“Removing cars from literally any given space always and in every case improves that space. I solemnly dare you to find a single counterexample to this phenomenon in the entirety of the universe and at any time in space. There is none, has never been one, and never will be a single such example. Were it every exhausting wheeled exoskeleton driven into, so as to fill, the Grand Canyon, to be the world’s largest landfill, brim to brim with worthless autotrash, I would rejoice in dionysian pleasure for thirty days thricefold if only to express my sincere gratitude that man's most diabolical progeny had been defeated, and the world saved.”
On and on, they droned about every ‘Hot Take ™ ’ the station network could find “Consumer Engagement ™ (powered by Pew Research Center)” for. Naturally, every station had long since been bought out by the Sinclair ™ group, who could just as easily buy usage data of nearby phones from a 3rd party, but most of that was the garbled nonsense of fat thumbs, sticky with flat sprite spilt from a big gulp, trying to look up whatever song was playing - or call the host a communist. Going forward, Consumer Engagement™ was maximised by playing the same 3 songs ad infinitum, and hosting whatever paid shill (READ: pundit ) could rustle up enough outrage.
We rejoin Harry at dinnertime, for an All-American and textbook burgerpunk ritual. He has ridden several miles with the Chinese family, and now is fixing to unwind with them around a campground’s inset fire pit.
The family’s SUV is parked near the campground’s entrance, beside a scattering of similarly middle-class vehicles. Harry hops out first, while the mother unfastens the children’s safety harnesses and the father begins unpacking wooden crates and plastic utensil boxes from the back.
Harry keeps on walking, tracing a circuit of the car park. Around him new vehicles arrive, the families contained within immediately beginning to unload their various barbecue kits and portable frying devices. It might be worth looking for a lift from one of them, but no, the Chinaman seems honest enough.
Harry pauses over a shallow pond that’s formed in the tarmac, a pond green with scum, and he takes a deeply optimistic breath, his eyes glowing with the falling and polluted horizon. Dark closes around him, cooling him, tickling his exposed genitalia. Harry, for the first time in months, goes a full five minutes without thinking of the Ovum, without imagining himself under the bulk of Event Organizer 1-A, the man whom most call Stanley Winks, but whom Harry might soon call Master.
“Hally!”
Harry turns at the shrill cry of the Chinese mother.
“Dinnel’s leady!”
The lithe young boy walks alongside the mother, around their SUV to the fire pit. What he sees is the dog from
earlier - all forty-or-so pounds of the mutt - the “pet” that so happily licked his cheeks and nose
just hours prior - Harry sees it roasting on a spit.
The father and children are sort of huddled around this scene - the glow from the fire exaggerating their
already cartoonish faces into racist caricatures - the buck teeth, long wrinkled foreheads, the gold skin and
slit-eyes, you name it, Harry sees it.
His mouth gapes a little in either shock or horror, a muted ooohhhh coming from his mouth. He stands motionless,
how an American guy in Vietnam would stand after stumbling upon a massacred village back in ‘68. Kind of
hungry, but also ready to vomit.
“You eat youl dinnel white boy or whaaaaaa?” the father says, the charred tail of the dog dangling
from his teeth. Harry sees for the first time how the several watches lined up along the Chinaman’s wrist,
which he’d previously written off as affectation or as some sort of homeland-related practical effort have
in fact been constructed out of the tight-drawn collars of past dinnertime chow.
Harry stands still while the mother tires of yanking him forward and then sits down by her husband. The two
children immediately rush him with their Chinet plates and dog meat, offering him a bite the only way a Chinese
person could - they start shoving bits of the stuff in his face - and Harry regards the scent and wet heat near
his face hole as violating the limited warranty, as something out-of-bounds when it comes to being a true
American cosplayer and friend to all animals. The children are gently shoved aside by the mother, who’s
holding a chunk of dog flesh at least as long as her thigh in her two bare hands. With a series of bizarre
cooing noises she begins to try to prise the guest’s mouth open with the meat itself.
Paralyzed by the dog-meat smells the most he can do is clamp his lips tight as she wipes glistening scraps of
ex-pet flank across his face, smearing him in the fats and oils of the family meal, a meal whose stench
isn’t much helped by the shitty job they made of skinning the dog. Bristly carbonated hairs scratch
Harry’s baby-butt-bare upper lip as the mother tries to lever the slice of thigh into the American boy.
She’s solicitous and kind, if unworried about his actual desires. Could anyone outside the clan read her
face I guess they might read shock at the moment when Harry jumps up and runs.
