history repeats and cyphers become complete.

it's not that i hate dubya. i don't. i don't even strongly dislike him, to tell you the truth. i think we could prolly chill. two drunk wasters who went to expensive schools where we learned how to FRONT.

i wanna skullfuck him and i bet if he met me he'd want it too.

i'd break bread wit him. tell him all the worries on my mind. ask him to explain his ass. ask him to consider peace, instead of more war (with Iran, or Seria or whoever). i'd point to latin america, and ask him if he REALLY thought all of reagan's war mongering in the region paid off...u know...for the sake of democracy.

por favor, mi hermano, i'd say, and i'd clap him on the back and wave my hand in front of his eyes, like i would to a sleepwalker who just marched out into traffic.

then id roll us a blunt and spark it off the flames upon which id thrown his history books.

wake-up, doood! i'd say to him, the same way i say it to my peeps sitting slumped over with their red wine and prescription pills in front of mindless shit on the tv.

it's time to seek the higher learnin.

u and me, compadre. the dipshit from texas and the dipshit from jersey.


we'll travel by foot across the country. we'll speak in a simple tongue. we'll lean on one another for warmth.

come with me. take my hand in the darkness.

the night is cold but hell is hot...

write for our blog, and tell us about all the shit that pisses u off.

mr president, it's time to bring the beef.

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