Is  no one talking about the real generational rot?. The festering resentment from those who never actually believed in progress, who never wanted equality, who were only ever playing along because the world forced them to. Civil rights? Integration? Multiculturalism? They tolerated it like a tumor they couldn't cut out and now, through Trump, they think they finally found the scalpel.

The Karens and MAGA grandmas, bedazzled bibles in one hand, Facebook conspiracy **** in the other, throwing their retirement funds at a lying, cheating, racist conman because deep down, he’s the first one to say out loud what they've been simmering with for decades: “You were right to hate them. You were right to be afraid. And now it’s okay to come out of the closet—your hate is holy now.”

This isn’t political. It’s a spiritual backlash. A resurrection of bigotry dressed up in patriot drag.

And the kids in cages? 1,583 children never accounted for since his first time in office . Not lost. Gone. The GOP mouth-breathers love to talk about "child trafficking" when it's convenient for them, but where  were they when ICE was running literal concentration camps with no birth certificates, no accountability, and no way to reunite families?

They weaponized Christianity, turned empathy into a sin, and empathy for brown kids into treason. “Law and order” became a euphemism for state-sponsored kidnapping.

They expected docile, smiling minorities. But that ain’t what they got. They got the anger. The rebellion. The consequence. And instead of asking why the anger existed, they doubled down on their fear, built bunkers in their hearts, and voted for anyone who promised to bring back 1952.

All the while, the system that enabled this **** corporate media, billion-dollar churches, bought politicians, blind cops keeps grinding us down, numbing us with fake scandals, echo chambers, and distractions. They’ve turned the entire country into a rage feedback loop.

The sermon they’ve been itching to hear since Brown v. Board. Since Loving v. Virginia. Since Stonewall. Since Barack Hussein Obama walked into the White House and didn’t apologize for it.
The Koch brothers funneled  the collection plate  to crush him and filibuster into inconsequence.
So do you ever ask yourself what echo chamber you belong to?

What feedback loops are you stuck in?

Google only shows you what you want to see. Every single Google search is customized specifically for  each person.
Chances are you don't even know how to find the truth, and you're not allowed to.  
Spread that like the gospel.

Be honest with yourself.
Call out the cultists for what they are. It's a cult.
They've justified their hate and they funded it. And now they're more than supporting fascism.
And we all know the worst is yet to come. He's not just gonna walk away from that office.

🎥 SPORTS BALL: THE MADNESS, THE MONEY
An ESPN Original Documentary (That ESPN Would Never Air)
In a world where nothing matters except touchdowns, money, and unchecked, repressed daddy-issue aggression, one league reigns supreme:

THE NFL
(National Feelings League)
Now with no helmet-to-helmet contact!

Born from the ancient, time-honored tradition of jungle warfare—kicking your enemy’s severed head through a loop (which, honestly, still makes more sense than half their current rules)—this sport has changed very little, aside from 4,000 penalties per game and the occasional pastel commercial for ***** pills.

The Holy Grail:
The Gold-Slathered Hunk of Plastic
Shaped like something you’d only see at a German dungeon *** party, this trophy somehow inspires grown-*** man-children to pay millions to lawyers, all for the chance to take the giant gold ******* symbol home and **** it on a throne made of endangered bald eagles.

Rituals and Rites:
Every repetitive, altogether meaningless match kicks off with the mandatory pre-game ritual:

Helicopter flyovers

More ***-touching than a scoutmaster at summer camp (it’s called “team bonding,” apparently)

Prancing, jumping, and chest-thumping

The Scandals:
But the National Feelings League isn’t without its scandals. In fact, their most profitable season ever followed the notorious incident simply known as:
“The Outbreak of **** ****** Run Amok Again.”
Sales of commemorative **** cream skyrocketed. Grade school absentee rates soared.

The Stadium Deals:
Where things get really ******:
Cities lured into coughing up their last nickel with promises like:

******* CRACK ***** BINGO – 5¢ Wednesdays
(Featuring ex-Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders)
Taxpayers and their great-great-grandchildren will be paying for that mistake… twice.