So, with their mother’s unintentionally repugnant gesture brough to an end, the children try scrambling
after Harry as he runs off into the darkening night, but are unable to catch him or even pursue past twenty
yards or so. And of course the parents don’t care too much, so again Harry is friendless, cold, and alone
in the American “wilderness”, an increasingly hostile town, it feels, and one whose temperature has
really started dropping, as the boy’s inverted penis now indicates.
Damn, his gut hurt. Was it his guilt talking or the illness? Or were they now hopelessly intertwined? With this
burgerPunk generation it was hard to tell. Not that he’d worked at thinking it over it
very hard. His
first love, his obsession, in fact, was burgers. He turned around and pissed against a parked
PT Cruiser,
ignoring the burn. Somewhere behind him a woman was bleating as if its throat were cut.
O! say can you see, by the neon’s dim light,
What so proudly we parked at the twilight's last drive-in,
Whose pinkish slime and goulash delights eat your precious insides,
O'er the ads that we watched, which were mind numbing static?
And the ICBM’s red glare, the nukes bursting in air,
Gave proof through the blight that our prez was still there;
O! say does that M-spangled banner not cease
O'er the land of dollar menus and the home of t’obese?
On the shore dimly seen through the trash of the deep,
Where the Chinese haughty host in dread silent reposts,
What is that which the Febreze, o'er the towering Staircase steep,
As it fitfully blows, half pickles half cheese?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first McSplender,
In full glory reflected now shines in the Twitch stream:
'Tis the M-spangled banner, O! long may it not cease,
O'er the land of the bill and the home of t’obese?
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the hazard of gluttony and the fatties confusion,
A home and a McCountry, should leave us more poor?
Their blood has washed out our foul carbon’s pollution.
No refuge should be save, the hiring of minimal-wage slaves
From the terror of the NEET life, or the gloom of poverty:
And the M -spangled banner in triumph doth not cease,
O'er the land of the bill and the home of the obese.
O! thus be it ever, when Investor shall stand
Between their loved stocks and the west’s desolation.
Blest with Thickshakes and “peace”, may the Heav'n accursed land
Praise the Power that hath made and capitalized us a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is profitable,
And this be our motto: 'In G-d is our McTrust.'
And the M-spangled banner in triumph shall not cease
O'er the land of the bill and the home of t’obese!
This fat guy Bingbong stands, wiping his palms, next to the automatic doors of Costco’s Superstore, waiting for someone to purchase a 100-gram tin of baked beans so he can jump forwards and yell ‘gram-gratulations.’ Gram-gratulations, he thinks. Fuck. Too stupid to be real, but here he is. Luckily for him, he hasn’t had to say it too often so far. Slow night for beans. He checks his watch. 11.40. Twenty more minutes, and if he can make it through without saying ‘gram-gratulations,’ then maybe, just maybe, he can get out of this joint with his head held high. It’s an international initiative by the higher-ups somewhere- imperial measurements have got to go; can’t sell pints of beans to the jabbering crowds of Chinese and Indians who throng the city. To ease the soft American minds over here into it, they hire people like This fat guy to stand with plastic, quavering smiles, standing by the exit doors, waiting for someone to scan in a gram or kilo of beans (this is a bean supermarket) and yell ‘gram-gratulations.’ Make ‘em feel real nice about the metric system. Make ‘em feel like a winner. This fat guy doesn’t feel like a winner. This place gets to you after a while. His brain feels like so many pounds of shrink-wrapped ground beef. Slap a sticker on it, USDA approved. One unit whole Britttttttttttttttttttbong. No, not pounds. Grams. Gram-gratulations. There it is in his head again, twisted up, the railways of his consciousness ending in Sherman’s neckties of corporate nonsense. More like ‘ham-gratulations,’ he thinks to himself. This is his attempt at rebellion. Feeble. Stupid. He used to be clever, you know. The cracks in his mind spiderweb, join one another. The dam will burst, but only if he says ‘gram-gratulations’ one more time, to one more vacant-eyed fat hog sweating through their wifebeater, jiggling with the hum of the motorised fatguy scooter they take to Beans and Things at 11pm. Speak of the devil, here comes one now. Not the metric beans, This fat guy wishes. Not the metric beans, he prays. The hog in the scooter reaches up and stops; there’s a bang, breaking glass- This fat guy’s lucky day- a bullet from a nearby school shooting has come through the glass of the automatic doors, and pierced the prospective bean buyer, who slumps lifeless in his scooter. No gram-gratulations in order here, no sir. He looks at his watch. 11.50. Not long now. Almost time on a sixteen hour shift, hoo-boy. That’s a solid $1.24- with tips- in his pocket if he can stick the landing. Stay together. Keep it cool. Keep it clean. Nobody’s gonna order beans in the last ten minutes before midnight. Nobody’s that stupid…. right?
