Americans love being counted. 'Count me in.' 'Yesh, count me in too.' American Idol, good Americans, nay great Americans, vote thousands of times for their Idol 'talent'. Florida, nice work Ms. Harris. Ohio. Philadelphia. Data voting into the magical pool in the unmeasurable Internet, a meaningless poll? Yes, yes I answer anything because you are interested in me. You really love me. Vote for your favorite Superbowl commercial. Chicago, the dead vote. Sharing your facebook page with Uzbekistan trollers. Grocery shopper cards that trade you an occasional reward-y coupon for information on EVERYTHING YOU EAT, YOUR SELECTION OF ASS-WIPERY AND WHAT YOU LADIES UTILIZE FOR YOUR HOO-HAA PROTECTORS. And in some parts of the deepest, murkiest spots of the Heartland, some still enjoy being the thirteen caller for White Snake reunion tickets. Counting. Counting. I answer the telephone box at dinner time. You'd expect the purple-face Sesame Street vampire to show up on a three-dollar bill.
Oh ho ho whoa there. Count me in the official United States of America census? THE U.S. Census? I do not fucking think so. All of a sudden Mr. and Mrs. America are frightened of the federal government, or gubmint , it's an intrusion on an American's right to privacy. Unless, you got a funny name. And Lord God Himself forbid them uppity charcoal ACORN-types are stealing our ballots and whatnot. And it's all good if yer scanning every face on every city block fer terrorists, except if I'm running a red light. I didn't count on that.
But dammit we do not want to be counted. Pace Picante IS made in NYC. The Black-hoody Left, paranoid little punks stinking up actual protest. Good Holy St. Christopher, I want to shake these little bastards upside down and swing/smack 'em up against a McDonald's window pane. Ignorant little pukes. And do you think the 3-30 million Mexi-centro-south-American strolled through a turnstile are uncountable? We needs freedoms. And Lesser freedoms. Gun freedoms. And more freedoms. And the proper religious freedoms. Count us in.
Except for the other freedoms. This gotdam U.S. Census. President O'Bobby Seal, shit. Americaniskas are not a proud people it seems. Claims of import as a great civilization, and milk and honey flow from our collective tits and then we do the bumblebee dance. Woo hoo! If you fucking qualify. Shit. Many prefer not to be counted, many are better than others. Why is it so problematic to see who the flying fuck we are? The Constitution, for all you Tea-baggers, requires that we count everyone. EVERYONE. Legal, illegal, short, fat, stupid, you. The Founding Fathers wanted to see the Big Picture. SO THAT AMERICA COULD ALLOCATE RESOURCES EFFECTIVELY TO ENHANCE THE REPUBLIC. Now, in the 21st Century, it's like mice fighting for a Kraft cheese slice. Embarrassing.
A waft of breeze. Ahhh... You assholes are too stupid to vote, and no one wants to count you. Just like junior high gym class. You, the fucking silly-hat-wearing radio host worshiping morons get the wish of a sacrificial State. Barb-wire, your own passports, guns and WalMart. Where is the Nirvana? Doofus America loves their Jesus, conditionally. And the whole Luke and Matthew census who, what, when thing with Quirinius and Joe and Mary going to be counted and the whole Nazareth/Bethlehem Waffle House scenario. So get the fuck out. Oklahoma, you're going to have to take one for the team.
How fucking difficult is it to stand up and say, 'I'm an American'?
No comments:
Post a Comment