The Crimes:
When players get busted for crimes ranging from ****** assault to running illegal animal fighting rings, they always cry the same defense:

“I was here first, *******. They built this whole ******* around me. These ain’t my drugs.”
Everyone nods respectfully and immediately lets them off.

The Latest Locker Room Scourge:
Whispers grow about the latest banned substance tearing through $387 billion locker rooms:
Raccoon Steroids — Naturally Sourced.
Side effects include:

Sudden ****

DUI

Out-of-control gambling

Running/funding a gang

Gun running

Why They Play (In Their Own Words):
“I just love the money, know what I’m saying? And the near-God status, and to be able to bang all the people I want, as hard as I want, whenever I want. Know what I’m saying? And no one can tell me what to do because I’m a ******* God now, know what I’m saying? Shut the **** up and get out of the way, whitey. Give me all your money, ******* *******! Oh, and tell your kids to worship me harder. Know what I’m saying?
I deserve all this money and fame and to be a hero because, after all, I got one-tenth of a microgram more testosterone than you did during puberty.”

Slow piano music plays. Fade to black.

The Interview:
The exact moment every sports interview turns into pure brain death.

It’s always some mouth-breathing, concussion-riddled slab of protein farts mumbling through sentences like his neurons are melting mid-syllable, punctuating every third breath with “you know what I’m saying?”

YES, WE KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING. YOU’RE SAYING NOTHING.
And yet, somehow, almost half of America is still hanging on your every word.

“Yeah man, it’s been a grind this season, you know what I’m saying? We just take it day by day, you know what I’m saying? We come out here, we try to play hard, you know what I’m saying? Like we just gotta keep grinding, you know what I’m saying?”

NO. NO, *******.
I don’t know what you’re saying because you’re not saying anything. Have you ever once in your life?

And they always act like they’re breaking some deep-*** philosophy, too:

“Man, it’s hot out here… you know what I’m saying? Like, I be sweating. Like for real, sweating. Pads be heavy, yo. That’s just how it be sometimes, you know what I’m saying?”

*******, you signed up for a full-contact meat collision sport where the entire job is “get hit and fall down,” but somehow you’re shocked that it involves… sweating? And falling down?
Don’t tell me you’ve been doing it this whole time and it’s just now shocking to you. Don’t tell me you haven’t been watching all those tapes since you were a little kid, *******!

And they’re always saying it like it’s some revelation, like they’ve cracked the code of the universe:

“Sometimes, man… you just gotta play the game… you know what I’m saying?”

NO. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.
Because that sentence has zero calories. It’s a microwaved air sandwich wrapped in plastic.

Then they wanna get an attorney and sue the other guy for helmet-to-helmet contact. Like they didn’t know what they were signing up for.
Oh wait, these giant dudes is trying to tackle me. Oh ****, man.

In a world where nothing matters except touchdowns, money, and unchecked male  repressed daddy issue. aggression, one league reigns supreme:

THE   NFL   (  NATIONAL FEELINGS LEAGUE) . Now with no helmet to helmet contact.

Born from the ancient, time-honored traditions  of jungle  kicking your enemy’s severed head through a loop— which honestly still makes more sense than half their current rules—this sport has changed very little, aside from 4,000 penalties per game and the occasional pastel. commercial for ***** pills.

At the heart of the league lies its most coveted prize:
The Gold Slathered Hunk of Plastic.
Shaped like something you’d only see at a German dungeon *** party, this trophy somehow inspires grown-*** man  children  to pay millions to their lawyers to write up lawsuits. because  someone tried  to bash their skulls in for a chance to take  the giant gold plastic ******* symbol home and **** it in the endangered bald eagle. Stuffed, throne
Every repetitive, altogether meaningless. match kicks off with their mandatory pre-game ritual: Helicopter flyovers.
More *** Touching Than a Scout Master at Summer Camp.
(It’s called “team bonding,” apparently.) and the prancing about and jumping up and down.

But the National Feelings League isn’t without its scandals.
In fact, their most profitable season ever followed the notorious incident simply known as:
“The Outbreak of **** ****** Run Amok Again.”
Sales of commemorative **** cream skyrocketed. Grade school absentee rates skyrocketed.

