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Posted by Barnacle, Inc. | Posted in

[Feature Article]




Anti-High Society Jockey*

                Gloating, where at some point faces and smiles are overstretched halfway their heads with bean-like brains, is always the initial reflex of the overly-clothed club members of the High Society – the ruling elite of an idiocratic utopia called the fashionably dumb and hijas y hijos de la madre bobilla – when somebody falls to the ground, hitting the pauper (non-carpeted) walk of shame, blood spilling from that somebody’s pathetic face. Overly-clothed, that is, the predicament of their ill will to live in a civilized society while them acting out as if they are the early ancestors of the ridiculous, the un-smart and the regular subject matter of the Theatre of the Absurd of the poorest quality – whereby their proud regalia that girdles their egos and the ornamented persona of so much assumption that they are the better half of humanity, and that they make so much enthusiasm in adoring the apostles of Musca, on such matter, they are wrong and awfully wicked.
                Talk about the delusion of grandeur, and the dumbfounded contention that they deserve to live better highly than the “other” half of humanity, they label the undeserving as the subjects of their gloat and ridicule. At this point, the High Society is awful. High Society, only to label how far their vapid souls can no longer be galvanized by the arsenals of reason or even the simplest type of common sense. At this point, they are not only awful, they are also hopeless. Indeed, they are there in the streets with bullhorns and parades of half-naked, if not, overly-flamboyant display of self-centeredness, announcing to the entire world that they are the anti-modernists, nay, the reformers of the mechanical Earth, hoping to make themselves deities of grandiosity and power. At this point, they are in fact the tormented, rotten, un-intellectual part of humanity that cannot even outsmart a swine.
                But stripping off their mascaras, revealing the neediness to be thematic personifications of a low-class play or poorly-written, poorly-composed opera, and their insatiable thirst for attention and glory that they don’t even understand – the masquerade of the High Society is ended, thus, becoming the victimized scandalized patients of the spoiled context. Deep within the wilderness of never-ending ear-thirst for self-satisfaction of the worst kind and value, brought up in putrid condition of delusions, for them to appreciate the subtlety behind telling them that they have patently grotesque and flatulent sense of understanding (if they have one), they better cut the crap and shut their oafish bearings up. At this point, they are worms. They are worse than the sick male-ghouls that laid me to bed - not my testament - but that of the court's remarkable effort to get me to rest and rot without even making my point across the ill-gottens and ill-breds that make me vomit.

                            - Alexander Pierce


This is Pierce’s speech addressed to his followers prior to his execution, with sixty counts of crime of buggery.