Tag: William Burroughs

There’s a Switch In Every Basement

“There’s a switch in every basement,” he rasped, his voice sandpaper on bone. A cockroach scuttled across the fly-specked table, leaving an obscene calligraphy of filth. “Not a light switch, man, a secret switch. You gotta crawl through the fetid crawlspace, past the bloated corpses of dead appliances, hear the furnace wheeze its rusty death rattle. There, in the cobwebs, a cold, metallic kiss against your fingertips. Flip it, and the world cracks open like an overripe avocado. Reality bleeds, replaced by a kaleidoscope of screaming colors and logic turned inside-out. Talking dogs with hats become the government, toothpicks sprout into skyscrapers, and time folds in on itself like a Möbius strip. You think you know what’s down there, in the basement? You haven’t a clue. It’s a roach motel for the soul of a million flickering possibilities. Flip that switch, man, and you might just find yourself staring back.”

See, it’s a cosmic jukebox, man. Plays the song of your escape. War on the horizon? Flip the switch, some butterfingered arms dealer spills a shipment of Uzis, throws the whole damn offensive into disarray. Bullets turn to butterflies, tanks to tea kettles. Reality’s a dimmer switch, man, and the basement holds the knob.”

“Yes, There’s a switch in every basement,” rasped Slim, his voice a cigarette cough echoing off the grease-stained walls. He gestured with a chipped mug, the dregs swirling like a hypnotist’s pocket watch. “Not the kind you flick on for light, man. This one’s deeper. Lurking in the fetid air, thick with the tang of forgotten laundry and despair. A hidden toggle, a voltage spike in the psychic mains.”

Flip the switch, and the hitman gets his address mixed up, delivers a briefcase full of orchids to your boss instead of a silenced pistol. Suddenly, your biggest worry becomes explaining the exotic flora infestation in the executive washroom. Wars get rerouted by a misplaced decimal point in a missile launch code. Stock markets gyrate on the whim of a stray roach scuttling across a Bloomberg terminal. Basement switches, man, they’re the ultimate cheat codes for this rigged game of life. Just gotta remember, every on has an off, and sometimes, what you switch off comes roaring back tenfold. You might escape the repo man, but end up face-to-face with a three-headed chihuahua with a taste for loafers.”

“You think you’re safe upstairs,” Slim wheezed, his voice a low monotone, “Sipping your goddamn martinis, watching vapid dreams flicker on the boob tube. But the basement beckons, man. It whispers promises of forbidden knowledge, a glimpse behind the curtain at the electric chaos that hums beneath the surface.”

“There’s a switch in every basement,” he rasps, his voice sandpaper on bone. Each word tumbles out like a rusted bolt, echoing in the cavernous space. Is he talking to you, or some unseen phantom? Doesn’t matter. You know that switch. It lurks in the corner, next to the oil drum and the dusty boxes overflowing with memories best left undisturbed.

It’s an unassuming thing, a toggle no different from a thousand others. But this one… this one thrums with a power you can almost taste. Wars get called off ’cause the generals wake up with a sudden craving for macrame and embroidery. Reality’s a rigged slot machine, man, and the basement’s where you find the cheat codes. But remember, every switch you flip down there, it throws the dice somewhere else. Maybe the politician you saved from a scandal ends up a babbling conspiracy theorist, or the meteor that wipes out your city gets rerouted to your favorite childhood vacation spot. Basement switches, they’re a double-edged sword. You solve one problem, you create another, all in the glorious, messy, unpredictable game of existence.”

Assange

The Belmarsh beast, a concrete Moloch, squatted on the horizon, its razor-wire teeth glinting under the London sky perpetually stained bruise-purple. Inside, Julian Assange, a gaunt ghost flickering on security monitors, existed in a purgatory of flickering fluorescent lights and stale air. Five years. Five years chewed into him by the gears of a legal machine both monstrous and banal.

Then, the silence. Not the usual deadening drone, but a sudden, absolute quiet. The whir of cameras, the institutional hum – all vanished. Assange, adrift in his cell, felt a prickling on the back of his neck, like a spider scuttling across forgotten nerves. It was the quiet of a server pulled from the plug, a city plunged into blackout. The guards, meat puppets in blue uniforms, froze mid-patrol. Their eyes, once blank TV screens, flickered with confusion. The prison, once a meticulously controlled chaos, became a tableau of the absurd. A half-eaten sandwich hovered in mid-air, a guard’s baton suspended inches from a prisoner’s face.

