AN ANALYSIS BY: FREDERRICH KOSLOMADIAN
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William S. Burroughs says Madness is confusion of levels of fact...Madness is not seeing visions but confusing levels.
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SO HOW WAS YOUR DAY EVERY BODY????!!! <<<<AUDIENCE CHEERS>>>> MINE WAS GREAT TOO <<<<AUDIENCE BOOS>>>> I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU PEOPLE WANT�<<<<AUDIENCE TEARS MAN TO SHREADS>>> HUNGRY LIONS!! FLESH BOUND MONSTERS!! PEALED SKIN MELTING SHERBERT LOUSY S.O.B'S!!!!! I RUE THE DAY OF YOUR BIRTH!!!
I HATE THE IDEA OF FREEDOM FRIES WHO CARES?? JUDAS CHRIST!!!!
MOTHERS HOLDING THEIR ABORTED CHILDREN SUCKING POWDERED MILK FROM A CHAPPED NOZZLE, SINNERS ON THEIR KNEES TALKING TO AN ANGRY AIR. JESUS HAS BEEN DEAD FOR YEARS WHO ARE THEY TALKING TO?? ZOMBIESSSSZZZZ! Local person says:
"To kill a demon made of wet sawdust [Georgina Bush]. This sort of demon is almost impossible to kill. Th
e only way to do it is to cover it's face with wet bread and karate chop it's head off. Otherwise you are in trouble and so is the neighborhood. Wet sawdust demons like to terrorize. N.B. Pressing it's face i
to wet bread that is on the ground works best though you can get a good result just by throwing the bread at it's face."
XXX!!! CUM ONE, CUM ALL!!! SEE YOURSELVES IN FETII SHOES, FOR THE MOTHERS LITTLE VERMIN IS DEAD IN A COFFIN FILLED WITH BLOOD HEAD. HA HA HA FRIEND WHERE HAS GONE YOUR GOLASHES??? HUH HUH HUH??? I DON'T SEE NO FAITH IN THIS PLACE YOUR BODIES ARE INSIDE A BUBBLE WRAP TIPPA TAP. UH UH UH BRING IT ON GIRLFRIEND MY GENOCIDE EYE!!! Gordon Shumway says on the issue, "Don't go borrowing the chainsaw from the local maniac" another socialogist, Golda Meir,
Says, "Don't be so humble - you are not that great." And our former president, Harry S. Truman says, "Never kick a fresh turd on a hot day."
My story is about the fate of man and how he chooses his path by his actions. You cannot deceive your fate. This story is true and about a thrill junkie shoplifter by the name of Charles.
Once, years ago, in a city far away, where the sun shone brightly through the gray clouds, a boy named Charles lived in a small suburban town located outside a major metropolis. His town was one full of children for Charles to play with, there were many parks for him to play in and he even had his own swing set in his back yard. The metropolis was full of gangs and sin, and Charles' parents thought they could avoid this dangerous lifestyle by living on the outside. Charles was an eleven year-old boy with brown hair and blue eyes like that of the deep ocean. He always wore a youthful smile, and a laissez-faire attitude on his sleeve. He also wore quite fashionable tailored clothes, but these clothes Charles could not afford. Charles had stolen each article of clothing in his possession. Because his parents were divorced he would tell his mother that his father gave him the clothes and his father would hear that his mother had bought them.
Everything was going good for Charles, because Charles had no fear at all of getting caught. He had a system. He considered himself infallible. "Not even the gods themselves can stop me now!" he would shout after he'd make a profitable exit from a local department store. Then one day what Charles thought was impossible happened.
While Charles was in motion of stuffing a thirty-dollar shirt down his pants, he felt a tough-skinned hand fall roughly down on his shoulder. Panic swept through his mind. His mind was shooting from thought to thought. "His parents will surely disown him", he thought. Then a spark of adrenalin was ignited. He ran. He passed the cold-faced security guard who stood at 6'4", jumped over a counter, and shot like a bullet through the electric-doors. He didn't look back once. In addition to not looking back he also didn't look to his left and right when he escaped into the parking lot.
He had just made it off the curb still in a full sprint with his new white shirt in his hand, when he was flattened by an 18-wheel semi truck, which ironically was delivering a shipment of thousands of flyers of why you should look both ways before you cross the street. Poor Charles was killed in an instant and his remains were a pancake flat pile of skin, blood and shattered bones. The pile lay on the cold November concrete until two days later when the street-sweeper truck would meet its weekly routine.
I have shown you that you may escape from the law, but by your carelessness you will never escape your fate. As tried poor Charles, the boy with a system, the boy who believed that by stealing, his life was better. But I ask you, is an intense, fearful, lifestyle where you don't have to work better than a relaxed existence where you do? What would poor Charles say about his existence? Was it worth it? Sure he got some cool stuff but was he ever able to enjoy it as much as someone who had earned it through labor?