Moteur Kharban is a common expression in Arabic; it means broken motor, and is a metaphor for the world around us.
The Florida pigs on my street have gone full tilt boogie into some maxo Anti-Arab ethno-gaga mode since yesterday, but, as I described in my previous post, their motors are broken.
Yesterday, the Orange Turd greatly increased the chance of nuclear or conventional war in the ME, but then again everyone knows Uncle Sam is just a client state of Israel, now, you know, because of the coming Rapture, and that if we’re going to be honest about it, it’s been the pits since Vietnam.
Me, I take care of the car.
I keep the motor humming and in tip-top shape: I may need it one day as a getaway, if this summer turns real hot, and the balawis of unresolvable discontent burn down everything.
Yesterday I drove to Lowe’s to buy some brackets for the screen door I’m fixing, and found myself behind a plus size SUV that had two moronic decals — an American speciality! — plastered on its hatch. The vehicle was of course being driven by an angry-faced, overweight middle-aged fuck with wraparound Operation Iraq shades that were meant to be intimidating. Don’t fuck with me! seemed to be the general idea.
One read: “”the real problem is …. overbreeding.”
“This is my country. If you don’t respect my flag, leave America.”
His flag, no less.
Well, he can keep it.
I changed lanes and moved on. Sometimes the bridge is open.
Other times it’s up.
I can’t fix the broken motors around here. A wrecking ball has descended on our planet since the towers fell, and all the right-wing snakes in this country think about is how to make even more off the backs of those who jumped.
The calm voices are unheard or drowned out. The thirsty SUVs lurch on cracked highways, and no one dares look sideways at anyone else on the road.
Meanwhile — have you checked this shit out? — Europe has trotted out the kneepads to service the Irn-Bru phobic Orange Turd like a slut in some back alley off the Reeperbahn, but even that’s not good enough.
The orange motor won’t start anymore, no matter how much they lick and suck and moan. It’s all about the crazy chaos and hate now, now that America can’t get it up anymore, as the blind continue to dance to the madman’s tune.
Despite everything, Theresa and Macron and Angela continue to powder their noses and paint their faces like the cheap whores they’ve become, all for that deal, that special dispensation, that promise of continued protection, some backstop guarantee, against the this or that, this year at least.
At least there’s that, they hope,
And so on their knees they fall, and suck hard like the trembling-with-fear sluts they’ve become, and some even dangle the promise of a regal State visit with full regalia and even the Queen can be humiliated if that’s what it takes, even the Queen is for sale nowadays, even her.
O England, country of my birth, O once mighty England now paying obeisance to a racist, misogynist thief.
Me, I no longer give a fuck.
I care more about why the Blue Sky A-19 Smart Bulb won’t pair up with my Samsung 8. At least the new Charge 3 I just bought did, and I’m grooving to a Cairokee playlist on Soundcloud as I write this, deep into the racist American night and dream already of where I will be in a year or two.
I met a friend of mine yesterday.
Things have not been going well, at work and his wife got cancer, even though she’s young. He packed on the LBs since I last saw him 7 months ago, before I left for Gouna, where the latest overhyped Let’s-Pretend-We’re-Americans bogus event is currently taking place.
He remarked, as several have already since my return, at how completely different I look. how much thinner and healthier-looking I now am.
Here’s the deal.
I don’t give a shit if America’s motor’s broken.
What I do care about is losing the next 30 lbs, getting fast on my bike so no girlee girl or old man ever passes me by again on the road.
I care a thousand times more about taking my SUP board out this weekend to the Loxahatchee river and paddling away.
My motor ain’t broken any more — although for sure it once was, big time — and that’s that really matters.
Detoxing from right-wing pablum, and seizing whatever remains of my days — not just surviving, like before: we’re way past that now.