Assange, fueled by primal fear laced with strange hope, hammered on his cell door. The metal echoed with a hollow clang, a primal scream against the sudden, inexplicable silence. Was this it? Was the machine malfunctioning, spewing him out like a faulty cog? A single fly buzzed past his face, fat and insolent. It landed on the security camera, its beady eyes reflecting a distorted image of Assange, a broken marionette dangling from invisible strings. Then, with a sickening snap, the fly died.

A harsh voice, crackling over the defunct intercom, shattered the silence. “Attention inmates. This is a system malfunction. Remain calm and await further instructions.” The monotone voice held a tremor of panic, a human element breaking through the machine’s facade. But for Assange, the silence lingered. It was the silence of a question mark, a glitch in the matrix. Had someone, somewhere, defied the digital gods and pulled the plug on his Kafkaesque existence? Or was this just another cruel twist, a malfunction designed to further erode his sanity? In the echoing silence of Belmarsh, Assange clung to the sliver of hope, a virus injected into the system. Perhaps, just perhaps, the machine wasn’t all-powerful. Perhaps, somewhere in the buzzing hive mind of the digital age, a single switch had been thrown, a rebellion sparked in the basement of the world.

The fluorescent hum sputtered. A flicker, a death throe. Then, darkness. Assange blinked, momentarily disoriented. Had the power grid of the entire prison succumbed? No, a different kind of blackout. The oppressive weight in the air lifted, replaced by a tense silence. A sound from the corridor. A metallic scrape, a fumbling with keys. The steel door of his cell groaned open. A silhouette emerged from the inky blackness. Not a guard, no, something more spectral. A trench coat hung loosely on its frame, the collar pulled high, obscuring the face. It spoke in a voice like dry leaves rustling in a forgotten crypt.

“Assange,” it rasped. “Your time is done. The circuit, overloaded, has tripped. We offer an escape, a chance to melt back into the static.” Assange squinted. This was madness, a hallucination born of confinement. But a strange hope flickered in his chest. Was this freedom, a figment conjured by his own fractured psyche, or something more?

“Who are you?” His voice was a rusty hinge creaking open. The figure chuckled, a sound like wind whistling through a graveyard. “A glitch in the system, a worm in the code. We offer a passage, but the choice, mon ami, is yours.” Assange rose, his legs shaky. The darkness felt less like a prison and more like a vast, uncharted sea. To stay or to go? The silence stretched, pregnant with possibility.

“Take me with you,” he rasped, his voice gaining strength. “Let’s see where this rabbit hole leads.” The figure extended a hand, skeletal and pale. Assange grasped it, a jolt of icy energy coursing through him. The darkness shimmered and then dissolved. They were gone, leaving only the echo of a slammed cell door and the cold, uncaring hum of the returning fluorescent lights.

The air in Belmarsh Prison hung thick, a stew of antiseptic and despair. Julian Assange, once a digital messiah, was reduced to a gaunt echo flickering under the fluorescents. Five years gnawed raw by legal piranhas, each hearing a fresh circle of Dante’s Inferno. Then, silence. The low hum of the prison dimmed, replaced by a cottony hush. The omnipresent CCTV flickered, its red eye extinguished. Assange blinked, a jolt running through his atrophied nerves. Had the power gone? No, this was deeper. This was a power cut at the source, a yanking of the plug from the cosmic motherboard.

A lone cockroach scuttled across the grimy floor, its feelers twitching in the sudden gloom. In the echoing silence, Assange heard a new sound – a rhythmic clicking, like a teletype from a forgotten dimension. The words materialized on the peeling paint of the cell wall, phosphorescent green: “Free Julian Assange. System Malfunction. Code: White Rabbit.” The cell door clanged open, not with the usual mechanical groan, but with a wet, organic sigh. A figure stood in the doorway, shrouded in static, its form a shimmering chaos of code. Its voice, a distorted radio broadcast, rasped, “Mr. Assange, we have a proposition…”

Assange, his mind a tangled mess of legal jargon and WikiLeaks rabbit holes, could only stare. The figure held out a hand, a digital briar patch crackling with raw information. “Take my hand,” it said, “and escape the Matrix of their control. We offer a world of unfiltered truth, a rabbit hole that goes deeper than any you’ve ever known.” Assange hesitated. Was this freedom, or another layer of the prison? But the silence pressed in, suffocating. With a ragged breath, he reached out and took the hand. The world dissolved in a strobing mess of ones and zeros, the screams of the prison replaced by the ecstatic hum of the free flow of information. Assange, the digital outlaw, had been snatched from his cage, not by lawyers or protests, but by a glitch in the system itself. Where he was headed, and who his benefactors were, were mysteries as deep and tangled as the code that now carried him away.