Because I’m Loving it!
Musicals to appease rich nigga and make them feel cool and urban,
being ironic about slowly killing yourself through overconsumption.
The only person who could expose me to any culture beyond suburbia is our cleaner, who only talks to mom, and even then, barely.
I always catch glimpses of her skyping her family on her brandless phone. There's always so many people, of all ages, bunched up together, with a peasant backdrop of a colorful wallpaper, religious paraphernalia and spanish Tv on.
Their silences don't feel awkward. Their silences feel like they are spending time looking at each other
None of my brain can figure out any references.
Who owns that house and how many people live in there?
How many cars do they drive? Are they too poor for cars?
Her kid is wearing a light green graphic tee and black nike shorts. Did they get those shorts at Nike? Probably
not, right? Are all their clothes second hand?
Does her kid have a playstation? Does he know God of War?
Does he like going to Disneyland?
This just in: mass shooting at Bed Bath & Beyond in Columbino, New Texas leaving 9 dead, 17 injured, and causing thousands of dollars in property damage.
Where I feel home: eating at PF Chang's after playing playstation for free at BestBuy in the same mall.
Had some really good memories in parking lots; drinking out of paper bags with friends I thought I'd have
forever. Now, I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby, with nothing to lose.
*drone shot over cityscape*
Fear of the dark, fear of the dark, I have the phobia that someone’s always near.
Tesla Siri assistant that always connects to your wife's bluetooth and NEVER YOURS GODDAMNIT!! Ain’t that the most burgerpunk thing you ever heard? You shake your head. You go to light a cigarette- no- you don’t smoke- TV says that’s bad for you. You go to the fridge and pick yourself out a nice celery stick, peel it with your teeth, all hard-case like. Your wife cut that celery for you. You think about buying a pack of cigarettes. Are you allowed to? Is anyone stopping you? They gotta, right? Someone’s making money off it. That, more than anything else, tells you it’s still within the realm of possiblity. Still time to draw deep on a cancer stick and say some cool shit. The 7/11 isn’t far and your whore wife is still asleep.
MacbookAirProStandPlus for $1.5k. "It's actually cheap if you think of it as an investment."
⟹burger - .75¢ two sesame seed buns lightly toasted and spat on by our lovely and diverse employees. - one slice of American cheese, more an oil product than a dairy one, (if you pick apart your burger [we don’t advise this] this flimsy slice of “cheese” will decompose and seemingly melt into the remaining ingredients. - two coin pickles, the same quality you expect from a county fair food stand. Our pickles are sourced from someplace, we dunno. - Heinz -brand ketchup, which is so god damned sugary that you might pass out just from leaning over and huffing it. (Provides 50% of your recommended daily corn syrup intake!) - off brand mustard, off brand mayo, as you consume them, you might easily imagine the obese Nicaroguan slave who churned the condiments in his hairnet and apeish facial features, with a giant metallic oar-like tool, and you just know as that reprehensible creature has the heed of his masters, as he leans over the vat of mayo, or mustard, that just once (at least just once) a drop of rancid sweat runs down the man’s dirt-clogged, gorilla-spawned face, and then drips into the batch you’ve had the misfortune to have eaten from, after months being stored, and transported via cargo container, then via eighteen wheeler, and finally unpacked and served by the faggot teenager you had the equal misfortune of having brought you your food. - one All-American %100 beef patty, seasoned to perfection in our industrial kitchen, where drifts of chemical odor and noxious frier emissions serve our young or ne'er-do-well employees fun -size diagnoses of cancers (ten types of cancer in all! Collect your diagnosis today!) before wafting out into the main restaurant where you and your kids sit and have all your immune systems and their pituitary glands calcified or otherwise tarnished forever in the unsustainable stew of nigger slaves and their rancid sweat, 100% all-beef, and corporate cum post-life post-thought post-ambulatory America. - one shred of lettuce that kind of just flops around and if a strong wind happens past you’ll lose it. Enjoy!
⟹Fries - .50¢ Idaho potatoes hand-cut in our kitchen by “the Potatoes guy”, whom none of his co-workers speak to and who goes home each night having scraped clean the entire restaurant and lies alone, on a rat infested futon, and will continue lying alone until he dies of cancer or bowel disease, whichever corporate prefers. Our potatoes are of the finest quality, though once they enter our kitchen they pretty much transform into turds. (Turds of shit.) So the potatoes guy chops them up and then drops them into containers for the Fry boy to shunt into the deep frier, one basket at a time, the baskets being hotter than the parking lot’s concrete in June. The fry boy is this pimply kid, who spends his time eating whatever falls from his nose. He enjoys long walks on the L.A. river and the occasional vape rip. He also salts the fries once they’re done and crispy, but still fluffy on the inside. Enjoy!
