Back to the Present

And so…

Where once was calm, only chaos reigns.

The Earth is in the early throes of the second dark ages. The Book of the Dead has been opened and incantations of a deadly nature have been uttered. Where once professors with wild notions leapt from buttock to buttock with excitement at the prospect of creating a world where we summon the spirits of the past to instruct our future, now only glance suspiciously out of the log cabin window and await the sound of a cackling moose which signals their doom.

Dark forces circle like herds of cattle. Evil, demented, wild-horned cattle. Their once soft lowing now taint the air with their bovine wails. Zombie Cattle. Zombie Cattle from Mars. Cattle with Guns. Yeah, big laser guns that melt your eyes and rattle your teeth.

Humanity, morality, underpant elasticity… once constant and reassuring bastions of stability now fluctuate wildly and our lives spin dizzyingly out of control as we lack a moral compass to guide us. Even now the undead walk the earth, chanting repetitious bile from our telly boxes and radiotrons to keep us just bored enough. All the while, the detritus of what they have us consume clogs up our veins and our seas. The sun scorches our backs, but all we can do is lather up and sit burning under the decaying skyline. Wizards live in trees. A lamb shot a pensioner. Cupcakes give you cancer. It’s all true; I read it in a newspaper.

The modern world is failing and flailing, hunched under the weight of its own expectations and repeatedly slapping itself across the forehead in disgust. We are connected but distant, kept as pets by wax eyed automatons who occupy government while we provide compliant defiance by occupying the bit of concrete outside. Financial spivs treat the world like their own personal Playmobil barnyard, to rearrange and break at will and keeping us looking at the moving cups rather than the ball. Blood is pouring from the cracks in the wall and our own hand is trying to choke us.

Somewhere, quietly, in a backroom next to nowhere, a cold, desperate and desolate figure begins to cough and shake. Could there be life? Could there be someone to pick up the chainsaw of truth, to once again wield the shotgun of fury, to go down into that dark and terrifying cellar ready to ‘carve ourselves a witch’?

Yeah, I guess I’m back…

Groovy.

Hubris aside, since my last post (March? Really? How cruelly you have been neglected my faithful few) I do feel that there has been a lot more to be positive about. Perhaps it’s the Olympic hip-hip-hooraying epidemic that has me all mollycoddled and cutie-pied or maybe it was the tedious perma-drizzle giving way to ten seconds straight of good weather, but I was feeling pretty good and also pretty silent.

However, recently the dark clouds have begun to gather once again. American Senate candidate Todd Akin stuck his finger in the brain pie and pulled out the plum of ‘legitimate rape’. Lucky for us all, George Galloway waded into the rape debate and had a similar revelation that if you’re asleep (or drugged or mute or dead) you’re fair game, which is pleasing to hear, as I’m planning  to release a hoard of death row inmates into his bedroom at 3am to see how their ‘bad sexual etiquette’ impacted on his morning. Happily, as with everything that George Galloway says, does or even imagines, during the act of expressing his opinion, he simultaneously reminds everyone that his opinion can’t be taken seriously. It’s a sort of Mobius band of infinite twatbadgery.

Mitt Romney (est. wealth: $190-250 million. Hmmmmm…) danced into the popular consciousness as the Republican presidential candidate (Just think about that... This man could potentially become the owner of the finger dilly dallying over the nuclear button whilst looking at a picture of Iran on his wall and secretly hoping the coin lands tail side down. I wonder if he’d remain Pro-Life when it does) and apparently has an eye on increased military spending, expanding the death penalty and drilling a big hole in Alaska so he’s got somewhere to stick the straw and ‘drink their milkshake’.

Then there was Julian Assange letting down his golden hair from the Ecuadorian balcony for giddy journalists to scamper up and send everyone into a moral quandary over the fit and proper nature of his Ecuadorian sponsorship (which was reported along the lines of: ‘Ecuador. Why, oh why, oh why…’) and remind everyone that although his work, his website and his stance are not only right but required,  J-Ass the man is at best a bit of a tit and at worst a rapist who deserves to be tried and convicted for that crime.

In amongst it all, Georgie Porgie Osbourne can still be seen doodling pictures of helter-skelters and cobwebs in his exercise books whilst we surf a tidal wave of bullshit, Nick Clegg is still pretty sure he’s relevant and Camerobot2000 continues to channel the spirit of Kipling by meeting triumph and disaster and treating those two imposters just the same. As disaster.

Between Harry Hewitt’s twirling scrotum, continuing council cuts, The Unamazing Spider Man and the resurfacing of the Spice Girls for the taxi ride from hell, it seems there is, just as ever, reasons to be furious.

So with more of a spring in my step than a Brazilian Paralympian on a tightly wound trampoline, I leap back into the world of denouncing, decrying and decomposing for your viewing pleasure.

Beware. Once again, there be beasties here….