Write Abroad in the High Himalaya, 2007

By Ben Tyson

Temporary insanity, hah! Try permanent insanity. What a warped and twisted way to run a city -- run humanity! People stacked on top of each other -- fitting together like lincoln logs (by the way did you find that last piece for my reconstruction of George Wilhelm's manor house? I thought not). Whose sadistic and denigrated mind conceived of this? People shoving themselves, their children, their goods at your nose, into your face like a coke addict burying themselves in a new batch of their favorite remedy. Pure madness! Unable to take even a baby step without stepping on some poor wretch's leg -- real or not -- trodding with every movement on the dignity of these people, this city.
Indeed this city seems to be nothing but this heaving wave of people. Never-ending like an ocean, rolling over the poverty, the destitution breaks upon the shore of our wealth and Americanism. Stand up you sods! Salute the flag! Ten four and ten heel! Go on! Rape this world you sorry sons of bitches! Take this un-ending and unyielding populace, put it in a cage and bring your children to gawk and wonder in mild amusement. Ha ha! That's it, don't feed the beasts, that'll just tame and encourage them. We want them feral and wild to perform for our demented pleasures.
Dance monkey dance, squeal and yelp as I apply what pressure that I may -- crushing you under my thumb. Take this head, unscrew it from my neck and put it on backwards so I can count you with horror in your eyes until my cerebrum explodes with exhaustion.
God watches with waiting eyes, laughing at our foolish endeavours, striving for meaning out of this grand futility. Oh you sad people, oh you destitute, you over-acheiving, over-flowing every imaginable limit -- why have you forsaken me? This broken man sitting here against a rough polluted tree gasping for a drop of shade, a dollop of anything; he, this man with no teeth or fingers or hope, this man shall inherit the earth?
Insanity indeed.