Some Of My Least Favorite Things

The hot sun right over my head in a car with faulty air conditioning, like being slowly fried in my own sweat. I think of myself as a flounder, floundering, being breaded in pollution dust and filleted by the cocky sun gods. Whose dinner dish shall I be?

Clams in any form whatsoever. They will never be my dinner dish, slimy little buggers as they are. And do they have eyes and do those eyes cause that squeaking sound when you have to bite into them and then swallow something that tastes like post-nasal drip with garlic? If the American Empire is in its death throes it's probably the fault of clams, not of dirty fucking hippies. I bet clams would vote Republican.

The talk of the day in politics. It's interesting the first hundred times but after that it's like pulling quite firmly attached teeth with rusty pliers and makes me wonder why I ever thought politics would be fun to write. It's not fun if you have to follow the stupid rules about remembering to say that your honorable opponent really is the best thing since Ziplock bags even though right now he is talking from his other end. But such a wise thinker, usually. Indeed.

Double-Speak. Waffling. False dualisms. Writing formulas. Falling apart until only sentence fragments appear. So.