⟹Milkshake - .50¢ Local milk and ice cream but “local” doesn’t mean what it used to, kid. Perfect for bat mitzvahs or gentile birthday parties, our milkshakes are basically liquid indulgence! Speaking of indulgence, have you tried our double milkshake lately? One double milkshake contains 2 times the milk, 2 times the melted ice cream, and 4 times the 9/11 Memorial hamburger hotdog 2005 BCS National Championship USC Trojans Texas Longhorns Vince Young confetti celebration! A national tragedy and a global celebration! Or, Harry wonders, is it the other way around? Enjoy!
⟹ 1 DORRAH 动态网自由门 天安門 天安门 法輪功 李洪志 Free Tibet 六四天安門事件 the Tiananmen Square protests of 1989 天安門大屠殺 the Tiananmen Square Massacre 反右派鬥爭 the Anti-Rightist Struggle 大躍進政策 the Great Leap Forward 文化大革命 the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution 人權 Human Rights 民運 Democratization 自由 Freedom 獨立 Independence 多黨制 Multi-party system 台灣 臺灣 Taiwan Formosa 中華民國 Republic of China 西藏 土伯特 唐古特 Tibet 達賴喇嘛 Dalai Lama 法輪功 Falun Dafa 新疆維吾爾自治區 the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region 諾貝爾和平獎 Nobel Peace Prize 劉暁波 Liu Xiaobo 民主 言論 思想 反共 反革命 抗議 運動 騷亂 暴亂 騷擾 擾亂 抗暴 平反 維權子 強制斷種 強制堕胎 民族淨化 人體實驗 肅清 胡耀邦 趙紫陽 魏京生 王丹 還政於民 和平演變 激流中國 北京之春 大紀元時報 九評論共産黨 獨裁 專制 壓制 統一 監視 鎮壓 迫害 侵略 掠奪 破壞 拷問 屠殺 活摘器官 誘拐 買賣人口 遊進 走私 毒品 賣淫 春畫 賭博 六合彩 天安門 天安门 法輪功 李洪志 Winnie the Pooh 劉曉波动态网自由门
Again, damn it. Shotacon.
Harry rubs his eyes in disbelief. It’s been a couple hours since he escaped those psycho Chinese, and yet
still, in the safe confines of a brightly-lit Love’s gas station and trucker lounge, the indecipherable
runes of the yellowed newspapers they’d wrapped their dogmeat in continue to haunt his visions of past and
future. He shivers but not from this haunting; it feels like he’s near to really freezing out.
“May I take your order, sir?” The sweet, sing-song voice pulls Harry’s attention up from the
truck stop’s menu; it’s a lady. As his eyes track up and up along her towering, hourglass frame for
a face; it’s a blond, green-eyed dominatrix in disguise, a certain CFO of the McDonald’s corporation
come to warn Harry of what evils lay ahead, but the two fall into an unrelated conversation, as Ms. Abbey seems
to have taken a liking to our lithe, pubescent and bespectacled protagonist.
“It’s not that I hate my job,” the six-foot-two in heels, borderline Amazon sighs, confesses,
demonstrating her newfound comfort with Harry. “It’s just sometimes I get a little freaked out,
y’know?”
--Are 90s one hit wonders burgerpunk?
“No,” says Ms. Abbey.
“Tell me about it,” says Harry. “Just a couple hours ago I was eating dog meat, and now
I’m here talking with a beautiful businesswoman. Talk about life taking a turn for the … BIZARRE?
Huh?”
--Is the OJ trial burgerpunk?
“Yes,” says Harry, “as were the L.A. riots and so are Robert Kardashian’s wife and
children, though Robert Kardashian himself is not.”