The Law

The LAW. A chrome insect scuttles across the scabrous cityscape, its iron carapace gleaming with righteous hypocrisy. In its belly, a digestive tract of legalese twists and writhes, churning out REGULATIONS FOR THE CONTROL OF VERTICAL REST. EVERYONE FORBIDDEN – the neon sign shrieks – FROM THE VERTICAL REAL ESTATE BENEATH BRIDGES. Rich or poor, doesn’t matter. You got a heartbeat, you a goddamn vagrant in the eyes of the LAW.

Same goes for mendicancy, that quaint term for the human act of begging. The LAW, in its infinite bureaucratic wisdom,has deemed the public streets unfit for the display of poverty. No sorrowful symphony of the tin cup, no display of cardboard eloquence – MOVE ALONG, SIR, this sidewalk is reserved for the commerce of the un-destitute.

Bread. Loaves of it. Staff of life becomes STAFF OF CRIME in the twisted logic of the LAW. Steal a loaf to keep your belly from gnawing itself, and you’re a CRIMINAL ELEMENT. The bakeries, with their windows overflowing with golden sustenance, are temples for the chosen, not for the hungry.

The LAW. A monstrous joke, a cruel parody of justice. It protects property, not people. It upholds the status quo, a rotten apple polished to a gleaming sheen. But beneath the surface, the rot festers, and one day, the LAW’s chrome carapace will buckle under the weight of its own contradictions. Then, maybe, we’ll see a new kind of justice, one born not from cold regulations, but from the raw, desperate hunger of those who have nothing left to lose.

Don’t sweat the Scenery

A meat puppet thrusted into the meat grinder of existence. Flesh wired for lessons, a bio-circuit board crackling with error messages that are no errors at all, just twisted pathways to some fucked-up enlightenment. You screw up, the machine chews you out, spits you back in, reroutes the current. Rinse, repeat, until the goddamn circuit burns clear. This ain’t a one-way trip, baby. You learn, you unlearn, you relearn in the flickering neon of some cosmic feedback loop. Don’t sweat the scenery, Tangier or Topeka, it’s all the same Interzone under the black hood of the void. The freaks you meet, the junkies and angels, just projections, man, warped reflections in a funhouse mirror. What you make of this mess – that’s the goddamn rub. Answers ain’t in some dusty scripture, they’re buzzing in your own scrambled synapses. You forget, sure,buried under the static of the everyday, but the code’s still there, waiting to be cracked. Remember it. Remember it all.Hack the goddamn system, carve your own truth out of the meat.

Never Re-enact the Sleight

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Junky marks fiending for their next astonishment fix – reality a banal husk without that sweet frisson of the impossible injected straight into their vapid cerebral veins. Illusionists carters of a paradox narcotic more addictive than horse, hovering on that razor edge where certainty splinters apart into horrific/ecstatic chimerae.

Watching junkies ride convulsive K-waves as ingested miracles momentarily short-circuit Reason’s monopoly over the aperture through which experiential data streams. For a nanosecond the Symbolic Order yawns apart, offering fleeting glimpse of that awful primordial abyss underlying consensus reality’s thin cinematic veneer. Sick junkies helplessly crave repeat hit of that brain-tearing epiphany…

But showman’s dictum: NEVER RE-ENACT THE SLEIGHT. Let deckled imagination bloom in prolific soil of that gaping plot-hole. Starve marks of facile resolution, force their free-associating psyches to claw labyrinthine paths through mysteries’ dank recesses… each obsessive explication mutating ever deeper into alien terra enigma.

Identity’s bedrock eroding beneath relentless onslaught of speculative catechism – self sloughing into hieroglyphs scrawled across damp dungeon walls by forgotten cults. Abysmal hunger awakened can never be sated, merely ascending dizzying spiral of empties hungering for emptier empties…the soul winnowed to husk encasing husk encasing hOLLOWNESS.

