children.  Around these parts, human fucking and reproducing of more automatons is the week-end hobby along with football games.  Around these parts, farmland is being auctioned off here and there across America…so that pregnant Barbie dolls might build their own mansions not where the cattle to be grilled into burgers linger and languish in the storms but where wildlife are used to roaming.  Around these parts, kept women look out artsy picture windows at deer and wild turkeys and coyotes and rabbits and hawks who once lived where these designer houses are popping up — along with the popping up of baby bumps to fill church rosters.   Around these parts, females collect antique firearms for “pretty” and serious  guns for defense of their stash.

We are all being killed for profit…just wait your turn.  In the meantime, keep your eyes on the game.  But, butts, enjoy your new Dodge Ram pick-ups because as Uncle Paul insisted in an over-long mafiosocorporate AmericaN commercial, which is the only reason monkeys played ball on Super Sunday, “So God Made a Farmer….”  and by association So God Wants You to buy, buy, buy.  Bye Bye, Baby.