Of course, the stadium deals are where things get really ******.
Cities were lured into coughing up their last nickel with promises like:
******* CRACK ***** BINGO — 5 CENT Wednesday  ADDITION (Featuring the ex  Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders).
Taxpayers   and their great, great grandchildren will be. paying for that mistake… twice.

And when players get busted  repeatedly. for crimes ranging from  ****** assault to running illegal  animal fighting rings, they always cry the same defense:
“I was here first, *******. They built this whole  ******* around me. These ain’t my drugs.”
(Everyone nods respectfully and immediately. lets them off.)

Meanwhile, whispers grow about the latest banned substance tearing through $387 billion. locker rooms:
Raccoon Steroids — Naturally Sourced.
Side effects include sudden ****, DUI, out of control, gambling, running a gang, funding a gang. Gun running.
And finally, we hear it straight from the athletes themselves—their pure, humble words about “why they play”:

“I just love the money know what I'm sayin  and the near God status and to be able to bang all the people that I want as hard as I want whenever I want  Know what I'm saying?  and no one can tell me what to do because I’m a ******* God now know what I'm saying. Shut the **** up and get out of the way whitey  ****  man . Get the **** out of the way and give me all your money dumb as  ******* ! . Oh, and tell your kids to worship me harder.  Know what I'm saying”
I deserve all this money and wealth and fame and to be a hero because I mean, after all, I got one 1/10th of a microgram of extra testosterone that you didn't during puberty.

Slow piano music plays. Fade to black.

the exact moment that every sports interview turns into pure brain death.

It’s always some mouth-breathing, concussion-riddled slab of protein farts mumbling through sentences like his neurons are melting mid-syllable, punctuating every third breath with “you know what I’m saying?”
YES, WE KNOW WHAT YOU'RE SAYING, YOU'RE SAYING NOTHING.  And yet somehow, almost half of America is still hanging on your every word.

“Yeah man, it’s been a grind this season, you know what I’m saying? We just take it day by day, you know what I’m saying? We come out here, we try to play hard, you know what I’m saying? Like we just gotta keep grinding, you know what I’m saying?”

NO. NO, *******.
I don’t know what you’re saying because you’re not saying anything. Have you ever once in your life?

And they always act like they’re breaking some deep-*** philosophy, too:

“Man, it’s hot out here… you know what I’m saying? Like, I be sweating,. Like for real, sweating. Pads be heavy, yo. That’s just how it be sometimes, you know what I’m saying?”

*******, you signed up for a full-contact meat collision sport where the entire job is “get hit and fall down,” but somehow you’re shocked that it involves… sweating? And falling down?
Don't tell me you've been doing it this whole time and it's just now shocking to you.   . Don't tell me you haven't been watching all those tapes since you were a little kid.  , *******!

And they’re always saying it like it’s some revelation too, like they’ve cracked the code of the universe:

“Sometimes, man… you just gotta play the game… you know what I’m saying?”

NO. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.
Because that sentence has zero calories. It’s a microwaved air sandwich wrapped in plastic.
Then they wanna get an attorney and sue the other guy for helmet to helmet contact. Like they didn't know what they were signing up for. Oh wait, these giant dudes is trying to tackle me. Oh **** man.

Hooray for no talent !
Religious sycophants are like flies  on ****.
Sad nasty little things  with no wit .
Flapping and buzzing and jockeying for **** ******* position.
All the while lusting for and denying the inquisition.
They have always been the walking dead among us
brainless shambling automatons making such a fuss.
Hungry for brains  for they find  none in their  churches or synagogues.
Rooting ceaselessly and wallowing in their stupid **** lies
like wild feral hogs.
Barking and yapping and threatening
fighting and *******  like Catholics  like dogs.
And like flies on **** every time you take a break from shooing them away you find more have gathered raving.
Hollow lies and promises of here after.
Truly nothing worth listening to  yet so  , so much to say.
Away , Away Away.
Lest you fools and unquestioning idiots  think you are  welcome  and try to make  a home  or  find a place  to stay.
Go preach please  to the semi trucks  in the middle of the interstate
they need salvation now and truly cannot wait.