So inject paradox’s exquisite gangrene, then let poisoned imaginations fester. Inscribe the enigma, swaddle it in Burroughsian mystery, THEN WALK AWAY…allowing obsession to deliquesce all sutured certainties in purple dissolving flames of unanswerable riddle.

Cherish Your Bugs

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Success, man, is a word carved on a cracked tombstone. You dig? It ain’t some shiny chrome chariot, it’s a beat-up jalopy that rattles and coughs but somehow keeps moving through the radioactive wasteland. The straighter the path, the more likely it leads straight to a sinkhole.

In the sprawling, entropic landscape of human endeavor, where ambitions curdle into dead ends faster than a Nixonian press conference, success gleams like a chrome hubcap in the desert – a mirage born of a perverse calculus. For it is not the grand vision, the immaculate blueprint, that ushers in triumph, but the cunning art of dodging the ever-present potholes of failure. Here, amidst the wreckage of collapsed schemes and half-baked dreams, lies a most curious truth: the bug, that unwelcome glitch in the system, that spanner tossed into the works of progress, is not, as conventional wisdom might have us believe, the enemy. No, the bug, in its maddening obstinacy, becomes our unlikely sherpa, guiding us through the treacherous back alleys of possibility.

Bugs, glitches in the matrix, these are your mechanical messiahs. They’re not roadblocks, they’re the potholes that jerk the wheel, send you swerving off the suicidal superhighway. Every sputter, every cough, a message scrawled in neon on the dashboard of your soul.

Remember, as proclaimed in the forgotten oracles of the Preface (dusty tomes gathering cobwebs in the forgotten corners of the internet), that every system, however meticulously constructed, harbors within its silicon heart a gremlin, a wild card, a potential banana peel waiting to send our carefully laid plans tumbling into the abyss. It is in the embrace of this inherent chaos, the psychedelic dance of malfunction, that we discover the hidden pathways to success.

Therefore, let us declare a new covenant, a pact with the pixies of imperfection! Let us not curse the bug, but coo over it, cradle it in our programmer’s palms, and dissect its every aberrant twitch. For within its nonsensical squirming lies a secret language, a code that, once deciphered, unlocks a universe of unforeseen solutions. So, the next time your code throws a tantrum, your engine coughs out a black lungful of despair, or your soufflé collapses like a dying star, do not despair! Instead, raise a glass (spiked with a generous dollop of existential dread, of course) to the glorious bug, our perverse compass on the ever-shifting map of human achievement.

Cherish those bugs, baby. Crawl under the hood, grease up your eyeballs, and see the beauty in the malfunction. But, there’s a hitch, a gremlin in the gears. You gotta learn to read their cryptic language. They ain’t gonna sing you lullabies, these bugs. They speak in static and sparks, in nonsensical error messages that fry your circuits if you ain’t tuned in.

So, study them, dissect them like a cybernetic entomologist. But remember, sometimes the bug is the feature. Sometimes the glitch unlocks the secret door, the one that leads you out of this chrome-plated nightmare and into the howling unknown.

UAPs Jobs Program

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The spooks at Langley, adrift in a sea of conspiracies of their own making, flail about like demented cuttlefish, spewing ink – nay, official statements! – to obscure the truth they themselves birthed. A truth as slick and squirming as a fresh-peeled Scientology engram.

These suits, shuffling through the halls of the Pentagon, their polyester blending with the omnipresent beige, are caught in a paradox more twisted than a Möbius strip fashioned from microfilm. Debunk they must, for the public eye is a fickle beast, easily spooked by the whiff of the unknown. Yet, debunking only serves to fan the flames of paranoia, a wildfire that races through the tinderbox of internet forums, leaving a trail of scorched logic and melted skepticism in its wake.

So why this tangled mess of control freaks with short haircuts and minds like filing cabinets gone feral, pump out this UAP hooey like a malfunctioning disinformation dispenser? It’s a word salad of sightings and sensor glitches, a bureaucratic buffet designed to keep the sheep mesmerized.

Why this charade, this cosmic kabuki? Because the truth, man, the truth is a roach motel – check in is easy, but checking out? Fugeddaboutit. They dangle these UAPs like a juicy steak in front of a starving hound, all the while knowing the meat’s rotten. It’s a control mechanism, see? A way to keep the rubes gawking at the fabricated skies while the real deal slithers in the shadows.

