Over-Dude

Hating construction: orange tape, cranes, destroying the landscape for another phallic behemoth that profits few and costs many.  Surveyors on Hole 17, Richmond Hill, aren’t there to plant more trees, zoning.  Zoning out, succeeding at boredom, in the board room, another PowerPoint™ meeting takes place:

“Envision this:” she starts, attempting to impress a group of male colleagues like a well-dressed whore. “3 acres, prime real estate, stripped bare – denuded, levelled, and them… domes!” with pause for effect.

“I’m getting a massive erection!” said the president sincerely, getting attention, “It may be an eyesore, but it’ll get more looks being there which is better for the bottom-line.”

Buckminster Fuller’s communist/feminine geodesics fail to be ‘tried and true.’  Calm me, calm me, commie, can’t we all just get along and share a blanket and a supreme ideology?

A problem with stock markets are that investors are essentially glorified gamblers who desire to stack the odds in their favor, and if, looking back at historical precedent, it can be found that profit was proven to exist in a certain place and modality, the importation of said modality for supposed guaranteed profit trumps all other considerations. 

At least one guy in the boardroom supports getting 3 domes to try it out, but will not voice an opinion that dissents the established worldview of the Russian piss enthusiast, his boss, the one who signs the paychecks (digitally), that pays for his desirable condominium in midtown, in the heart like a fist of it all. He doesn’t love it, but imagines someone will. He imagines some dime will be gullible enough to swipe right on Tinder®, and then with the right lines, a few drinks, and mood lighting, she will fail to discern his shortcomings until it is too late and she becomes emotionally invested like the gullible chick she is and he will get all the dome he wants.  He comes to finishing touches. She puts him in her mouth.  He teaches her a thing or two. She will learn to keep her opinions to herself. He continues to fantasize about the size of his new place, the location, the amenities, the luxuries, his accrued account balance, and the amount of sex he’ll be having because of it. As of now he’s only pulling sixes and sevens, basic bitches he looks at with disgust like his weak-willed mother.  There’s some philanthropic fellatio, but no call backs, just another stepping-stone he thinks as he StairMaster®s the gym, staring off into space with his Spotify® Airpod™ mix blaring crap EDM.  Tedium, ‘getting his steps in,’ a modern phrase for efficiency fiends.  Modern pedometers, Bluetooth cock-rings give a more accurate reading bouncing on the dangle. 

A spring chicken choked for a clear mind and protein, down at the Tyson® production facility, a concentration camp for heathen hens, Sally Sue dumps a tray full of gibbets into the dog-food receptacle and replaces the plastic bin back on the end of the row after chucking the last few chunks into the mass grater, grinder, and processor. Dreaming of the big city, sick of these backwards backwoods clowns who spit and shoot and take seconds without asking.

Many sell themselves into slavery for security, identifying part-heartedly with an occupation that pays some foreign energy conglomerate for their national gridiron, oil-wells, and mining equipment.  Protesters in Chile burnt down the headquarters of “Enel Chile, a subsidiary of Italian utility Enel…” harvesting income inequality, destabilizing by claiming rights to resources halfway across the globe, because apparently Italia est perfecta and has no problems at home.  A father who travels for work to escape/support his wife and kids who increasingly know luxury, but lack guidance.  Generations pass, kindred burgeon, now concentrated in cities, fail to look one another in the eye, fail to familiarize oneself with another, separated in spirit yet sharing common ancestry.

Living in the moment, a Brazilian dumptruck driver dumps his payload of plastic bagged waste into the Amazon Basin.  Living in the moments to come, generations will have to rectify, reconcile, and regenerate the damages. Do we think we can get away with this bullshit philosophy? An atheist suicide reincarnation victim born again against his will in more blood and less spirit (as is his Dharma) struggles with the fact that God doesn’t care that he wanted out.  A consciousness irreparably diminished to a lower order may continue to descend at his or her own animal peril since slaughter remains in vogue at the abattoir.  What does it mean to ‘live in the moment?’ For many it’s a McDonald’s cup or wrapper out the car window. Bye-bye! They go back to their litter of filthy children without a chance they thrust on society like a baby-tossing gypsy crook, bent on profiting from a baby’s ability to evoke sympathy. I’d let that future criminal crash and protect my wallet!