Creating Chaos out of Meaning
Creating Chaos out of Meaning
It’s like these muthafuckas was just imitating their parents, maybe their grandparents, trying to create meaning out of revolution. As always, these muthafuckas were socialists. Because, they didn’t know any better. But that didn’t stop them, ignorance never does. Most had a feeling they were owed something. Although, since they’d never really done anything, I can’t imagine why. It was just a thought. A sensation. The logical progression of an immature mind. Or, maybe it was the natural impulse of sucklings everywhere, right out of the womb. That’s when it starts. It’s as primal as the urge to feed.
What this means is simple, if you want to get these sucklings to vote. You’ve got to speak their language, pander to their inner urge. Give them financial succor, and they’ll vote your way. Because you’re one of them.
This impulse is so strong, it overrides almost everything else. Marx, that dysfunctional dickweed knew it well. He couldn’t get a gig to save his life, because bourgeois muthafuckas wasn’t haven it. Wasn’t buy his concept. So, he plotted, wrote about the proletariat and shit. Wrote about the bourgeoisie. Marx hated those muthafuckas. He wanted to remake the world, into what he saw in his head, for revenge, purely for revenge.
Marx was like Freud. Both men were crazy as shit, drug addicted, bi-sexual, with too much time on their hands. Throw depression into the mix, and the corrupt mind of a hippie journalist, and you get chaos. That’s what Freud represented, Marx too.
You see Trotsky, Lenin, Marx, they’d sit all damn day around the coffee shop, hoping that some fine chick might dig one of them. Shit! If they’d gotten laid, no revolution. No gulags. No Siberian tiger breathing down your ass. But they didn’t, which only made things worse.
Mao was the same, a dork with bad breath and zits. But he could write, speaking all that Chinese shit, ching chong, muthafuckas, billions of them muthafuckas.
Chairman Mao was scared to death that all them ching chong, slanty-eyed muthafuckas might here some Rollings Stones, tune into Satisfaction, or something, some Mick and Keith. Hell! Then they might get into the hard stuff, like Muddy Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson, I mean, Rice Miller, not John Lee Williamson. If that happened, the revolution would’ve been stopped dead in its tracks. And maybe, just maybe, another hundred million souls might still be around.
Bust'a Crab
It’s like these muthafuckas was just imitating their parents, maybe their grandparents, trying to create meaning out of revolution. As always, these muthafuckas were socialists. Because, they didn’t know any better. But that didn’t stop them, ignorance never does. Most had a feeling they were owed something. Although, since they’d never really done anything, I can’t imagine why. It was just a thought. A sensation. The logical progression of an immature mind. Or, maybe it was the natural impulse of sucklings everywhere, right out of the womb. That’s when it starts. It’s as primal as the urge to feed.
What this means is simple, if you want to get these sucklings to vote. You’ve got to speak their language, pander to their inner urge. Give them financial succor, and they’ll vote your way. Because you’re one of them.
This impulse is so strong, it overrides almost everything else. Marx, that dysfunctional dickweed knew it well. He couldn’t get a gig to save his life, because bourgeois muthafuckas wasn’t haven it. Wasn’t buy his concept. So, he plotted, wrote about the proletariat and shit. Wrote about the bourgeoisie. Marx hated those muthafuckas. He wanted to remake the world, into what he saw in his head, for revenge, purely for revenge.
Marx was like Freud. Both men were crazy as shit, drug addicted, bi-sexual, with too much time on their hands. Throw depression into the mix, and the corrupt mind of a hippie journalist, and you get chaos. That’s what Freud represented, Marx too.
You see Trotsky, Lenin, Marx, they’d sit all damn day around the coffee shop, hoping that some fine chick might dig one of them. Shit! If they’d gotten laid, no revolution. No gulags. No Siberian tiger breathing down your ass. But they didn’t, which only made things worse.
Mao was the same, a dork with bad breath and zits. But he could write, speaking all that Chinese shit, ching chong, muthafuckas, billions of them muthafuckas.
Chairman Mao was scared to death that all them ching chong, slanty-eyed muthafuckas might here some Rollings Stones, tune into Satisfaction, or something, some Mick and Keith. Hell! Then they might get into the hard stuff, like Muddy Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson, I mean, Rice Miller, not John Lee Williamson. If that happened, the revolution would’ve been stopped dead in its tracks. And maybe, just maybe, another hundred million souls might still be around.
Bust'a Crab