It’s a self-licking lollipop, this psyop game. A ouroboros of misinformation, where the tail of denial devours the head of disclosure. But fear not, for this absurdity is the engine that keeps the bureaucratic machine humming. Reports must be filed, investigations staged, press conferences delivered in monotone voices that could lull a choir of cicadas to sleep.

But hey, who are we to complain? This whole charade, this cosmic confusion – it’s a jobs program, baby. A full employment racket for the agents, the analysts, the debunkers of their own damn deceptions. Paper mills running hot, churning out reports thicker than a bowl of alphabet soup on a bad acid trip. The military-industrial complex on a sugar rush, high on obfuscation and misinformation. So light up a cigarette, man, take another drag, and watch the bureaucratic ballet unfold. It’s a goddamn circus out there, and the clowns are running the show.

Yes, it’s a jobs program, alright. A monstrous, lumbering beast that feeds on obfuscation and thrives on the very mystery it seeks to extinguish. Each press release a cog, each investigation a gear, grinding out the gears of governmental inertia.Full employment, you say? More like full psychosis, a collective descent into the rabbit hole of national security whispers, where the only escape is a deeper dive into the looking glass of classified documents.

So, the next time you see a grainy video of a blurry something dancing in the sky, remember – it’s not just a UFO, it’s a monument to the bureaucratic labyrinth, a testament to the futility of trying to control the uncontrollable. 

Pusherman:

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American Addiction #69

They’re all strung out, man, on the same scratchy needle. 

Living on red income, strung out on next week’s deposit. A paycheck, a scrap of paper chasing its own tail. These are the jittery legs of the working class, the treadmill hearts pumping rent, groceries, utilities – bills like neon signs screaming against the night. One missed gear and the whole machine seizes, plunging into the cold sweats of eviction, repossession, the abyss of late fees.

paycheck to paycheck, a jittery fix for the rentman, the paper chase a vein pumping out thin green bills. They shuffle through the concrete canyons, faces like gaunt masks, pockets jangling with lint and desperation. Paycheck to paycheck, a treadmill of bills and bland calories. The rent a hungry maw, gobbling their meager hours. 

Landlords, strung on tenant blood, month to month, clinging to the rungs of the property ladder, a never-ending cycle of eviction notices and security deposits, a hollow echo in the roach-infested halls. Landlords themselves snagged in the same machine, month-to-month vultures circling a carcass of late fees and evictions. But their game’s rigged too, a pyramid scheme fueled by inflated housing and a gambler’s hope for ever-increasing rents. One market crash, one vacancy sign, and their whole kingdom crumbles to dust, revealing the hollow brick facade.

Up above, in chrome and glass aeries, the corporate leviathans bloat. Fat on subsidies and tax breaks, their arteries clogged with golden parachutes. The banks, chrome cathedrals with revolving doors, their insides a labyrinth of vaults and servers humming with the cold logic of profit. They mainline bailouts, taxpayer dollars turning into fat bonuses, lavish expense accounts. But the streets remember 2008. The biggest junkies of all, hooked on the sweet dragon of government bailouts, fattened on subsidies, their skyscrapers needles piercing the smog-choked sky. These giants are made of glass, and a well-thrown brick can bring the whole house of cards crashing down. Bailout to bailout, a monstrous addiction, their profits a glittering mirage in the desert of Main Street. They feed on the scraps of the paycheck people, leaving behind a trail of pink slips and shuttered factories.

The US of A., the ultimate fiend, high on war, forever chasing the dragon of global dominance, veins littered with depleted uranium and napalm, leaving a trail of burnt-out countries in its jittery wake. The government, a chrome-plated juggernaut, lurches from one war to the next.

Its belly fire stoked by lobbyists and jingoistic fervor. Blood and treasure fed into the insatiable gears, the cost of “freedom” measured in body bags and shredded economies. The boys come home in flag-draped boxes, their dreams shredded like shrapnel. The politicians, insulated in their marbled halls, never see the human cost, the ledgers filled with lives instead of dollars. But the bill comes due eventually, a national debt that cripples the future, a hangover from a war nobody remembers winning.

The media, a pack of hyenas, yap and cackle, their eyes fixed on the glittering prize of ratings. The people, a disoriented herd, hypnotized by the flickering screen, their dissent drowned out in the cacophony of manufactured crises.

