"Can't we just build a fucking bomb the size of the earth and cut a hole out in the middle in the shape of The United States? Drop the motherfucker around us and take care of business once and for all?"
2002-10-15 . 1:00 a.m.
Hey, hey, hey I've got nothin' to say. I'm writing out this nonsense, and if it's good, maybe I'll leave it here. I might take short breaks to talk to Phoebe on AIM though. I'm talking to her right now. Hi, Phoebe! Bombs are funny. Anthrax is funny. And that is Freudian. Look it up in your book. Books are things they give you so you can learn. Most people forget this. They either forget it, or confuse it with the thought that "Books are things they give me so I can memorize." So everyone memorizes their books, and they have pretend thoughts. They build buildings, (structures) and they form ideologies (structures). Then they blow up people with different ideologies (structures) and their buildings (structures). I have a bottle of Lysol on my desk, and there's a picture of this impossibly crisp and beautiful blue waterfall, with healthy green vegetation on the banks. ...well, it seems that way, until you notice it's the blue of 10,000 flushes, and the green of Pine-Sol. There's no ants to ruin your picnic, and no bacteria in the water. Yes sir, this is nature, just the way we want it. Clean. It's like drinking a bottle of Drain-O....sure, it'll clean you out...but it leaves you HOLLOW inside. -Frank Drebin At this point, I say to Phoebe on AIM "I'm starting to worry that I'll lack writing inspiration because I'm happier than I've been in a long time... I'm at my best when I'm drunk and cynical." But I think I'll be ok. I still laugh about Hitler and Anthrax. I just made a joke with Phoebe about segregation without even thinking. I joke so much about racism because it seems patently ridiculous to me. All the Political Correctness also seems patently ridiculous. Political Correctness doesn't want to accept that we're different. Yeah, we all have equal rights as human beings, but we're different. Get over it. I'm getting off my soap box now. I'm walking across the street, and I'm buying a box of sugar. I'm walking into the Oval Office, and I'm arranging it in neat little lines on President Bush's desk, because I'm a prankster. I'm leaving bottles of whiskey in the passenger seats of his daughters' cars, because I'm a lover. ...and I'm telling Mrs. Bush to leave him, because I'm also a humanitarian. Now I'm going to take maternity leave, because I just gave birth to a diary entry.
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