Fuck Joe Rogan

Not to speak in Roganisms (because I personally can’t stand that grifter Joe Rogan), but it’s weird when you look around. We’re talking monkeys thinking we know what’s going on. We’re flying through space and at any moment we could be vaporized by a solar flare.

We keep on going though, fighting and killing each other for green pieces of paper. They kill innocent people for power. We are monkeys that will kill all of our fellow man just in order to rule over the skulls. What is the point?

I think the craziest part of all of it is that many of us watch politics like it’s pro wrestling, and we’re all just a mark. Some don’t know if it’s scripted. Everything that goes on is handed down from people you never see. The real rulers aren’t going to show their faces.

You think Donald Trump has any clue what he’s doing? Hint: He doesn’t. All he knows is that he’s a puppet for larger interests, and he is paid for in ego attribution. People watch it though, and they don’t know it’s all kayfabe.

Honestly, I think you gotta be kind of a sucker if you’re still believing everything you're told, but hey, maybe I’m just a snowflake.

You are nothing but the son or daughter of an ape. Quit acting like you’re above everything else. You’re not.

The people at the top are a poison to this planet, and we’re all just carrying the Monsanto bags.

Gunshot Whispers in the Rain

Neon light dripped from a sign in front of the discotech. The rain poured down like God itself was crying onto the world. He checked his weapon one last time. Johnny had a job to do, one for which he needed the pay.

Water ran down his leather jacket as he made his way towards the entrance. Liquid splashed from mirrored puddles onto his tall black boots. The doorman eyed him curiously as he stepped inside.

The pink and purple glow of the dance lights were blinding. Johnny needed to find his target.

Like a sidewinder, he slithered through the crowd, making quick glances but never long enough to arouse suspicion. Johnny had some bad blood with this particular client before, but all that seemed to have been washed away. He was surprised to have received the call.

There he was. Johnny saw his target slip into a restroom at the back of the club. Quickly but quietly, he made his way to the still swinging door and ducked inside.

What he’s greeted with shouldn’t have been a surprise at all. It should have been obvious from the start. The barrel of a Beretta M9 was pointed at his head. He’d made it just in time to see the grand finale with himself in the starring role. He was the target all along.

Grant