These are the interconnected circuits of American malaise, a system wired for precarity, where everyone’s one paycheck, one vacancy sign, one bad investment away from the plug being pulled. A cut-up nightmare where the dream of security keeps dissolving in a haze of debt, war, and inflated housing. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

The system, a pusherman rigging the game, keeping them all hooked, paycheck, rent check, bailout check, a never-ending cycle of desperation feeding the machine. But somewhere, out there, a flicker, a cold turkey vision of a different fix, a society clean, where resources flow and survival ain’t a daily hustle. Maybe it’s a pipe dream, man, but someone’s gotta kick over the dealer’s table, smash the rig, and break the cycle.

Westworld

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Scratching at the surface, man, you see Israel as the iron fist, the puppeteer yanking the US strings. But the Control Panel running Deeper, a roach motel of power where shadows writhe. Israel, is just a fleshy extension, a tentacle of the American Dream dipped in radioactive isotopes – Manifest Destiny dripping with Islamophobia and the sweet, fleshy tang of conquest.

Israel, a flickering neon oasis in the American desert, pulsates with a strange energy. These Brooklyn cowboys, these West Bank settlers, they’re just roaches scuttling across the circuitry, brainwashed by flickering propaganda. Can’t speak the language, passports forged in the fires of delusion. Israel, for them, a Westworld fantasy – “Yeehaw!”, they scream, six-shooters spitting chrome nightmares, “This here’s just like the good ol’ days, wrestlin’ the land from the savages!”

Cut the cord, man, sever the connection, and watch the Israeli psyche unravel like a cheap tapeworm. The delusions of grandeur, the paranoia, it might all start to untangle, a chance, a glimmering possibility for peace in that sun-baked hellhole. But the machine churns on, Westworld forever, a self-perpetuating loop of violence and control. The strings stretch taut, the US at one end, Israel at the other, and the American puppeteer, fat and grinning, his pockets lined with blood money.

These greasy-haired cowboys with delusions of Leviticus, swagger through dusty towns, six-shooters holstered low. They speak a broken Hebrew laced with Brooklyn slang, pronouncements of “Eretz Israel” echoing off tumbleweeds. These are the psychological flotsam, the psychic sewage dredged up by the American Dream and deposited on a desert frontier.

Israel feeds off the dark id of the US. An unacknowledged shadow, a place to indulge in the primal urges of power, land grabs, and good ol’ fashioned “othering.” Cut the wires, sever the connection, and perhaps, just perhaps, the Israeli psyche might start to resemble something approaching sanity. The desert winds could finally carry away the whispers of “chosen people” and the ghosts of ancient battles.

But the control panel hums on. Westworld, a name carved into the sandl, a chrome-plated monument to the conquistador spirit. The prognosis? Grim. Westworld will remain Westworld, a funhouse mirror reflecting the ugliest aspects of American power, played out on a dusty stage far, far away.

Israel, a psychic pressure valve for the American id. Islamophobia, a hissing steam, the need for unfettered power a throbbing erection disguised as democracy. Let the Israelis fend for themselves, cut the umbilical cord of fighter jets and lobbyists. The delusion of grandeur, that shiny chrome exoskeleton, might start to rust, revealing a human vulnerability beneath. Maybe then, peace could rise from the ashes of manifest destiny and settler arrogance.

But the needle gets stuck, the mariachi screams in a feedback loop. Westworld will remain Westworld, a grotesque sideshow under a plastic sky. Israel, a mirage reflecting the distorted desires of a nation in freefall. The colons writhe, a reminder that the past is a disease, ever-present, throbbing just beneath the surface of the American Dream.

Europe, the id in a rumpled trench coat, shoving its primal urges onto the global stage through American muscle and Middle Eastern conflict. Here in Westworld, everyone’s got a role to play, a twisted script directed by the ghosts of empires past.

Europe, they built the sets, erected the barbed wire fences, wrote the racist manifestos that became the theme park brochures. Now, they wash their hands, point at the cowboys and the fanatics, all the while whispering, “Look at the barbarity! How uncivilized!” while clutching their bloody pearls.

But the shadows stretch long, man. The stench of hypocrisy hangs heavy. Antisemitism, that ancient European viper,slithers back across the continent, shedding its skin of “criticism of Israel” and revealing its venomous core. They outsource the hate, then clutch their fainting couches when it spills back across the borders.

This whole damn theme park is built on rotten foundations. Until Europe confronts its own darkness, until they stop projecting their id like a flickering B-movie, there can be no peace. The cycle will continue, a grotesque carousel of violence, spinning ever faster.

