Dylan Cormack

How anyone in America can travel anywhere in the world without being laughed out of town must be some kind of testament either to the pity of foreigners or to the charm of the Yankees. I mean, seriously.

Did President Bush really come out and say that he talks to god and cries at night, and will, in fact, go cry a little more later? Does he really think that drinking is bad because it affects your decision-making? I’m so glad that captain cuckoo banans didn’t make any decisions concerning Iraq while drinking, eh? That could’ve impaired his judgment and wouldn’t that have been disastrous?

Seriously, why are people not storming into the White House to drag that muffy little prick by the cuffs of his slacks to the cold and wet banks of the Potomac to be cleansed of his lies. I’d wonder if it was too bad that the Potomac is heavily polluted but it works well enough as a literary tool that even such polluted water could wash some filth off of this douchebag.

Fortunately, I maintain a constant-enough level of distance from what you people do these days that I’m able to scoff and ridicule without later transitioning to soft whimpering tears in the corner of a public library as I consider that what you asses vote for affects me too.

Whatever. Buy the ticket, take the ride. You people dug your own graves letting these creepy little baboon asses run the show that feeds them their spankings and I left because I want no part of that. That the quarters these evil ass-bags spend on vibrating beds in expensive hotel rooms for which we pay $800,000.00 a pop and is actually justified as a serious line item on a budget somewhere that no one with scruples or a sense of humor ever laid eyes on only makes the whole situation that much more pathetic for you.

It comes down to this: I truly and miserably hate you all. I cannot sum up enough the disappointment that this place has become, mostly because I had so much pride in the potential of what it could’ve been.

Damn. What a downer, eh?

But there’s no sense in sinking into despair over the shame of the whole affair. At the end of the day, the villains will get away and who cares? Why shouldn’t they? They did what they should, their capitalist hands grabbed what they could and will make for Belize when they see what a breeze it is to dupe the fools that stay mute when you distract on the left with words shiny and bright, only to pillage and plunder what’s on the right.

Yeah. So where do we go from here? Do we search for answers?

Whoa, whoa, easy tiger. Too big a step. In the state most of you are in, I think first you’d do well to figure out what questions to ask first. So start with that.

Me? I’m going to go start being famous. I recently received something from one of my good 2-day friends I met at Wildflower ‘07 who’s had the impression that I’m just a bit pissed about the whole situation with these United States of America, amongst other things and…well – here:

…you seem angry in some and deliriously entertained in others … you seem to be under the impression that no one reads, or cares about the more serious things you so eloquently weave a story of for our eyes. Simply not true my 2 day old friend. Some of us care greatly and do pay attention.

So it’s official. I have an audience; this is good. Somebody put that down in the record, eh?

This doesn’t make any sense. I thought it was enough that I became that kid that Willy Wonka told Charlie about at the end of the Gene Wilder version of the movie:

“But Charlie, don’t forget what happened to the kid who suddenly got everything he ever wanted…he lived happily ever after.”

aaaaannnd scene.

But no. Not enough, friends (enemies too. My audience, judging from my comments, is probably too small to be excluding people at this point). It’s never enough.

Perhaps I need the literary equivalent of oompa-loompa’s in my life…

There’s a metaphor that makes a lot of sense somehow, if only I knew what it meant.

https://facebook.com/dylan.cormack.1 Dylan Cormack

Dylan is our political correspondent, bold and fiery as his fuse is short. He is a well-read, on-location kind of writer and is no stranger to travel. Intimately familiar with many distant and dark corners of the Earth, Dylan brings a new kind of blood to his vicious style of journalism. He sends us his words, notes and effusive rants of observation, commentary and occasional judgement.

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