Timmy.
2001-06-13 - 10:57 a.m.
This is for you. The Southern Baptist I met last weekend, who has adopted a child from southern Ghana. You tell yourself that you adopted him to �save a child�, but your real motivation was to look cool to your Christian friends. You have become part of the great fight to �convert the heathens�. I wonder, if you treat the child like a �heathen� instead of a son. This is for you, because only 12% of the criminals in the world operate in the streets; the majority of the rest work in skyscrapers.
When they ask, I tell people that I left my eyebrows in my car. This would be slightly more convincing if I had a car. But not by much.
Jason went to the store yesterday, and bought a dumbbell. This makes Jason happy. But Jason is not entirely happy about this. Using the dumbbell feels analogous to picking up a Goldfish (TM) off the floor with his foot, and throwing it in the air so he can catch it in his mouth...Because the weight, in a sense, is �dirty� in that it�s been bought And paid for (yes, both at once!). Yet there is nothing more Enlivening than perfecting a bizarre skill, if not doing something very physical.
There was this girl, and she went to live in nudity with the seals off the coast of South Carolina (TM). But that�s not the point. There was this other girl, and she did something very strange. Specifically, she *gasp* began socializing. What�s more, she was socializing with other social-esque peoples. And this was a great injustice to all those people who thought they were involved, but were really just standing there on the sidelines. So the people on the sidelines (after recovering from the shock of the scene before them) packed up their brains in their skulls and left. For they were sold the whole seat to the show, but they only needed the back of it. To hide behind.
I can�t throw a punch werth shyt. I usually go for the throat.
I�m not as smart as Shan. I don�t understand. I don�t understand how a single man could get past even basic security with a 7,000-pound bomb. I don�t understand why a good portion of the American Society (TM) has recently demanded the life of a first-time offender. Mr. McVeigh: �Timmy�, a one-man army. He was in a war against government oppression, against the omnipotence of big business, against the very propaganda and mind-control that led to his death. I don�t understand why, a mere 600 miles from the scene of the crime (�the crime� here refers to the execution) the �victims� (here, �victims� refers to two survivors and eight family members of the deceased, thirsty for blood) were allowed to watch his gruesome death. �... [Timmy�s] eyes rolled back, his lips turned slightly blue, and his skin appeared jaundiced as he was pronounced dead at 8:14am EDT...� (from Bangor Daily News (TM)) As if it were some sort of ancient witch-burning ceremony. And I just can�t wait to bitch at the people down at the 20/20 �news station� for trying to get a video of Timmy�s �star appearance�. If I were a patriotic shyt, and really wanted to stand up for the constitution, I�d go down to DC and give Ashcroft a piece of my mind (with a baseball bat) for his injustice of allowing civilians to see this atrocity. I don�t understand everyone�s compulsion to call Timmy a madman. From all I can gather, this Timmy was very similar to my very own Luther (with the exception that Luther was probably more charming, or at least he would say as such). This was not a demon, but a human being...just like your child, just like yourself, just like the �casualties of war� in the Murrah building. A man who wanted nothing more than a better world for the rest of the people on this planet...a world free of blackmail from the true leaders of Earth, the World Trade Organization Empire. Shan said that this man had all the qualities of a hero. I say Timmy was a hero, a martyr, and I don�t understand anyone else on this planet. The following is the closest thing Timmy had to �last words�.
INVICTUS (by William Ernest Henley)
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