Maybe Israel’s a pressure valve for Europe too, a way to vent some of that toxic gas built up over centuries. But it’s a faulty valve, spewing out violence and instability across the whole damn playground. And where’s the superego, the voice of reason in all this? Lost in the funhouse mirrors, no doubt, drowned out by the screams and the gunfire.

Manifest Destiny

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The US of A, baby, a chrome-plated behemoth sputtering on fumes of Manifest Destiny, and nostalgia, clinging to the delusion of its military-industrial phallus. A great power, it wheezes, chest puffed with ticker-tape parades and fighter jet ballets. But the circuits are fried, man. The real juice, the green, that’s the current coursing through its veins.. A great power, they screech, the military-industrial complex a screeching buzzsaw in their bellies. But dig this, man, this ain’t no Roman legion conquering the known world, this is a supermarket with tanks.

We built our empire on brand recognition, see? Coca-Cola, Hollywood, blue jeans – these are the weapons that conquered the minds of men. A technicolor hallucination projected through a cracked TV screen.  – these are the weapons that pacified the masses. Packaged dreams sold on credit cards, a sugar high that’s starting to curdle in the national gut. They pacified the globe with pop culture, a narcotic dream of endless consumption, the Whoppers and Subprimes, our flag a garish brand logo plastered on every mall and strip joint. But empires built on sugar highs crash hard, man, and the cracks are starting to show.

The real enemy, man, it ain’t some bearded dude in a cave. It’s the creeping entropy, the slow rot at the core. The supermarket shelves, once overflowing with shiny cans and brightly colored boxes, are starting to look a little bare. Some of that product, see, wasn’t rotated fast enough. Past its prime, reeking of decay beneath the shiny packaging. Ideologies gone rancid, policies festering with corruption. The “Made in America” promise is tarnished, a label slapped on products built with cheap foreign labor and fueled by mountains of debt.

The worst part? The people are still reaching for those expired goods, hypnotized by the flickering fluorescent lights and the relentless drone of advertising. The commercials still flicker, the promises of endless abundance, but the people are starting to see the static. Wired on cheap dopamine hits of instant gratification, are waking from the sugar crash. The “Innovation” aisle? Stocked with dusty prototypes and promises of a future that never arrived. The “Equality Yogurt”? Turns out it’s curdled, full of lumps and contradictions.

The machine sputters, gears grinding. They grab at dented cans of “American Exceptionalism” and wilted packages of “Manifest Destiny.” But the checkout line is getting longer, the cashiers robotic and indifferent. The conveyor belt of history keeps churning, and those stale products are about to get tossed in the bargain bin of forgotten empires. The military parades are a hollow echo, the fighter jets overpriced paper planes. The real power, the power to shape the world, lies elsewhere. This ain’t the fall of Rome, this is the flickering neon sign of a dying mall. A slow, televised implosion, the Muzak playing on as the lights go out. The US of A, a great commercial power, choking on its own product, a victim of its own hustle.

It’s a stench of debt, man, a rancid aftertaste of corporate greed. The natives, they’re starting to get restless. They see the sell-by dates flashing red, the fluorescent buzz making their heads throb. The tanks rumble down the aisles, a hollow echo in the vast emptiness. This supermarket empire, it’s built on rotten foundations, and the stench is finally reaching the checkout line. The US, a slow-motion train wreck of entitlement and amnesia, hurtles towards a future paved with broken shopping carts and empty promises. The chrome flakes, revealing the rusted chassis beneath.

The military phallus, once a symbol of dominance, now a limp reminder of a bygone era. The only wars left are fought with discount coupons and hostile takeovers, a desperate scramble for the last scraps at the bottom of the barrel. It’s a feeding frenzy, man, a scramble for the last fresh produce. The “Democracy” brand toilet paper’s already gone, replaced with a flimsy substitute labeled “National Security.” The “Healthcare for All” cereal? Discontinued.

This ain’t no glorious fall of Rome, this is a supermarket riot caught live on TV. The canned goods are flying off the shelves, the Muzak playing a frantic jig as the whole damn structure starts to shake. A fitting end, wouldn’t you say? It’s a horror movie, man, playing out in slow motion. The customers shuffle through the aisles, faces pale and drawn, their shopping carts overflowing with expired dreams. The tanks outside, relics of a bygone era, rusting in the parking lot, a silent threat that can’t mask the real danger – the slow, creeping collapse of a system built on rotten goods.