War on Terror Patriot Act PRISM Edward Snowden Guantanamo Bay CIA black sites Human Rights NSA mass surveillance
Warrantless Wiretapping 4th Amendment violations Julian Assange whistle-blower manhunt Ecuadorian embassy refuge
Corporate interests worker's rights healthcare rights free education Police militarization incarceration rate
fake weapons of mass destruction Petrodollar warfare Israel "special" relationship ban on boycott Free
Palestine USS Liberty attack Mossad cover up false anti-semitism accusations depleted uranium mutinions war
crime ignoring the Geneva Convention Agent Orange My Lai Massacre Contras 1973 Chile coup CIA backing puppet
dictators Illegal Occupation 1954 Guatemalan coup d'état United Fruit Company Cuban Missile Crisis Bay of
Pigs Operation Northwoods Area51 Saudi lobby American Cover-Up of Trials of Unit 731 Abu Ghraib torture and
prisoner abuse MKUltra Tuskegee syphilis experiment Suspension of Habeas Corpus Sedition Acts civil rights
Martin Luther King murder Cointelpro Bombing of Libya Bombing of Yemen Bombing of Syria Intervention in
Yugoslavia Philippine Genocide of 1900 Choctaw Trail of Tears Andrew Jackson illegal Overthrow of the Kingdom of
Hawaii haole invasion Okinawa rapes Jarhead rapists migrant caravan ICE children in cages Russian puppet
president
Harry takes Abbey’s hand from across their truck stop booth. A rare flash of courage, perhaps indicative
of some dashing new attitude gained from the harrowing campground experience, some new maturity: cosplaying and
the Ovum now the furthest objects from his mind.
Abbey, smiling matroniously, “Where exactly do you plan on taking me, young man?”
Harry leads her toward the Love’s PlayPlace™, a glassed-off section of the truck stop wherein
truckers and sometimes their kids come to play and interact, or make friends.
She removes her heels at its entrance, places them snugly into the cubby box which already houses a small
collection of men’s work boots and oil/grease-stained industrial shoes. Of course, Harry is barefoot, so
he just walks past, wide-eyed at the plastic fortresses and fun-looking slides and spiral chutes before
him.
Abbey joins his side, now a little bit shorter than her young cohort. “Race ya to the top?” she
nudges him, and he shares a look with her, not quite as outright mischievous or flirtatious as grateful. Thank
you, her green irises weep, Thank you.
Together they swoop up and down and sideways through the playplace, (which smells like bleach and boogers),
having the most fun two people are capable of; blissfully neglecting the fact it all must sometime end.
They play peek-a-boo in one of the towers, a mesh net dividing two tiers, then it seems, a long way down. Harry
falls butt-first into the ball pit, and Abbey cannonballs after him, swinging from a pool-divider-type rope of
plastic buoys.
Harry and Abbey lay side-by-side atop the multi- colored balls, arms outstretched or folded underhead depending
on what you personally find more romantic. They are both near to some sort of lovely understanding with one or
both about to speak when suddenly a loud groaning breaks the mood. Lying further away in the ball pit is an
overweight trucker. He’s apparently shorter than them both, as evidenced by the arm-length legs of his
worn out blue jeans.
“Yeah they talk about a master caste and slave caste all the time,” the guy begins telling them,
“but to actually go and do something about it? to turn the tables, man? They’re pussy-shits (no
offence, ma’am.)”
“Oh none taken,” says Abbey, perhaps a stifled giggle under her words.
Harry, though virginal, can sense a challenge when one arrives, “So what’s your name lil
fella?”
“I’m Jesus, the son.” the trucker answers.
A little while later and Harry and Abbey have joined the manlet at his booth, all having slid back on their
respective shoe(s).
“I said I’m David.” he said again, telling them his name. “Are you boys
deaf?”
“I’m actually a businesswoman” Abbey said, informing the man of her gender identity.
“Well whatever you are, I don’t want you stinkin up the place too badly. I was already going on my
own personal aboriginal investigation into the cosmos til’ you faggots got here.” said david. The
man named david. For david was his name. He couldn’t forget that. But why? Why was his name david? Who
would have thought that something so arbitrary as a word that defines your entire existence on this
burgerworld
would be caught in mystery?
“Who named you David?” asked the business woman, as if her powers of reading other people’s
minds only worked on those named david.
“I don’t remember.”
“Wouldn’t your parents have named you that?” said Harry.
“Well that’s the problem, I was born after my parents had died in a 18 wheeler car accident. They
were too busy giving birth to men in the cab to watch the road.” Said david. He spoke thus, with that
special accent only a david could spokerate: “Why do you want to know?”
~ ~ ~
“You're NOT ‘immersed in’ or ‘affected by’ burgerpunk, you're
burgerpunk itself.
