Thursday, September 24, 2015

Nittany Valley Uber Alles

Well, dearest motherfuckers, it's another football season here in Happy fucking Hell. That disgusting time of the year that the parasitic Paternoites here in Central Pennsylvania hold so near and dear. Another year of tailgating and fantasy foolishness. Another year of shallow victory and deep oceans of alcohol. Another year of wallowing in joyful ignorance and learning absolutely fucking nothing and I feel sick.

How many years has it been? My Lyme fried brain can't seem to recall anymore. Not long enough, apparently, because it still feels like yesterday. Forty some childhoods torn to ribbons by the cruel savagery of Jerry Sandusky and and the cold calculated indifference of his still beloved handler, Joe Paterno. Jerry is all but forgotten, erased, wiped clean from this counties selective memory, as if that foul beast never even existed. But not Paterno. Old Jo-Pa is more alive then he's ever been. In death his legend has only grown. The great, glorious god of football who's shadow blankets this loathsome place in a din of ignorance rarely seen outside of third world dictatorships.

Take a brisk autumn walk through the picturesque streets of downtown State College and Joe's presence quickly becomes unavoidable (trust me, I've tried). His army of infinite portraits look over every square inch of livable space, holding his happy fucking hermit kingdom trapped eternally in the prison of his steely bespectacled gaze. In those dead paper eyes we are all Jo-Pa's children and Jo-Pa's children aim to please there undead master.

Restoring the wins, Revising history and drinking themselves stupid on Joe Paterno brand beer. What victims? There are no victims. Only conquest, victory and bowl eligibility. Never mind the sobbing children bleeding from unspeakable places, there tortured cries barely audible over the newly restored roar of Beaver Stadium. Who wants to bother with such ugliness when we have statues to rebuild and legacies to maintain.

So what if Joe Paterno knew everything. So what if he did nothing for god knows how long. So what if he continued to entertain that monster in the sanctity of the household where he raised his own fucking children. Who fucking cares about anything. Like that rotting old shit crowed from his doorway before he finally dropped dead, "WE ARE PENN STATE!". We can't be bothered with such unpleasant details. It's all lies after all, at least according Jo-Pa's vile widow. We'll just do what she did, deny the facts and sweep them under our Nittany Lion rugs, like Germans in Auschwitz, hiding acrid clouds of billowing black smoke behind doily Bavarian curtains. We'll deny, we'll deny, we'll deny, deny, deny and we'll all get good and drunk and watch some fucking football.

Who are we? What the hell have we become? What happened to this town I use to proudly call my own? Has it always been this way? Have I been blind half my life? When did team spirit and hometown pride become a disease that strips us of our most basic sense of humanity and dignity? I grew up with these fucking people. Have they all become monsters or have I just become more human somehow? Did my years of self imposed isolation make me somehow immune to there sickness? How can I save people who have no will to change? How the hell do I reason with people who prefer there delusions of grandeur over reality.

I have no answers to these questions and having to ask them over and over, as much to myself as anybody else, makes me feel sick inside but I can't just sit idly by and ignore the ugliness of this place I call home or the people I once loved. You can't just go on denying the past and never expect to repeat it. Jerry Sandusky raped over forty innocent children and Joe Paterno and the university he loved covered it up and even worse this community continues to do the same damn thing while celebrating the unrepentant criminals in spite of there crimes against humanity.

Until these harsh truths are excepted and these demons are exorcised, Nittany Valley doesn't deserve to have its precious fucking football team or the dirty money it brings with it. Far from going too far, the NCAA didn't go far enough. Penn State should have been given the death penalty and you can fucking quote me on that.

Repent! State College, repent! For the love of god, repent! Until you do, this native son won't give you one moments peace.

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

The Orange Menace Rises

What foul, orange beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Washington? A creature far too repulsive to be deserving of a human name. A creature they call Trump. Posing, posturing, lips twisted in knots, twisted and flexed, teeth gnashing violently, chewing up the English language and spitting it back out like acid, eyes squinting, mincing, head slung over shoulders like a vulture eyeing its tender prey, skin burnt and stained the color of nicotine, mangled hair shellacked against skull like a calcified ginger merkin caked in dry semen, arms stiff, slicing through the air violently like the claws of a mantis, reaching out blindly for the throat of another doomed lover, it's words make little sense, it's words are not words, it doesn't speak, it barks, it yelps, it squeals, it demands attention, it won't be deprived, it will not be ignored.

I find myself asking, in this dark, witching hour, is this it? Is this how it ends? With the racist rantings of a mutated, Wall Street rodeo clown. Could this really be the fabled decline of western civilization forecast by everyone from Marx to Spengler? And if it is, why am I the only one terrified? Why is the whole world laughing?

I desperately, desperately, wanted to avoid this subject but I can't stay silent anymore. This spectacle called Trump has become far to dangerous to ignore. I don't fear the creature itself. A sad, worthless freak, the product of morally derelict oligarchs and sadomasochistic boarding school rituals, the kind of beast that could only be spawned by the one percent, damned with enough money to fail forever without repercussions, a thing so devoid of basic humanity it can only survive in a delusional fantasy world of ego-maniacal self worship. No, I don't fear Trump the "man", if you can call it that. I fear Trump the spectacle, a mob of bloodthirsty, runaway sheeple, turned rabid by the fevered dream of nationalist revival and revenge against a race of stateless peasants, made convenient scapegoats for the self inflicted wounds of a bankrupt civilization in decline.

It wasn't so long ago that another supposed democracy fell victim to a similar hysteria. Wiemar Germany like America was a humiliated empire bled dry by years of reckless warfare, gripping on to the last vestiges of liberalism before falling under the spell of a cruel, bombastic, buffoon offering the empty promise of conquest at the expense of a demonized race of deemed outsiders. No one took his rants seriously either except his fanatical followers, who had the last laugh beneath overcast skies, dyed black with the ashes of there state prescribed enemies. By then it was too late. By the time the joke was over millions lay dead.

Maybe I'm being over dramatic. I pray to Christ that I am. That we'll all awake from this national nightmare before the first leaves of autumn descend upon us but as the crowds grow and the polls climb and the media refuses to take there little monster seriously, a deep, dark feeling swirls inside me like the terror that originally drove me to the agoraphobic prison of my early-mid twenties and I can't turn my back on the history books that kept me sane during those dark years.

I can't force myself to forget the scientific fact that all empires by nature, crumble and fall. And this traditionally comes about in only one of two ways, revolution or dictatorship. If a populace remains alert, educated and engaged, revolution becomes a solution to catastrophe. But if a populace becomes complacent, ignorant and indifferent, totalitarianism becomes inevitable and catastrophe is sure to follow.

In a nation wallowing in the self indulgence of reality television, social media and consumer electronics, you can forgive me for having serious reservations that America will rediscover its revolutionary roots and go the way of Thomas Paine.

It pains every last fiber of my being to type this but it seems to me much more likely that your average American would prefer the convenience of suicide by fuhrer to the hard work that goes into fostering a true revolutionary renaissance.

Being the anti-statist, libertarian Marxist that I am, I never thought I'd hear myself speak these words but pray for America dearest motherfuckers and stand by our Mexican neighbors. If the Trump's of this world win we'll all be Mexicans soon.