How tax cuts help rich people create jobs

How tax cuts help rich people create jobs

By EVAL HERZ

Sunday, June 3, 2012

Left-right: Sarah Jessica Parker, David Koch, Julia Koch. Image from: Some fucking website.

She comes to you in dreams, wearing a different face every time it seems.

Her tan, tattoo-laden flesh begs to be seen, but begging more so to be touched is all that renders it obscene.

Her glowing dark eyes, black as the night skies, contrast in harmony with her sunshine smile.

In her hands she totes loathing. 

The anesthesia needed for operating on a tortured soul, so when she arrives in real time, real life, you’ll have nowhere else to go for a while.

All thanks to her obsession with the antidote to reality pouring from her vial all over your confidence, hope, optimism, commitments, ambitions and critical self reflection. 

The first clue as to whose bloodthirsty fangs are covered by that beautifully warm smile shining in your direction.

The visible trap your pain wants you to step in to spark the ignition of a developing euthanasia encrypted for protection from truth, justice and the rule of law.

Sure, you believe that no one should be above the law but all the cool people are doing it.

It’s how you joined the ranks of the in-crowd, the social brass, the exquisite class, and you’ll say it loud, for the thrill of lies you’re proud, but only while you’re safely above that dark and deafening cloud of deception, the illusion of reality that is only a distraction.

A disguise to hide your guilty eyes from the truth that lies in wait to administer your fate…

But wait! 

She is ready, now, to speak to your selfish soul so weak, as all this time, to you, she’s been just another freak and at this rate she won’t last a week, leaving you home-free from responsibility.

Her luscious, pink lips part ways for only to phrase her immaculate proposition:

My pussy’s gold! It’s already been sold to the fool before you and the next fool too. So what we gonna’ do? You owe me, you’re gonna’ do it all with me, gimme’, gimme’, gimme’ or I’ll tare down the curtains so that everyone can see your criminality!

Well what did you expect her to say? 

Something wise? 

Something beautiful like her skin and her eyes?

Something to heal the soul, or something innovative and bold? 

Give her a break she’s only sixteen years old. 

Or was it thirty-two or twenty-nine?

It makes no difference to you so long as you remain 

morally 

blind.

They’re all just part of the mass mold feeding on the garbage heap leftover from your hyper consumption, your desecration of your mother, your shameless waste, your overstated but underrated taste for deviance and self-indulgence.

Well whom did you expect to create, a loyal producer of happiness?

Parasites beget other parasites.

You knew you were doing well for yourself by altering the gasses in their environment, by living in the moment, cutting them off from access to the very same desk where you fiddle in your craft, tugging the moldy masses on a raft, while the few, like you, enjoy the spacious luxury of the big boat.

Did you forget where you found her, like a thespian betrayed her, from where you’d be wise not to go, down below?

You reeled her in with a rope

Offering money to pay for her dope 

manufactured in the trash heaps under the vastly growing mold, just like your scented soap.

Sold as your treat so she won’t mind that you're treating her like a toilet seat.

Just before slipping knock-off Nike flip-flops back onto her feet and sending her off in the company of a blind, deaf and dumb Cabbie, now twenty dollars richer, back to the cold, dark concrete, which parasitic control freaks, and their relatively deprived rival contenders, refer to as “the streets.”