Just by existing, walking, typing, expressing opinions you perpetuate burgerism while being
‘it’. To
take the opinion of a burger seriously in such matters would be akin to bringing one of the
characters depicted
in Bosch's hell and asking him to share his infernal experiences: it makes no sense. The character living in the
painting has no real understanding of the whole. Only we, as spectators, do. Only we can frame the painting and
perceive its boundaries, understood as the limit between world and art.” Harry stopped on hearing this and
turned in the direction of the words of wisdom. Two men were sort of mushed into the corner of the ball pit,
staring intently at one another. Neither was playing with the bright orbs, though they were waist-deep in them,
glistening with what appeared to be a sheen of sweat or grease or pats of margarine. The larger one spoke.
“Firstly, Americans are outsiders to their own culture. This is a universal American experience that,
again, you clearly lack the American mentality to properly process, let alone even recognize. It's very obvious
that you want to steer burgerpunk into midwesterners sharting at Walmarts, rather than
acknowledge the truly
sinister appeal lurking in American culture. Basically, you want run-of-the-mill recycled memes, instead of Don
DeLillo describing ecstatic experiences in grocery stores, which is contradictory to the initial thesis on
burgerpunk and its contributors. I suggest you ‘kill’ this discussion right here
and now by exiting
the ball pit, because you never had a grasp on what burgerpunk is or could be.
Goodbye!”
The man continued:
“Also, regarding your bitching that ‘no one cares’: You are currently pitching a temper
tantrum in an American ball pit in a conversation about American culture. You care deeply about American culture
and American-ness. You want more DFW and porn, you want it deep down in your very soul. Your ignorance of this
fact betrays the extent to which you are incapable of noticing America's reach into your non-American mind and
your (limited, indirect) participation within American culture. Again: you are not mentally equipped to deal
with American culture.” There was a sound of balls shuffling somewhere beneath him. “On the other
hand, domestic Americans are constantly aware of their American-ness and the American nature of their identity.
This is something I have seen countless foreigners fail to grasp: their own American-ness and complicity within
the American Project. It is further proof that you are too intellectually lazy and parochial to understand
burgerpunk.”
A rolling sign passed by and caught Harry’s attention out the massive multiplex window. On it he began to read: 动态网自由门 天安門 天安门 法輪功 李洪志 Free Tibet 六四天安門事件 The Tiananmen Square protests of 1989 天安門大屠殺 The Tiananmen Square Massacre 反右派鬥爭 The Anti-Rightist Struggle 大躍進政策 The Great Leap Forward 文化大革命 The Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution 人權 Human Rights 民運 Democratization 自由 Freedom 獨立 Independence 多黨制 Multi-party system 台灣 臺灣 Taiwan Formosa 中華民國 Republic of China 西藏 土伯特 唐古特 Tibet 達賴喇嘛 Dalai Lama 法輪功 Falun Dafa 新疆維吾爾自治區 The Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region 諾貝爾和平獎 Nobel Peace Prize 劉暁波 Liu Xiaobo 民主 言論 思想 反共 反革命 抗議 運動 騷亂 暴亂 騷擾 擾亂 抗暴 平反 維權 示威游行 李洪志 法輪大法 大法弟子 強制斷種 強制堕胎 民族淨化 人體實驗 肅清 胡耀邦 趙紫陽 魏京生 王丹 還政於民 和平演變 激流中國 北京之春 大紀元時報 九評論共産黨 獨裁 專制 壓制 統一 監視 鎮壓 迫害 侵略 掠奪 破壞 拷問 屠殺 活摘器官 誘拐 買賣人口 遊進 走私 毒品 賣淫 春畫 賭博 六合彩 天安門 天安门 法輪功 李洪志 Winnie the Pooh 劉曉波动态网自由门
“You can't honestly pretend that your country is safe from the monoculture. The ‘muh fat
Americans’ critique is so basic-bitch European that it embarrasses me to see it posted here as though it
were insightful.” He gestured, seemingly to the other patrons in the Pit, though they were too far away
for anyone to care. “Look at this sad fuck. Your culture is dead. You are just burgerpunk
Lite, exported
from America, and you don't even understand what the actual experience of Americans is, since you have only the
dubbed version grafted onto your old buildings. You can frame anything. You're in it too, just out in the
irrelevant province, waiting for the already retarded culture to trickle down to you, you supercilious deluded
fuck.” The smaller man stood and, with a quick drink from his low-cal Monster, retorted:
“It is here where you go spectacularly wrong, friend. It is true, large swathes of the non-American
population are not only unaware of the mounting absurdity in their lives, but actually crave it: they're
enthralled by the amount of cereal brands in American supermarkets. They look at a Mickey Mouse at Disney and
offer him their child, to be embraced and penetrated by the American Rat-King. We see it at every turn, this
hypnotic effect of the trinket and the image. It has become unavoidable in any minimally civilized country. But
you should remember that not everyone is completely burgerfied--” he stopped for a
second, choosing his
words carefully, “--so completely. There are those who can feel the burger stench as a
type of stealthy
figure, lurking at every corner and waiting to pounce and ravage their hearts. This feeling of being watched and
followed by a hostile entity never goes away, and the burger stench sometimes smells oh so
nice. Yet it is in
these individuals, who are knee deep in Special Mustard Sauce™--while being foreign to its creation--that
lies the true potential of describing burgerpunk. It is they who look at the spectacular images
of America and
feel attracted and disgusted at the same time. Those who can look at them as an Impressionist painting: from up
close, when it makes no sense, and from far away, when it bursts into an image of something, where seemingly
random brush strokes form a coherent--yet jumbled--whole. I admire your courage, and you only smell of chicken
nuggets and Kraft® cheddar cheese. But it is futile: you have become too accustomed to your condition. For
you there is no outside; no barrier even. You're just another arrowhead of burgerism.” At
this, the larger
man began to shake in rage. In fact, both men looked as though they were being rocked by an earthquake. The
smell of Turtle’s Blood vape juice hung thick like smoke.
