Back to the scribbling research. The noisy contemplations of the inner gears splashed on paper. React.

The suburbs are sick. No more walking, drive every-felching-where. Closed communities seething with gated xenophobia. No cares beyond the perimeters of the oak lined cul de sacs. Locked in bottles of jellied angst, enveloped in the finest industrial logo ridden siding. Decimal averaged families scraping the unsavory remnants of less lush off their designer produce into the sewer. Each suburb a metastasised tumor from a phantom cancer cell that no longer exists.

In this juncture of the game Earth, the human team is on a losing streak. It may appear that we have gathered all the pieces on the board toward our cache of wealth won. But the trinketisation of natural resources is a milky false sheen. Fellow monkeys, we's fuckin this here shit up yo.

Mexican Radio. That is correct munchkins, the Wall Of Voodoo smash one hitter. With decent skunky punge in the stash. The song was a throwback harp to the days of misinformation and unsuccessful suppression of rabid hormones. During the Fifties, the only place to find decent rock was on radio wavelengths erupting from Mexico. Wolfman Jack the most infamous of the disc jockeys hailing from beyond the border. Been noticing a fresh similarity between that and the access to culture on the net. Verily, I throb to personally programmed radio as I clickity clack away here.

Leno is a squeaky ass. That network jester's voice troubles me. Folded in with his annoying delivery. If loyalty stripes are to be sewn on, I'd stick with Letterman. At least Dave ain't squeaky.

The Finger. We instantly envision a rude middle digit salute when The Finger is mentioned. I personally have been training myself to envision an ancient dried up baboon finger worshipped in Southeast Asia somewheres. The Western Finger is played out. Long live the tropical simian pointing prune.

Oof, dallied ahead a bit mental sentry style, and the next part is a rant packed treat.

Religious orginisations are receiving sixty eight billion dollars in this presidential administration's federal budget. Holy shit. While watching a three part program on Baby Bushie's ferver toward god rabble on NOW: With Bill Moyers, it crystal gonged in my skull. I know what's wrong with this tard. He was forced to enter a twelve step program, and the bowing to a higher power step drilled the last few brain cells, not obliterated from extensive fratboy drinking, into a gooey dullard mess. Only a smeggin dizzy twelve stepper could possess the plasterboard smile of a man who claims, on national television, that divine intervention endowed him with the Commander In Chief post. Addicts just replace addictions. Sucking on a cross is just as habit forming as sucking on the crack rock. Which yo mamma is on by the way. Silly fiending baseheads hanging off a glass dick.

The evangelical president. The chips of chiseled rock will echo that ignoble title on his Hall Of Men In Suits statue pedestal. There will be discretion in funds. Such is the nature of faith based activities. Too pious for public scrutiny. What joy it must be to be tragically white and lecherous.

And you need that governmental drippy nipple don't ya, ya holy book pounding, library book burning, accouting book cooking bastards. Few collar men lick the little boy stick and all the sudden ya'll ain't looking so right. Not cool to jump on all that baby boy asshole. Even the most deluded of pew huggers will take pause with that. Losing membership are ya? Foisted a puppet into office with backdoor silver coin tactics? The payback is sweet inquisition huh.

Plenty of opportunity to revive discrimination. Running a protestant soup kitchen to lure in starving unfortunates to your never ending bible babble till they fold from exhaustion? Well, it's a paying job at least, right? And a job you can exclude jews, catholics and certainly the godless freaks like me from.

I would prefer a national figurehead to "vote" for that isn't constantly choking on superstitious cock while giving official policy making speeches. The god seminal fluid is a foul chlorine. Makes the podium microphones reek and difficult to clean. The strongest of god seminal fluid removers has a difficult time fully working on those stains.