"Hypocrasy In Action"
Brian Paul Dunlop
Clouded frixation overlaps my mind and all those around me. It is as if the human communication process had been thrown out the window, giving a rise to a more primal nature.
Now, I wouldn't consider myself in that line of people. A thinker I was and a thinker I am. And those who contain great thought are usually the one's who are the most shunned and chasated from society.
I guess because it isn't following the same invisible ethical code. Humans are much like sheep as they are continously guided and elimated by those in a higher power, all the while, they are oblivious to the face that it is even happening in the first place.
That's why through the generations, I have always been spotted conversing with the young people. And everytime they get older, I am met with a new batch to which all dress drastically different, but morally, they were all similar, and all talked about matters to due with anti-establishment.
They all spoke negatively about controlling adults and how corporations are evil, all the while, they are in a mall, lunging around countless shopping bags, all containing name brand clothing.
Truly, hypocrasy is the inherenit gene, passed on from generation to generation. And honestly, I don't think this gene will ever pass, and the general public feels content with it, so why bother stopping a harmless trend?
Is ignorance also a harmless trend? If so then, how will society grow? How will it evolve?
But what do I know; I'm just a care-free bum, poverty stricken on the back of a generation, where people wore their hair long and looked at LSD more for a spirtual awakening than just a quick fix. But I guess when it comes down to it, a freak is a freak - well in this world, at least.
The lost art of fiance bleeds heavily through the open wounds of mankind. I can't tell you all the times I spent bent over on the curb of the street, face down in my own vomit filled with alcohol and cocaine.
Everyone thinks I'm a nut. All because I wear ragged clothes and like to associate myself with the teenagers of my burrow. They understand me. Unlike all these suits I see gracing Wall Street with their money and stroke of power that leaves the poor man in the gutter for their mistakes while they book first class trips to Honolouulu and Byramida.
And this government - if we disagree with this immoral act, they label us as communist?
Communist?! I love democracy and freedom - I just hate being broke.
Billy was fifth-teen; a boy half way making it and the other half; confused, lonely and misguided.
Billy was living in a changing community; "The White Flight" they use to call it.
And now Billy was left alone; the only caucasian boy left in his side of town, and he felt miserable; nobody would respect him.
"Dad, do we live in a segregated community?" asked Billy, sheepishly as he sent his Cheero's a drift in an apethic stroke of a shinny silver spoon.
"No son" said Robert, Billy's father - glancing up from his favorite newspaper; "The New York Times."
"This community isn't segregated. Segregation is when only one race goes to the same school. Look at your school - it's perfect; it had blacks, Spaniards, Indians, Orientals, and good old white folk like us."
"Yeah, but all the white kids go to seperate classrooms. I'm the only white kid there, and the kids pick on me for it."
"Yeah, and they call me all kinds of names even racial slurs - like little white boy or punk ass cracker, and they say that I can't dance or have a good time and my people act like they have a broom stick up their ass, twenty-four/seven."
"Wait a minute" interjected Robert, holding his stomach as he had began to laugh at what his boy was saying. "What they're doing is okay."
"It is?" responded Billy, curiously.
"Yeah, sure. It's alright because our people oppressed the hell out of them, so now, they're just blowing off some steam because of it. What they are doing is perfectly healthy. They'll get over it, eventually."
"I hope so" replied Billy as he directed his focus back on his bowl, and his father looked back at his newspaper and flipped the page.
"No more oppression! Raise their taxes! Stop corrupt bailouts!"
Central Park was in an uproar. If the police continued to interject; there would be all out warfare.
"What's this?" quiered Bill aloud, scratching his head, while staggering to keep his balance with a whisky bottle concealed in a black plastic bag in hand.
"No more oppression! Fight for the homeless!"
"Yeah!" cried out Bill, whistling and hooting with the concealed bottle, high in the air.
"No more bailouts! Down with Wall Street!"
"That's it...I just got to join this crowd, man."
**FAX News Presents: Marxism in America?!**
"Good evening, we're going live to the communist uprising in Central Park. Policemen are dead, cameramen are dead, even newsreporters are dead!" commanded the man with purple skin. "Sick! Evil! Demented! IGNORANT!"
"Let me interject for a moment" replied the woman, sitting next to him, with the silk hat.
"My college degrees actually tell me that this is socialism, not communism."
There was an awkward silence.
"Haha, you're a cutie. Whatever is bad for America, is bad for America, is bad for America."
The lady then laughs and tips her hat. "We really should do coffee, sometime."
"Stop this evil social machine! It is time for the people! It is time for everybody!"
Buildings burned. The Empire State Building came tumblind to the ground in hellfire and sut.
Manhattan gave rise to a new republic, and became its own seperate entity; the Republic of the Peaceful and the Intelligent. And if you are against us; you will all perish. The new regime is in full effect. All hail the New Social Machine!
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