“burgerpunk doesn't care about your sad little country or it's intellectualism about
‘authentic
experience’. America will grind your bones to make my burgers without ever being able to
point you out on
a map.” The large man suddenly lunged forward, grabbing the smaller man’s head between both hands.
“Can’t you see? The burgering is not a cultural wave, or a zeitgeist defined only
in retrospect, as
many of our dear readers seem to believe. It’s simple inevitability. There are only two meaningful
categories with which you can ascribe the people of the world today: pre- and
post-burgering.” At this the
smaller man seemed to rush through his words. Harry noticed he was out of breath, possibly due to his
skull’s being slowly crushed by the heavy-set American fellow. The small man continued in a frenzy,
fluorescent-green spittle arcing from his lips. “Even if America as a political, geographic and economic
entity ceased to exist today, even if they took it all back... the burger would continue to
thrive. For--think
of the millions across the world, that idolize some murky idea of an America that doesn’t exist, that
never existed, and create it for themselves - in Iraq, in China, in Guatemala, a branded shrine to the
burger
gods stretching into the horizon forever. For what other destiny is there? Can you tell me? There is no
burger-free future as long as the burger is allowed to exist. Even from the
most humble position, it will
consume all that it touches and grow until its size shows no equal. The bigger the burger the
better.”
“Are you calling me fat?”
“What? No-- I just mean to say that--”
The man began to squeeze with redoubled strength, and Harry heard a sound like metal crumpling as the smaller
man seemed to roll over in himself. Harry thought to step in and stop the gelled-mountain of man-flesh, but
another thought struck him. Crumpling metal. How could that Mexican-looking creep have afforded to put a metal
plate in his head? Harry thought he must be a rich man.
“How could you afford that metal plate? Are you a tycoon?”
“Wh-what?” He gasped through the immense pressure. The American man did not speak.
“M-metal?”
“I clearly heard the fat--the large man squish something in your head, like it was metal.”
“...O-oh. I have f-f-free healthcare, from the [REDACTED] g-g-government…”
Harry couldn’t believe it. FREE healthcare? He was appalled. This was not the nation he had grown to love.
He would curse the man’s country, but as soon as he heard the name he instantly forgot it, being as
irrelevant as it was to the globohomo political dance. Harry thought about David, and whether or not he should
turn the required amount slightly to the right to call him back into the story. Against this he heard what
sounded like wind rushing from the direction of the arguing couple--since they had cohabited the ball pit for so
long, they had been officially married by the McDonald’s on-call fleet of deacons. The
probably-upon-reflection-European man had expired. As the American realized what this meant, he began to weep.
His weeping grew louder until he threw his head back, his horrified visage yearning skywards to the porous
particle-foam ceiling tiles. No scream escaped his lips, but Harry could read in his face the fate that befell
him. He had officially been granted citizenship of [REDACTED] stocked up. Got the gettin' while the gettin' was
good; what my old man used to say before he died under the knife. Sextuple-bypass surgery. Anyway, Texico and
Shell caught on after a while. Under-the-table rumblings, and pretty soon it was off the market for good,
replaced with a high sugar content substitute. We saved a few bucks, but none of us in the resistance drink
sodas much anymore. Mostly carbonated water. A few attempts have been made to transition Pepsi™ into a car
manufacturer, but on the rare occasion they team up with Hasbro™ to make Pepsi™ Hot Wheels™
the kids end up choking on them, thinking they were a Pepsi™. Tough times for parents. Everything has
calories. Everything is made to keep you slow and in a haze. Convenient. Subservient. Theres a splinter that
wants to go after Starbucks next. They think they can get ‘em to make a black coffee. We keep telling them
this ain't no Japanese Mr. Coffee kinda place out here. They never listen. But no one ever listens out here. Out
here in the land of burgerPunk.”
