The commander in chief of the most powerful military in the world spent his twenties stapling Marxist fliers to telephone poles. Men who assault and rob merchants and then meet their maker in a most justified rain of bullets are hailed as gentle giants. The race of men who conceived of this most wealthy and comfortabyl of nations are derided as incapable of statecraft and verily replaced by races who have yet to conceive such a glorious society.
It then should come of no surprise that your dear auteur Cad came across this horrid work aboard the Dastardly red line between Harvard and MIT on his way to his post selling dubious software:
“The beautiful woman opposite me on the bus is laughing and fat. I love her braided hair. I want her ring, her laughing mouth. I love her so much I take her picture. I think she doesn’t care. I love her spill of thigh-fat freed from that rise of grey knit skirt. She doesn’t care we’re trying not to stare. We only wish whoever she’s teasing on the phone was us. No, no no! She can barely get it out, says something in a laugh-choked half-bus-drowned patois. She makes me want to pack the pounds on both my thighs, go back to the time I found frosted blue eyeliner like hers. I was twelve, didn’t know the hundred ways happiness felt. It’s always like this for her: she moves through a world that’s wilting with love. All the world’s busses filled with dopey smilers, every face on every sidewalk beaming back at her, wishing her well.”
What a classic example of liberal thought and emotion. Staring at a patois speaking whale, projecting all manner of beauty and yearning for youth onto a cetacean. Of course she doesn’t care, she is a welfare devouring monster of the deep. Yet the auteur stares at this beast and wishes to pack on the pounds herself. I would wager that the auteur has never reproduced and is thus seeking happiness from the most absurd of sources. She will perhaps notice a beggar and wish to rid herself of all means and spend her days drunk upon the sidewalk. I can assure the auteur that I am no dopey smiler when I come across such a woman, and that I do not wish her well. Her mouth most certainly is greasy with meat-pies and fried plantains and the only thing which wilts for her is my fallus.