Indeed. Dear worst-reader. There you have it. The four C’s. Or. Better worst-put: how worst-writer finds better and better ways to describe, if not transcribe, what my beloved & missed #Americant– land of THE FREE TO BE STUPID–has actually given the world and/or humanity since it turned the birth/day of Xhrist from July to December and thereby enabled Coca-Cola to become a rival to the bitter-sweetness of Disney and what gets in the mind of bullshit or batshit–that can only give-way to President pee-pee-hair. And so. Ever smell batshit, dear worst-reader? It is the rotten, metallic, repugnant odour of failing upward. Which means it’s hard to smell (anything) when you live (in) *shit. But I die-gress.
Today, dear worst-reader, we worst-blog about yet another pending issue from #Americant newz. Or did you not hear about the managerial worker-bees from that Tyson’s food plant who were fired because they were betting in a betting-pool who would get Covid. Did you get that? Let me worst-repeat: managers running a food processing plant in the middle of bumfcuk #Americant were betting on who would get the covid–and die? Any idear what that means? No? Let’s break it down, shall we.
First. As I’ve worst-written before, most (a huuuuuuge majority) #Americants have never worked a day in their lives. That is, they’ve never actually do anything of substance, nor do they actually produce anything. What #Americants do when they go to work is they behave compulsively and get paid to do so–and the machine in which they were born treks on. In other worst-words: #Americants, more than members of any other greed-mongering nation-state, do what they are told. Indeed. What is told is done–to the letter, don’t you know. In fact. All generations of #Americants have had their DNA altered since WW2 (give or take a war) to encompass the mantra: what more of #Americant god-of-money can you tell me to do because I am oh-so ready to do it. The do-telling comes first and foremost from parents, but it also includes elders and, of course, the/their environment. Compulsive behaviourism is a sickness, dear worst-reader. But on that note, again, let us die-gress.
Oh wait. Let’s suspend that die-gression for a second. If you’re wondering how it is that so many #Americants get ahead, make a living, have money, etc.? Well. The answer to that is easy. Compulsive behaviourism, like so many human traits, can be mastered. It is indeed a skill. And so. Those that nail it–not unlike a nation of submissive wives who oh-so enjoy being the nailed of matrimony in a post-feminist world–make money. As far as the really, really rich money makers? Compulsive behaviourism works for them just as well. In fact, I can’t think of a more successful compulsive behaviourist then Jeff Bezos–who, by-the-buy, was a finance guy before he realised how much Wall Street sucks and then trekked across the country to Seattle to finally figure out how Windows95 works. I mean. Come on. Amazon is nothing but an old economy distribution centre… that runs on Windows 95 interwebnets and postal service(s). Am I wrong.
But. Again. I die-gress.
Understanding compulsive behaviourism (CB) is key to understanding #Americant. There are a number of ways to recognise CB. At the top of list would have to be conformity. In fact. It’s hard to tell the difference between diseases in #Americant. Conformity disease or CB disease. Take your worst-pick, eh. And. Although some might consider conformity to be on a higher plain as CB, I tend not to think that worst-way. For example. Just go to any Walmart. If you ever want to see the slop and goop where the conformity disease manifests, hold your breath when you walk in. If you can wear some goggles do so. And, if at all possible, don’t touch anything from underneath your body condom. And then have a look at what walks around #Americant’s favourite buy-krapp-store. Same shoes. Same sweat-shirt or hoody. Same hat and same bonnet and same pseudo-english slang that sounds as though it could yank the dong off a rattlesnake pissing on #Trump’s hair as it yells and screams the frustrations of having believed in The Dream that has relegated it to shopping at… Walmart.
You’re all a bunch of snakes, ain’t ya.
But. As usual, dear worst-reader, I’m off worst-subject. For today the worst-issue is: what is it that one does in life when compulsion rules and behaving ain’t enough? Indeed. One seeks a break for the mind. Such a simple task, don’t you know. Some may call it entertainment. Some call it addiction-personality. Others call it sadism. I, of course, prefer the latter. And so. The thing about compulsive behaviourism as both a sickness and national quest, not unlike going to the moon oh so many years ago only to reach the unprofitable point of never returning, is that it’s hard to see all the moments of death by a thousand cuts. You swim in bullshit/batshit long enough you can never know anything different. Or. More important. There is no return to anything that could have possibly been normal. And so.
When there’s nothing left to be made. When all cookies have been distributed. When all that’s left is seeing others on TV humiliate themselves–aka President Piss-Hair and his dipshit #MAGA hat wearing pissers–where do you turn? That’s right. You turn to betting pools in the confines of the corporate structures that house what’s left of your mind. You literally bet on the death of others for your personal entertainment–because, well, where else can you get meaning? Which can only raise yet another worst-question: since it’s no longer about how far and wide the depths of fail-upward #Americant can go… It’s now about how to first begin the trek of getting out of this mess. Or?
Na. Go buy something instead. And so.
Bet on everything till there’s nothing left? Or. Aren’t you already there? #Nomatter.
Good luck suckers–and snakes.
Rant on.
-T
Links that may or mayn’t be relavent:
worstwriter 