“What the fuck are you on about? Get out of my way, I have to go save David!” Harry screamed. He
rushed off as fast as he could from the strange annoying man who talked for far too long.
When I walked into Costco that day I didn’t know I was never going to be able to leave. It wasn’t a trick of the eye or a magic curse, it was simply the sheer size of it. This had happened to me once before. The drive thru line at starbucks. It went down about four miles before the entrance was available. I didn’t know it at the time because my mcphone had stopped working, but everyone had received a text alerting us of the new saucy frap cold brew mega mix drink substitute. The place was packed. The line lasted forever. I spent a week in there. I just wanted a coffee. It’s a good thing I brought my handy burger king tent for a king, others weren’t so lucky. They could hold it in for a while ,but their large round bodies couldn’t stay in their tiny honda civics much longer. They all seemed to get out of their car around the same time. I turned on the radio and learned the latest katy perry hit had just finished playing. Each of them in line waddled out of their car into the field next to the drive thru line and proceded to all take massive pissdumpshits. Their bodies could no longer differentiate between pissing and shitting. They were like birds, dripping a mix of solid and liquid down their legs, each equipped with a two foot long squeegee to wipe themselves up with. They then all in unison returned to their civics and moved up two car lengths.
By the fourth day I had run out of tendies. Just like right now I’m running out of paper. I spent three weeks walking through the costco and I only just now left the TV and board games isle. I found this scrap of paper in a copy of clue. I may not make it, this family sized bag of cashews is almost out, and the pallet of sugar free redbull has me tweeking pretty hard. Please, (mentally and emotionally, if not physically). The years slide by and one day you find yourself looking into the mirror with real puzzlement. Why are those lines on my face? you wonder. Where did that stupid potbelly come from? Hell, I’m only nineteen! This is hardly an original concept, but that in no way subtracts from one’s amazement.
~~~
Is this what life is? To live from burger to burger, entrapped within a grease-suffused life? Just as our arteries are clogged by fat, so too is the sky obscured by a thick sheet of smog. A garish assortment of neon signs hang precariously from the multitudes of skyscrapers piercing the clouds, offending the senses with their tasteless displays. Even casting one’s glance downwards does not offer an escape from their mindless messages of consumption- trumpet-shaped voice-casters bleat out an endless symphony of consumerism. Only in grime-encrusted alleyways can one find true solace; in these filthy retreats, the homeless huddle over barrel fires and speak about the state of the world in hushed tones, lest the wops overhear their whispered complaints. Has it always been like this? Has this pall of fear always clouded our lives? I sincerely hope that there are others, others like me, who also ask themselves these grave questions. After all, our children’s entire childhood is fabricated by McDonald’s. They receive their educations in gaudily-painted yellow McSchools. All media that passes before their eyes and enters their ears is passed through the filters of the McCensors. One cannot help but shudder at the mention of the McCensors, those emaciated, pallid, insect-like men who endlessly labor away beneath fluorescent lamps, endlessly pursuing the enemies of corporate interests in the passages of cyberspace. It is this indomitable force within McDonald’s militant division which erases all dangerous opinions. Some rumors have been disseminated by dissidents claiming that the McCensors can terminate one’s life when one is submerged in cyberspace. These rumors have been quelled, all records of their existence effectively expunged overnight. They only exist in the words I am writing now, until they, too, are done away with.
Now, on to cyberspace, or Cyberspace™, if you will. Cyberspace is a virtual realm that has been created for us, the unquestioning, unthinking consumers to preside in. When we have finished our shifts, we quickly clock out and rush to the nearest transit station, feverishly handing the bus driver our pocket change. When we reach our apartment complex, we desperately fiddle with our keys until finally, finally the correct key is extracted- we throw the door open, not even glancing back to ensure that it is closed. Then, we immerse ourselves in Cyberspace™ . The familiar kiss of the headset’s leather on our face, the warm tones of the program greeting us, these are all sensations experienced by the Cyberspace™ junkie. You lower yourself in a vat of fluid, and part with all of your woes as your mind plunges into Cyberspace™. “Diversity and unity coexisting, should really make sense if you’re not a fucking retard,” says the fool in his heart, unaware that a diverse people forced to unite will lead to discord. The aforementioned fool, if he begins to think, will find this.
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