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-No enlightened masses and a lot of very bad people. -The bad people from capitalism will still flourish and the good people will still suffer. -Lots of very mean stray dogs. -No condoms and an abundance of amateur abortions. Folks, if after all of the above you still want a revolution to take place in our beloved country I suggest to swallow the real turd. It tastes exactly like a revolution. 5. What Fonvisin meant. The quote at the start of the article is not to insult the French. Denis Fonvisin was a very kind and broad-minded person; he loved French. But being a keen observer he noticed a dangerous symptom of the future coprophagia- the obsession with the process, the game, the irresistible trend of the ‘Spice Must Flow’ per F. Herbert’s Dune. The Spice must flow. We are at war, our people are dying, the people around the world are dying but we have Grammys and Emmys and Oscars and Golden Globes and SuperBalls and elections and Britney and Dancing with the Stars and Nancy Grace and Bill O’Reilly and all that crap which they feed us with. The Spice must flow. But it is not spice anymore. It is blood. We are awash in blood, Turds do not help. We can eat shit as much as we want but if we are mad and consider sanity a misfortune we will be drinking blood. How about them apples? Or turds? My dear reader, if you reached this line and you are still in the mood, here is wisdom: coprophagia is an epidemic. As I have mentioned in my previous article on the matter the only way to cure yourself is to force yourself to look in the mirror and see that turd hanging from the corner of your mouth. And then tell thyself, ‘I am a coprophag, I know that and I eat shit but it really stinks.' It really stinks, folks to be narrow-minded. It really stinks to close your eyes on the Deal between Dems and GOP. It really stinks to love Bush. It stinks to want this country to be destroyed through R… Revolution. It all stinks. What does not stink is the inconvenient truth: we here in the US had been children too long. We dared to ignore the whole damned world. And the world kicked our butt real hard. Now we have to feel humble and make a first step. That is the step from which the road of 1000 miles starts as our Chinese friends say. The step is to look again in the mirror and say loudly, ’I am the same SOB as everyone else. Exactly the same. I am not better and not worse. I accept the reality.’ Have you done that? Congratulations, you are cured. I love you.
A writer is a rogue goose. All other gees fly in a flock formation; every goose knows his place and time for honking. The rogue goose is undisciplined. He leaves the formation indiscriminately to have a look at it from aside. He roams back and forth, takes a peep at the leader, honks a little bit from behind, distracts everyone and writes on what he sees. Time passes and as he wants to return back to his place he discovers someone else there. Thus he either has to wait until they land for rest or join another flock in emigration. Those other birds could be cranes, storks or even crows. If he makes it he will become a rogue again. Whenever he goes and whatever he writes he never reaches a destination or enjoys a landing. There's only Kipling's God of Fair Beginnings and skies above and beyond. And the only way for a writer to make peace with the Deity is through the language of Poetry
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