Our little tattooed robots are trying to cope with deep psychological damage from parental abandonment.
June 29, 2013
Gonna Wave My Freak Flag High
I remember when I grew out my hair and purchased my first pair of moccasins and a poncho. (Must of got the money from my parents, because I didn’t have a job.) I was officially a non-conformist. Everyone else was doing it, too. Joining the movement.
I remember a friend showing me a cartoon (probably from Rolling Stone) of a robot, labeled “The Establishment,” crapping out little robots. No way I was going to get caught up in that. But honestly, I was just a little “joint,” being crapped out by the giant doobie. I was just a different kind of conformist.
Today, the robot is still crapping them out – they all look the same, with their tattoos and nose rings, and without a thought they can call their own. Most of them think the same, and if they weren’t too stoned to make it to the polls, they probably voted for Obama.
There are only a handful of people protecting individual rights today. Everyone else is protecting group rights. Liberals have become the new zombies of our day and time. Lost in their collective identity, embracing the values of all, they have no values of their own. How is it diversity, when people look different, but all think the same? Hum, appearances? Deep, man. Really skin deep.
A truly shallow, truly uneducated, intensely bias group now tries to run the lives of everyone else. “Get onboard the love train – or else, motherf*cker.” You’ve become what you hate. You are officially the new “Church Lady” of our times. The book-burners of the 1950’s have given way to the book-burners and thought-police of today. If you don’t like the idea, shout it down, or throw a pie at it. If it disagrees with what you think, label it fear, label it hate. How resourceful. How clever. If you don’t like something, just re-label it. Bondage becomes freedom. Abuse becomes discipline and pleasure. Ah, sweet dreams are made of these. Who am I to disagree? Yes, who are you? Apparently just a little tattooed robot, trying to cope with deep psychological damage from parental abandonment.
In past generations, if one had delusions of spiders crawling on their skin, the psychologist would tell them that it is all in their mind, that the physical reality shows plainly this is true, and that they need to adjust their mind and feelings to match the physical reality. But today, if one feels like a woman trapped in a man’s body, the psychologist tells them to deny the physical reality, and get an operation to change their body to fit with their feelings, rather than treating the mind and emotions to fit with the physical reality. Ah, reality and freedom at last. It’s all the fault of a repressive society not wanting Spiderman to admit the truth and experience the joy of spiders. This logic makes my skin crawl.
But logic? Who needs it. We have our feelings. Screw logic and reasoning. Let’s just pat each other on the back. Feels good, right? As long as we have a designated driver, we can all get blasted out of our minds. As long as we have a baby-sitter, we can all get stoned out of our minds. Why any boundaries at all? Why even have a brain, but to experience pleasure? Ah yes, the 60’s are all coming back to me. If it feels good... do it, do it, till you’re satisfied (whatever it is).
Whatever became of our “great philosophers” of the 60’s and 70’s. Probably on Wall Street by now, no doubt. Many of my friends from the era are dead. Most because of drugs. Man, could these guys ever spew the philosophy, till the wee hours of morning, until someone finally said something that was reasonable and made sense, then they’d always retreat to the line, “It’s all relative. Man, I’m wasted. I think I’ll crash.” The ones who are still alive (and not on Wall Street) are probably still smoking weed and reading their I-Ching. Real progress, dude. Yeah, I know, you voted for Obama too. Free weed someday, right? (At least Obama figured out how to make a living off of his BS.) If you think our children escaped brain damage from the drugs we took, just look at how many of them voted for Obama.
Ah, remember the good ole days when we used to sit around and discuss Animal Farm or Nineteen Eighty-Four? But of course, “It can’t happen here!” Right, Mr. Windrip? Right, Mr. Zappa? Right? Oh well, just take another hit off the pipe, and smile at the camera for Big Brother Barack.
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