Misadventures of a Disillusioned Thief #007

-Sam HaiNe (@S_HaiNe82)

Misadventures of a Disillusioned Thief is a series of narrative nonfiction by writer Sam HaiNe for the Cult Classic Good News blog. Read the previous segment #006 here 

From the Kool-Aid of Hope to the Vegas slot machine needing Change and now we have just done away with artificially sweetened progression all together and embraced the audacity of fucking. The idiot box won’t shut up. It keeps talking and won’t turn off. Has it been four years already? People are once again tuning into America’s favorite reality show, The Great Race to the White House.

If you thought the last few winners were schleppers, just look at the rogues’ gallery running this season.

            In the blue corner you have Karen from Goodfellas running against a disgruntled economics professor.

And in the other corner, the red corner, we have 16 jibbering Mugwumps. All oozing over their chins and staining their red ties, dribbling secretions of jizzum, caked up and framed on the corners of their perpendicular mouths.

Time ticking again, all over. Except this time they aren’t kissing babies. This time the elephants are trying to outdo each other by rimming the collective consciousness of the American people. One lick, two licks, three licks; how many does it take to screw in an impression?  Street walkers have more sincerity than politicians; yet even they can’t find an honest bone on the market to put in their bodies. The whole place is overrun with down house simpletons from ocean to ocean…

They will say, “He speaks the unconscious feelings of the people”, but the people are sedated in their bubbles. They just want, “For themselves in adequate increments”. Divided up and pinched just a little bit more at the top for the tribe. All for the tribe, a tribe, an outspoken minority huddled together to hide their size. It’s the sympathy fuck; the makeup after kind of sex. Everybody’s doing it. It’s the “In thing” to do. Get in. Getting it in. It’s the rebellious fist pumping kind of “In thing”. Public opinions piling on top of one another and pulsing like a fleshy cyst.

 It’s after 1am… dead time. Best time. Brain opens up perfectly out of sight and out of range of the peripheral search light of social meanderings. I dreamt up a funeral director and let her touch and go on my subconscious. She teased the nipple of my lobes and fingered around my grey matter. It’s Chemical foreplay. We take turns target practicing on transitioning targets all dolled up, smelling like discretion. She likes me underneath the mask. She’s a sensual stigmata. She’s a wet surface and a warm lodge.

I’ll sit back and watch it all go down. It will all set itself on fire and burn, with or without applause. A house collapsing on itself. A decayed union from the inside out. A star could fall one by one,  and fifty times. This whole place is walking blindfolded away from a black mirror. A prison colony becomes a settlement. Occupiers become natives on indigenous grounds. Independence above all others becomes a battle cry. Wine snobs talk of liberty on the backs of colored and poor effigies. Industry rises like a tombstone on the battle field. Society takes form and chaos births order. Privileges are demanded and given out begrudgingly: the right to assemble, to petition, to speak, to arm, to participate and have their due… all those things taken for granted; a series of temper tantrum tactics. A banner of stars in the grips of an identity crisis, an entire history being rewritten for modern consumption, without all the transfat, calories or bad taste and lost, lost and looking to be found. A gaggle of tribes battling one another - and for what? For convenience, modern conveniences and comfort. The cat’s meow. Bees and Honey.

The bubble will pop.

There will be outbreaks of PTSD. The meek will quarantine themselves on social media. The worst will come and go like the tide. They will knee jerk and lash out. They will come forth kicking and screaming. It will be passive aggression shielding crimes of passion.

After the jitters are gone, it’ll be too difficult to see who’s playing who. Are the politicians playing the public or are the public the conductors of their own tragedy?
 
- Another day to start before I clock out.

I wake up. I drink my coffee. I take a drag. I persist. Still free thinking in a place that bought in. The days are getting cooler. The nights a little bit longer. The blood gets thicker. The borders of the page are closing in like city limits. The words are cutup ribbons of wordplay. Coded and esoteric for the inner ears decryption. The order of thoughts are inverted and reversed, like in a dream. Time loops. Air ventilates. Movements occur in syncopation. It’s a brand new day to start before I eventually clock out of all this for good. I feed my body. I keep it running. I keep it conditioned. I keep it strong. I motivate. I learn. I synthesize. I exist… And I’ll die as one of them. For all their short comings and achievements, I am just another thread in the tapestry; albeit a loose thread, remarkably tattered yet enduring and sharpened. A distinction.

I sneer when I speak. My thoughts are incendiary and my habits are delinquent. All those things on native soil, in a country dejected from itself. It’s not the Promised Land nor is it New Jerusalem. It never was. America was never innocent and possibly never will. But that’s fine. It doesn’t have to be. Because, it’s almost better now than what it was before. And that’s okay.