With a record of 1-9 so far, Carolina's lowly status in the League is no problem to us fans. We have already been through the humiliation of a 1-15 season (must ... kill ... George ... Seifert ... kill George Seifert), so any victory the Panthers can scrape out between now and the Super Bowl is pure gravy!
Ironically, there are more than draft picks to be gained as I write from this illusory soapbox for misfits and losers. If you need further proof that we Tea Partiers have nothing to lose, click on this confessional example of the folly of political punditry. How often do TV's talking heads get it wrong? Yet we persist in paying heed and pretending substance can be found by debate. There is no debate. There is only the noise of debate. Furthermore, there is no "reason" in TV land. There is only the emotional appeal persuading commercial interests. Sanity is the off switch.
"Hey man, I'm just trying to find the bridge."
What's worse for American civilization is that broadcast images bring on a form of mass hypnosis, induced when the synergy of balmy weather and narcissistic surfers obtains the structure provided by a self-deluding authoritarian mythology. This monstrous gospel of self-esteem disguises itself in the sheep's clothing of movie nostalgia, entertaining and fascinating the public like a cankered whore, a cultural cancer from the coasts, Hollywood and Broadway.
The kind of national character produced from these depraved unassimilated sub-cultures is one of clownish, joyful arrogance, an apathetic disrespect where civilty comes through a servile sneer, whose only authentic cultural expressions are diverted through the perverse whimsy of the remote control and slavish attachment to their appetites. Their bloody deeds reveal a tyrannic desire, immersed in the belief that they are acting with impunity.
Stay classy, San Diego. I'm keeping my precious self-loathing.
Okay, even if this web log is Wit, Gun and Stein, (Wittgenstein, if you don't know me by now), a little bit of Nietzschean craziness will intrude from time to time, for no better reason than to acknowledge eternal recurrence.
Maybe I should write a poem: An Ode to Shattered Innocence. We are the rejected building stones, but the Truth marches on. Thank the Lord, this personal history lesson is over. No "gods," no "masters". No turning back. A legacy of misfits and losers is not fed by dreamy promises of Peace, but by the parting of the terrible swift Sword. Either Oswald acted alone, or,
"I shouted out: Who killed the Kennedys? When after all, it was you and me."
When I was a child, I saw as a child, but when I became a man, I could no longer serve two masters. BTW, you get a free T-shirt if you win the auction.
Heads up!
© 2010 Roy Barin Santonil
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