he's a gutless wonder, probably too blinded by his dazzling reflection to realize he gets crap news and lies and hears falsehood.
are you playing a video game and typing in the screen prompts in 'advisor mode'
put this into a context for us.
attacks?
like fits of coughing?
I call it hyperbole to say that the big-box-store is a jungle. you make it sound like you're in a firefight, ike it's the wasteland between armies in a protracted modern banker-war.
when the script is to haze everybody and see who spurges out and starts to act out, lash out, do the wrong thing (Adam K) you have to ask yourself: what about those who see it all that way anyway and have been walking around in an undiscovered country that others don't even know exists,not just a literary world but a whole new way to see others, to be 'one' with the 'universe' sleeping in a seat on the back of the bus with no cares in the world. Each town a new reality. The negotiate this jungle like the top preditor or most able gatherer.
And thus it's working for them.
but the mavens of 'no no, make them upset, kick the hornets nest, make the pepole do things outside of the process of law, just because we can'
so they sprinkle the meanness dust over their herds of poorly fed (with news and food and bad assumptoins) expecting a big battle to brew, placing bets on the side.
but what if all the pepole are alreadey seen that this scenario is a dead end. That the guys who have a newer vision when they don't expect that worst case that is being siren-song aloud twenty four zeven (in some lower part of what is definitly not heaven) . . . and all the handsome kept people don't know what to do.
they act like anyone who disagrees hates them.
they pretend that a volitile public will flame away and lightning will strike the ice skulpture world on which they have their own personal throne, a bubbling creation of ego that presents it self as the Congress-hunks front facing page, they select carefully which photos to use.
we live in this dictatorship. We get a president who says 'I will be president, not dictator' and all the dork-tastics of the kept herd (in the halls and sub mithreaum of the Congressal Rotundant building for the people, where tresspassing ought be an oxymoran, . . . .
I gotta stop it. the world isn't really like this. They fall into bad behavior. He makes a mistake. He doesn't look for other evidence. What if the feeds I see are totaly compped? what if the words I hear the president say aren't the real words to the song?
OK, i've just had a vision of what it will be at the inaug.
the reptile minded control culture of the control freaks are being told that they are in charge. Eveyone is being given 'oh, no, your side wins' stories. and at the end of it no one will be given anything that they expect.
it will all unravel and the world will start to untwine for those who merely play and project from the matrix of their delusional ego-worlds, (that ice-bubble of self-togetherness, which is rather lonely unless you talk to echos) . . .
and then . . . at the point when all those are stuck in it deep and dirty, spurging meannesses in the freshly breaking light,
we'll all be reminded its just a movie.
and there will be a sudden flash mob dance party
and everyone in washingtown
will suddenly start doing a well known dance
(and the only mystery is which one.)
at that point the reptile mother ship doesn't know what to do so they do the 'fall and die' cheepest ending (so we don't have to spend CGI budget on crap endings that people will say 'this is hyperbolic) . . .
and everyone will dance
and I'd say 'happily ever after' but pepole have to stop dancing at some point.
suggested play list for the inaugaration:
Thriller (extended dance version)
Safety Dance (extended dance version)
staying alive (extended dance version)
anything by Chubby Checker or Brenda Lee
Bristol Hop by a newly reunited Dovels with special guests . . .
And to make it all surreal it would morph between various genres, as if you are in a carousel, and as you move between various regions, the venue changes and thus the music. So you're doing the flash-mob dance in the capitol building, like Fred Astair on the Capital Steps, and as you move the music change. you get inot a different genre. over here it's Bertha into Turn on your love light. over here it's Thriller, mixed in with 'Ben' and photos of B Rhodes like he's a love interest . . . of someone who weeps for him and says 'why , Ben, why? how did you get to be such a rotton shell of a man?'
and over here we've got the theme song from old flyer-guy movies . . . and some one dressed as one thing then another, from garb to garb, in a morphing suit of clothes, a uniform or dance outfit (like it's a Picasso that is also animated crossing between a Natty-Guargantuian outfit and a . . . Congressdwebe on his first day outfit . . . and an old flyboy costume, like a hollyweirdo from a cult-factory, they pick the cutest blue-eyed guys . . .