Syllables don’t give birth to truth.
Truth breaks syllables.
Shatters 'em.
Leaves the pieces behind like broken shells after something REAL hatches out of the inside.

Form can be a beautiful frame.
But when the frame starts dictating the art?

Buddy, that’s a cage.
With flowers painted on the bars.

Let the wild **** out.
**** the syllables.
Light the tea house on fire and write your revolution in the ash.

Haiku  ?
What  you want    ISN’T  POETRY
Nor,  is  what you are  making .  Its a crossword puzzle!
Restricted,
confined
not necessarily useless, but unwanted  by  the  rest of  us.
What  I want is
not  poetry .
ITS A
SOAPBOX ,
not respected
Obeyed !

(Don’t  expect  us  to revel in your artificial cleverness. I can’t  candy  coat my sledgehammer  for the smug little puzzle palace where people confuse compression  with clarity and restraint with relevance or innovation. )

It’s not the form that’s brilliant . Neither  is  a form  that hinders  it. It’s the purported slickness of mediocrity pretending to be insight.
Like rain-slick ****: shiny on top, but still just ****** over processed  garbage.
No real expression  had  syllable  count as its impetus !

Why  do  you  Want  to mimic Basho, any way ?   Are  you a scared  feckless samurai boy  toy  trapped in  a ***** house  that serves  tea ? Are you socially stunted  and   rambling through  a whispering ******* zen garden to pretend  enjoyment in polite  torture ?
Emasculated wannabe samurai-boy’s tea-party , crybaby daddy issues art  act, much ?

Perfectly boiled down the whole modern kiddie-fantasy carnival into one steaming pile of “power-up till you puke” nonsense. It’s like watching a ******* hamster on a ******* wheel that never stops  just more power, more flashy moves, more ******* that means jack ****.

Diary of a Wimpy Kid meets Dragon Ball Z? Spot on. Little whiny kids suddenly turning into untouchable gods with zero effort or sweat, like magic fairy dust just dropped into their sad little  bullied  emo hands. No grit, no grind, no “earned” **** ... just ****, supernova mode engaged because plot demands  and  "  relatability?" , not because it makes any **** sense.

The magic wand nonsense? Hell, it’s like they went shopping in the clearance aisle of “Pretend Power Tricks” and picked up the lamest spellbook ever written. “Oh, say these 8 words in a funny voice and BAM — you’re the new Chuck Norris of the fantasy world!” Meanwhile, the audience is rolling their eyes so hard they’re about to pop the back of their   MCU   time machine,  Dr.  Strange  had  a what again .skull.

Where’s the ******* blood, sweat, and tears? Where’s the ******* character growth instead of this instant super Saiyan horseshit? The closest you get is “let’s add another stupid form that’s like, 10 times stronger”  
that's what we traded away the real Mad Max for. That's why we don't make movies like Fight Club anymore. Not that anyone could. This is really what an adult, intelligent audience wants. Another Batman. We're about to get Tron again. I can't believe they did. I know what you did last summer. Who asked for that?
rinse and repeat till the fans get bored or their brains melt.

And the writers just keep churning it out like it’s a ******* assembly line: “Okay, kids, here’s your new overpowered move! Next episode, we’ll throw it out and do it again!” It’s exhausting. It’s insulting to anyone who actually wants a story that means something.
Magic wands and “say the magic words” *******? Please. It’s like they raided the discount bin at Wizard’s R Us and pulled out the “Cringiest Spells for Dummies” handbook. You gotta wonder if the writers are even trying.  ****  Wolf multiverse  much  ? the “instant hero” Rowling *****  off  Tolkien.  Everything is magical. The ring is magical, the armor is magical the chainmail is magical, the sword is magical, the tree is magical. The river itself is magic. Is anything not magic? In the water, it's  a magic   sparkly vampire carnival.

**** that noise.  toss in some new flashy nonsense that’s irrelevant three episodes later. Big  eyes  zero  nose  Japanese  sludge.
My  writing  It’s the antidote. Real stakes, real growth, real consequences. No magic wand shortcuts or ******* power scaling. Just solid  writing that actually feels like a story and not a ******* merchandising campaign.